Forbidden Touch

He stepped forward as Maddox approached. “Maddox Heller?”

“Charles Kipler?” Maddox mimicked Kipler’s imperious tone.

Kipler’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Follow me.”

“You might want to add a pretty please to that.”

Kipler, who’d already moved toward the elevators, turned to look at Maddox. “Do you have an issue with me?”

An issue? Maddox stared at the man. Did people really talk like that? “I’m here for me. Not for you or for your psychic friend.”

Kipler’s expression shifted at his use of the word psychic. “I suppose this is your way of saying you want some sort of compensation.”

Maddox bit back a laugh. “No. This is my way of saying I’d like to know what your client wants with me.”

Kipler sighed. “I don’t know. She asked me to track you down and bring you here, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“Don’t worry, Chuck. I’m sure you’ll get some sort of compensation.” Maddox clapped the agent on his shoulder and crossed to the elevators.

Kipler joined him as he waited for the car to reach the lobby. Maddox slanted a look toward the manager, whose face had reddened. Most of Maddox’s irritation faded into pity for the man. It was hard, catering to the whims of someone who held your livelihood in her hands. He’d seen a lot of men and women play that role in his so-called father’s life—including his mother. There were always people willing to linger around the perimeter, waiting for crumbs to drop.

But it wore on a fellow.

“How’s she doing?” Maddox asked as they stepped into the elevator and began the ascent.

“Well enough. She has a concussion and some abrasions.”

Maddox could tell by Kipler’s tone that something else was wrong. “Did she tell you what happened to her?”

Kipler eyed him warily. “That’s still being investigated.”

The elevator stopped on the third floor. The door opened and Kipler stepped out, turning right.

Maddox caught up with him, falling into step. “What aren’t you telling me, Chuck?”

“The name is Charles.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Charles?”

Kipler stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to look at him. “She doesn’t remember what happened. She doesn’t even remember arriving here on Mariposa. Her last memory is of the airport in Miami.”

“Because of the bump on her head?”

Kipler didn’t answer right away, gazing down the hall. “The doctor doesn’t think the injury should have been enough to cause amnesia,” he finally admitted in a hushed voice.

“Which means what?”

Kipler’s gaze swung around to clash with his. “Are you a reporter?”

Maddox frowned. “No.”

“You certainly ask a lot of questions.”

“I like to be prepared.” Maddox lowered his voice as well. “I’m here out of the kindness of my heart, because your client wants to talk to me. And because right now, I don’t have a good reason to say no. But it won’t take much to change that.”

Kipler glanced down the hall again. “Promise me you won’t upset her.”

“I don’t plan to.”

Kipler’s mouth tightened again, but he didn’t respond except to motion Maddox to follow him down the corridor. They stopped in front of a closed door with a brass plaque engraved with the number 312. “She said to send you in alone.” Kipler looked queasy, obviously not happy about that directive.

Maddox entered the hospital room. It was a semiprivate room, all the hospital offered, but the bed nearest the door was empty. He crossed to the second bed, where Celia Shore lay propped on pillows, bandages wrapped around her head and wrists. The bed sheets hid her ankles but he guessed they were probably bandaged, as well. Her eyes were closed, her expression placid, but Maddox was pretty sure she wasn’t asleep.

“Tryin’ to read my mind?” he murmured.

Her eyes opened slowly. “Just resting.”

And trying to present a pretty picture to the grubby islander, Maddox added silently. He hid his cynicism and pulled up the armchair stashed in the corner of the room. “Your cabana boy said you wanted to see me.”

Her lips quirked. “I take it Charles didn’t make a good impression?”

He ignored the question. “I hear you can’t remember how you ended up on the beach.”

“I remember nothing since transferring planes in Miami.”

“Mr. Kipler traveled with you?” He tried not to imply anything with the question.

“We had business to discuss.”

And a phone conference just wouldn’t do, Maddox supposed, getting a little clearer picture of the kind of woman he was dealing with. “What would you have done if Chuck out there hadn’t been able to make it?” Maddox asked.

“That wasn’t a possibility.”

Maddox felt sorry for Charles Kipler all over again.

“What I came here to do was business-related. I wanted Charles nearby if I needed him. That’s what he’s paid for.” Celia gave him a pointed look. “You don’t have to approve.”

The woman might or might not be psychic, but she was perceptive. He’d been trying hard not to show his distaste for her attitude. “Fair enough. Unlike Chuck, I don’t have to be here, though. So tell me what you wanted to tell me and we can be done.”

“I saw you leaving with a woman this morning at the beach. I need to know how to contact her.”

Maddox sat back in the chair, surprised. “Why?”

“I wanted to thank her for her aid this morning.”

Maddox wasn’t quite buying that excuse, but he played along. “I don’t know her that well. She’s a tourist.”

“You normally put your arm around tourists you don’t know well?” Celia arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.