Forbidden Touch

When he decided to make the move to Mariposa, he’d brought nothing but the clothes on his back and the ancient Steinway upright piano that had been his mother’s.

He showered quickly, taking time to shave the shadowy thatch of beard darkening his jawline. Toweling dry his hair, he booted up his laptop computer and typed in a search for “Celia Shore.”

Scores of hits came up immediately. The first link read Celia Shore—Official Web site. He clicked it and the Web site loaded a splash of vibrant pinks and teals. Across the top of the page was a photo of a beautiful blonde in her thirties. A radiant glow of pearl pink edged the image. To her right, her name was written in looping cursive, with a line of narrow, straight type below: Psychic Healer.

Well, hell.

Chapter Three

“Are you calling from Mariposa? Is something wrong?”

Tears stung Iris’s eyes at the sound of her sister’s concern. “Yeah, Lily, there is.” She told her older sister, Lily McBride, what she knew about Sandrine’s disappearance, including the Cassandra Society. “Ever heard of it?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I need to find out more about who they are and if they’re somehow connected to what’s happened to Sandrine. You got a minute to do an Internet search for me?”

“Don’t start playing Nancy Drew with this, Iris. Take the next flight home and let the police handle it.”

“They’re not handling it, and I don’t think they will unless there’s someone here to push them into it. I have to stay, at least a few more days. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“No, you won’t. You never are.”

Iris couldn’t blame Lily for thinking so; she’d always had an impetuous streak to go along with her insatiable curiosity. But the last couple of years had taken a toll on her impulsive tendencies. She couldn’t afford to take too many chances; her body wouldn’t hold up.

But Lily didn’t know that. Iris hadn’t told either of her sisters just how bad the pain had become. Her younger sister, Rose, was still a newlywed who deserved a little uninterrupted happiness, and Lily was eight and a half months pregnant with her first child and didn’t need any added stress.

Iris couldn’t burden either of them yet. Not until she figured out how to stop the pain from rendering her an invalid.

“Lily, please. I just need you to do a quick Web search.”

Lily exhaled audibly. “Cassandra Society, you said?”

“Thanks. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Lily told Iris all she’d found, which was next to nothing. “It’s mentioned on a few paranormal Web sites, but none of them really say much about the society and what it’s about. Do you want me to read what the pages say?”

“No, thanks,” Iris said, hearing weariness in Lily’s voice. “How’s McBride Junior?” The baby Lily was carrying was a boy.

“Playing soccer with my bladder as we speak.”

The joy in her sister’s voice brought tears to Iris’s eyes. She didn’t begrudge Lily a minute’s happiness—God knew, she’d earned it—but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for herself at the same time. Her sisters had found something she’d begun to fear she could never have in her own life.

She cleared her throat. “Lily, I’d better go—”

“Please reconsider catching the next flight out of there.”

“Just a few more days, Lil.”

Lily sighed. “All right. I’ll see if McBride has ever heard of the Cassandra Society. Okay?”

“Okay.” Her brother-in-law was a policeman. If the Cassandra Society wasn’t legit, he might know about it.

“Just stay safe, okay?” Lily said. “It’s bad enough that Rose has gone all crime fighter on us—”

“Love you, Lily. Talk to you soon.” Iris rang off, tucked her phone in her purse and slumped on her bed, glancing at her travel alarm clock. Almost two. Still plenty of daylight left if she felt like venturing out for another round of “Have you seen this woman?”

Or maybe she could start looking for an Internet café and look up more on the Cassandra Society herself.

MADDOX SLUMPED BACK against his desk chair, his eyes narrowing as he read through Celia Shore’s bio and a rundown of her claim to psychic fame. She listed several mid-tier actors as satisfied clients, and her photo page included images from television and red carpet appearances.

What the hell did a woman like that want from him?

He glanced at the clock over the piano. Just after two. He’d been in Mariposa long enough to adjust to living on island time, but somehow, he didn’t think the same could be said of Mr. Charles Kipler. If he wanted to reach the hospital by two-thirty, he had to get moving.

He was tempted to call back and blow it off. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that meeting Celia Shore was important.

He’d learned long ago not to ignore his instincts.

IRIS NEVER IMAGINED she’d have reason to contact “Mad Dog” again. But her search for an Internet café with computer terminals for rent was proving fruitless. Half the people she asked gave her blank stares, and the others had no clue where she could find such a place.

At her next stop, a chocolate-skinned waitress with a Dutch accent couldn’t help with her search for an Internet café, but her interest perked up at the mention of Maddox’s name. “You want to find Mad Dog, go talk to that crazy Claudell at the Beachcomber. He knows everything. But don’t fall for his lines. Mad Dog’s, either.” The waitress gave Iris directions to the bar.

Outside, the sun had dropped lower, shadows lengthening across the busy streets of Sebastian’s commercial district. The day’s heat was fading, cooled by the fragrant ocean breeze.

A sudden gnawing sensation fluttered through Iris’s chest. Emptiness, as if someone had scooped out her insides and left her body hollow. She tried to sense what direction the feeling was coming from, but it was faint and fleeting.

She looked around her, keeping her movements slow and calm. There were pedestrians moving all around her, tourists and locals alike, alone or in pairs or groups. Black faces, brown faces, people with tropical tans, people with bright pink sunburns and people with milky-white skin dotted with freckles.

A tall redhead wearing a straw hat to hide her pale complexion approached, deep in conversation with a shorter woman with mousy brown hair tucked up under a baseball cap. They passed Iris, leaving a cloud of jasmine in their wake. A broad-shouldered man with sandy hair and a Vandyke goatee lounged against a building nearby, talking on a cell phone. The emptiness nibbling at her insides could be from any of them.

She ignored the sensation and headed for the Beachcomber, where the waitress said she could find Claudell.

By the time she reached the Beachcomber, her feet were beginning to hurt and the sunscreen she’d applied before leaving the hotel was nearly melted off by perspiration. Her head was pounding, her knees stinging beneath the Band-Aids, and the full spectrum of human misery surrounding her here in the throbbing heart of paradise had weighted down her aching shoulders with an invisible rucksack.

The bartender looked up when she entered the mostly empty bar. He started to look back down at the shot of whiskey he was pouring but did a comical double take at her approach.

Without looking, he slid the shot glass down the bar to a dreadlocked man sitting at the end and wiped his hands on his apron. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“A bottle of water and some information,” she answered.

FOR HIS TRIP to the hospital, Maddox had donned a pair of khaki chinos and a navy golf shirt picked up on his last trip to Miami, his concession to civilization, and tied his shoulder-length mop of sandy hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck.

It had taken him five minutes to reach St. Ignacio Hospital and another five to find a parking space within sight of the tiny security kiosk. The Harley-Davidson Road King was his baby, and he didn’t like leaving it out in a public parking lot where anyone could jack it. But a twenty passed to the guard in the kiosk would ensure the Harley would be sitting there waiting for him when he got back.

Money well spent.

A dark-haired man in an Italian silk suit far too heavy for the tropics stood in the hospital lobby when Maddox entered, his arm lifted in the act of checking his watch. Had to be Charles Kipler, Maddox thought. He had lackey written all over him.