Forbidden Touch. Paula Graves
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back at her from a craggy face only inches away. It took a second to realize she’d seen the man before. He was the sandy-haired man with the Vandyke beard she’d seen earlier outside the café, talking on a cell phone.
“What do you want?” she asked, apprehension clenching her heart.
The man bent closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I may know something about your missing friend.”
Iris stared at him, suspiciously. Had he been following her? “What are you talking about?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“My friend Hana Kuipers was at the St. George for the conference, too,” he said. “She disappeared yesterday, just like your friend Miss Beck.”
Iris couldn’t tamp down a flutter of hope. But before she could speak, the door of the Tropico opened, and an enormous Mariposan biker emerged, his gaze moving immediately to the bearded man.
“You botherin’ the lady?” The biker towered over the man.
The bearded man shook his head. “I’m just talking to her.”
The biker stepped forward menacingly. “Go back to fancy town, Dutchman.”
Iris slumped against the wall of the bar, overcome by the fierce anger coming from the biker. The bearded man looked her way, his eyes darkening. For the first time, the sense of emptiness around the bearded man disappeared, filled in by a flutter of emotion she thought might be concern.
She looked up at him, releasing a small hiss of surprise.
The emotion cut off immediately, as if she’d suddenly run headfirst into a brick wall. The bearded man’s gaze shifted.
The biker lunged suddenly, driving the bearded man against the front wall of the bar. The impact made the clapboard rattle. As the biker reared back to deliver a punch, the bearded man rolled to the side in one nimble movement. The biker’s hand slammed into the clapboard, splintering the wood. He yelped in pain.
Iris gasped as shattering pain sped through her hand. She pressed her fist into her belly, trying not to cry out.
The bearded man delivered a pair of vicious jabs to the biker’s kidney, grunting with satisfaction at the man’s howl of pain. The biker slid face-first down the wall, landing on his knees. Iris fell with him, her back aching in sympathy.
The bearded man knelt by Iris. She stared at him, realizing he was no ordinary tourist. “Who are you?”
He didn’t answer. The door to the Tropico was opening, about to spill a dozen of the Creole biker’s comrades to join the fray. Somewhere down the street, a feral growl of a motorcycle approached, getting louder.
The bearded man gave Iris one last look and took off running.
Chapter Four
Maddox wasn’t sure what he’d find when he reached the Tropico. Iris playing Florence Nightingale certainly wasn’t it.
Yet there she was, kneeling next to Jacob Massier’s crumpled body on the street in front of the biker bar, her hands moving over the biker’s back while a small crowd of bar regulars gathered in a restive semicircle behind her. She didn’t look up as Maddox pulled the Harley to a stop nearby.
He took his helmet off and started to ask what the hell she thought she was doing when he realized he’d seen the glassy-eyed look on her face once before, on the beach when she’d held Celia Shore’s hand while they waited for the EMTs to arrive.
Jacob Massier stirred suddenly, pushing up on one elbow. Iris dropped her hands away from his back and fell sideways, slumping against the front wall of the bar. A murmur of confusion broke out among the gathered bikers, as if they weren’t sure if they should go to her aid or leave her alone to recover from whatever was ailing her.
Maddox pushed past them and crouched by Iris, lifting her chin to check her eyes. They focused slowly on him, a soft breath escaping her lips. “I was looking for you,” she said.
“So I hear,” he responded, lifting his fingers to her throat to check her pulse. She flinched at his touch, as if it hurt her. He dropped his hand away, satisfied that her pulse was strong and steady, and rocked back on his heels. “I thought you were going to take a long nap and let yourself recover.”
“I was feeling better,” she answered.
“Obviously not better enough.” He offered her his hand.
She eyed it warily.
“I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”
She rewarded the hoary joke with a lopsided grin that went a long way toward easing the knot that had settled in his belly seconds after Claudell had told him where she’d gone. She took his hand, trembling as he closed his fingers over hers.
“Is he okay?” Her gaze slid past him to settle on Jacob, who’d made it to a sitting position.
“You okay, Jake?” Maddox asked the biker.
“I’m good,” he answered gruffly, his expression betraying a hint of embarrassment. “Lady got the mojo.”
Considering the way his stomach was fluttering just from the feel of her soft hand in his, Maddox couldn’t argue.
“ARE YOU SURE you shouldn’t be back in bed, resting?” Maddox scooted his chair closer to Iris, the spicy smell of him mingling with the chicory aroma of the coffee at her elbow. As she’d figured, he’d known where to find the only place in Sebastian with Internet-wired computers for rent.
“I want to know more about this Cassandra Society.” Iris typed the name into the search engine, hoping she’d have better luck than Lily had.
“I want to know more about the guy with the beard,” Maddox muttered. “Tell me what he looked like.”
She looked away from the computer. “Sandy blond hair and hazel-green eyes. His beard was trimmed Vandyke style, and a little darker than his hair.”
“How old?”
“Late thirties, maybe older.”
The Internet café was nearly empty, though with the dinner hour approaching, a few more people were beginning to filter in. Iris was glad they were mostly alone. The relative isolation had helped her recover from her experience at the Tropico. Only a twinge remained in the general vicinity of her kidneys, and the stinging sensation in her right knuckles was nearly gone.
“You said he had an accent?”
“Yes. Dutch, maybe. Or German.” She turned back to the computer, glancing over the listings. As Lily had indicated on the phone, the Cassandra Society didn’t appear to have a Web site, but the search engine had come back with a few links. She tried the first one and found herself on a self-help page full of paranormal psychobabble.
Great.
“When I showed Claudell a photo of your friend—”
“Where’d you get a photo of Sandrine?” she interrupted, looking up at him.
He pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket, aimed and pushed the button. A bright flash made her blink. “I took a picture of her photo while you were unconscious.” He scooted closer, showing her the photo he’d just snapped of her.
She grimaced at the deer-in-the-headlights look on her face in the photo, not liking the idea of him going through her things while she was unconscious.
“The picture was sticking out of your purse. I just grabbed it, took a quick snap with the phone and put it back in your purse.”
“Why?”
“I figured I could show it around, see if anyone had seen her.”
“I just don’t understand your interest.”
His silence drew her gaze again. This time, he was