by Paula Graves
So Celia Shore and her lackey knew Iris's name now. How had that happened? "Sorry, man. I'm not her social secretary."
"Maddox,.-"
Maddox turned at the sound of Iris's voice. She faltered to a stop, looking from him to Charles Kipler. A little crinkle appeared in her forehead. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"No problem. What is it?"
"Miss Browning?" Kipler asked.
Iris's frown deepened, "I'm Iris Browning"
Kipler extended his hand. "Charles Kipler. We spoke on the phone this morning. I'm Celia Shore's manager"
Iris's expression shifted from confusion to tension. It radiated from her like an electrical current, making the hairs on Maddox's arms stand up.
She shook Kipler's hand and stepped back, sidling closer to Maddox. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. I hope Everything is okay with Ms. Shore"
"She's doing very well. In fact, I just brought her here from the hospital. She's in her room resting, but she asked me to find you. She wants to talk to you."
Iris glanced at Maddox. "I'd like to talk to her, as well."
"Good. I'll contact her and see if she's ready. If you'll excuse me." Kipler crossed back to the desk and picked up the courtesy phone.
Iris closed her fingers around Maddox's arm. "What should I ask her?"
He met her desperate gaze with surprise. "I don't know, sugar. What do you think she can tell you?"
She lowered her voice. "I believe she was part of Dr.Grinkov's focus group. If she can remember what happened to her, she may be able to tell me where Sandrine is."
"I don't think she remembers anything."
"Then I'll have to make her remember"
"How are you gonna do that?" He waved his hand in front of her forehead. "You got some kind of special mind rays, you're gonna pull the memories out of her head?" His voice dipped to a growl. "Maybe they taught you something in that seminar, huh?"
She grabbed his hand. "Stop it."
"I don't think she's gonna remember for you." He squeezed her hand, "You know, you don't have to talk to her if you don't want to. I can tell you're nervous about it."
"I have to risk it."
He cocked his head. She really didn't look forward to talking to Celia Shore. He just didn't understand why. "You want me to come with you?"
She shook her head. "No. It's okay. I'll be fine."
He opened his hand, threading his fingers through hers. Her palm was warm and soft against his. "You sure?"
She nodded. "Positive."
He started to let go of her hand, but she tightened her fingers, snaring his palm against hers, "I'm sorry. Maddox."
He frowned, not following. "For what?"
"For what I said back there. About people warning me to stay away from you."
He looked away from her earnest gaze, afraid of what he'd see in her eyes. "Nothing to be sorry for, sugar. It wasn't a lie, was it?"
Her thumb moved lightly over his. "No, But I don't have to listen to what they say."
His heart squeezed, "Maybe you should."
Her fingers tightened. "What if I can't?"
"All set." Charles Kipler interrupted.
Iris released Maddox's hand and turned to Kipler, "When does she want to see me?"
"Right now."
Iris's dark eyes lifted, briefly meeting Maddox's gaze. He sent her silent assurances that she'd be okay.
She looked back at Kipler. "Let's go."
Maddox stood in the center of the lobby and watched her go, his gaze not leaving her back until she rounded the comer toward the elevators. He released a shaking breath, the feel of Iris's hand lingering in the flesh of his palm. The mess he was in had just gotten a lot messier.
Charles Kipler led Iris to the Hotel St. George's penthouse suite, where she found Celia Shore lounging prettily on a damask silk sofa in the living area. Kipler made the introductions.
"Thank you, Charles." Celia said. "That will be all."
Kipler faded into the next room, leaving them alone.
"Please, sit." Celia waved at the armchair next to the sofa. "May I call you Iris?"
Iris sat. "If you like."
"Good. Call me Celia. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thank you"
Celia cocked her head. "You look different than I remember."
"So do you "Iris threaded her fingers together in her lap. "I was surprised to hear you wanted to see me. I can't imagine what for"
"I think you can." Celia said with a cryptic smile, "I wanted to thank you for what you did for me yesterday"
Iris looked down at her twisting hands. "I didn't do anything"
"We both know you did. Don't we?"
Iris forced herself to meet Celia's gaze. The woman's expression was placid and sure. "I don't-"
"You're a healer." Celia leaned toward her, reaching out her hand. She clasped Iris's hand in her cool grip. "I felt it yesterday, when you held my hand. That's what you are, isn't it? You're a healer, like me."
Iris drew her hand away. "I'm not like you."
Celia's eyes narrowed, but she didn't respond.
"You're not a healer." Iris continued, knowing she shouldn't say it aloud.
She should smile and pretend that Celia was exactly what she claimed to be. She needed answers from Celia, after all. But sitting beside the woman in this fancy penthouse, seeing the fruits of her lies, was more than Iris could take.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." Iris countered. "You're not a healer You're just very good at leading people, and you're a good saleswoman. You know where to find a likely mark and what to tell them to make them feel better about themselves. And the camera loves you. You're perfect for what you do, but you're not a healer."
Celia's placid mask cracked a bit, her lower lip beginning to tremble. She looked away from Iris. 'That's not a very nice thing to say."
"It's not a very nice thing to do."
"I don't know who you think you are-"
"I'm someone who can do what you say you can."
Iris caught Celia's hand and squeezed tightly, opening herself to what the other woman was feeling. A dozen little physical twinges fluttered over her body, mere gnats compared to the monster of fear rampaging through Celia at the moment. "I know your back hurts. You have a large bruise just below your rib cage. And you're terrified of what I'm saying to you right now."
Celia jerked her hand away. "I think you should go."
"Not yet." Iris leaned toward her. "If you could really do what you say you can,you wouldn't advertise. You wouldn't want clients. You sure as hell wouldn't plaster your face across TV or build yourself a big, fancy Web site. Nobody in the world, no matter how good-hearted, would willingly seek out the kind of pain that comes with being a psychic healer."
Silence fell between them.
Celia broke it with a shaky breath, "What do you intend to do?"
Iris sat back again. "Why would I do anything? People obviously get something from their sessions with you or they wouldn't come back. Who am I to tell them they're wrong?"
"Then why did you come here? To make me feel bad?"
"No." Iris released a shaky laugh, realizing she'd probably sabotaged any hope of help from Celia.
"You want something from me."
Iris looked at Celia. "You are good at reading people."
Celia's eyes narrowed with suspicion, "I never read you as a blackmailer."
Iris tried not to bruise. A woman who practiced deceit was likely to expect it in others. "I'm not. I just want answers."
"About what?"
"You came here for the conference. Are you sure you don't remember anything about arriving here? You spoke at an early seminar."
"I don't remember."
Iris pulled the sheet of paper Sharon had given her from her purse and unfolded it. She read off the list of names. "Are any of those familiar to you?"
"I've heard of a couple of them, but I'v
e never met them."
"Are you sure?"
"I m sure."
"Maybe you met them here at the conference "
"I told you I don't remember anything since the airport."
"Just try." Iris insisted.
"Don't you think I have been?" Celia's voice rose. "Do you think I like not knowing where I was or what I was doing or what was being done to me during the missing time?"
Iris braced herself against the flood of fear pouring from Celia like sweat. "I'm sorry. I know it's hard for you. But my friend is missing, and I think what happened to you may be important."
"Missing?"
"She was supposed to meet me at the airport day before yesterday. She didn't show." Iris told Celia about her search for her friend, about the frustrations and dead ends. "Your names are both on this list. You were part of a special focus group that Dr.Grinkov called from the conference. Do you have any memory of that?"
Celia frowned. "No. I'm sorry."
Iris hid her frustration. Whatever her ethics, Celia Shore seemed genuinely distressed by what was happening to her. Iris didn't want to add to her pain.
She stood. "I'm sorry, too. I don't mean to make things hard for you. I should go now."
Celia grabbed her hand. "Wait, You won't tell anyone, will you?"
"I said I wouldn't."
Celia let go of Iris's hand. "Thank you. If I remember anything that will help you find your friend, I promise you I'll be in touch."
"Thank you" Iris left the penthouse suite and walked slowly toward the elevators, her knees shaking.
She'd so hoped that Celia had answers for her. Maddox had warned her not to expect too much. He'd been right. Inside the elevator, she slumped against the back of the car and stared at herself in the mirrored walls. She looked tired, pale and fragile. She'd never thought of herself in those terms, but the evidence of her rapid decline stared back at her, impossible to deny.
She should have stayed in Willow Grove, down in her basement laboratory, away from people and problems and pain. She pressed the button for her room floor, no longer in the mood to attend any of the Cassandra Society's conference seminars. When she stepped out of the elevator, she was surprised to see Maddox sitting in the hall beside her door.
He looked up as she approached. "How did it go?"
"Fine." She unlocked the hotel room door. "How did you know I'd come here instead of go back to the conference?"
"Maybe I'm psychic." He pushed to his feet and followed her inside. "You don't look like it went fine "
She threw her purse on the bed and turned to face him. "Thanks for constantly reminding me how terrible I look."
His brow wrinkled. "I didn't mean it that way, Iris."
She sank onto the side of the bed, slumping her head to her chest." You were right. She didn't remember anything."
"I'm sorry" He sat next to her, his shoulder pressed against hers. "Hungry?"
"Not really."
"You look like you could use a little lunch."
She slanted a look at him. "Again with the compliments"
He took her hand. "Come on, you don't need an old beach bum like me to tell you what a pretty woman you are. Do you?"
"Couldn't hurt." she admitted, going for a light tone but missing. Some of her doubts bled through, revealing more than she'd intended.
"You're a pretty woman. Iris Browning." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. His mouth was warm and soft, and the heat that flowed from that light caress chased away some of her despair.
She wanted to ask him why he was being so sweet to her, but she was afraid of the answer. So she gently pulled her hand away from his and stood to put some distance between them, crossing to the window overlooking the balcony and the sea beyond.
"I meant to ask you, did you show that sketch of the bearded man around town?"
He didn't answer right away, drawing her gaze back to him. He was looking at a spot on the far wall, his expression hard to read. She couldn't even sense what he was feeling.
"Haven't had a chance." he answered finally. "You were probably right about him, though. He has a missing friend, he said. That's probably all there was to it."
Now he was lying. She didn't have to be an empathy to tell. But why? What was his game? Why would a guy like Maddox spend so much time worrying about her problems?
He wouldn't. Not without his own agenda. She had to quit thinking of him as someone she could afford to get close to.
She pushed her disappointment into a tight little place inside her and turned to look at him. "You know. I think I'd just like to lie down for a while. I'm sure you have better things to do than sit around here holding my hand."
He shot her a now familiar salacious smile. "I don't know, sounds like it could b fun."
She didn't rise to his bait. "I'll see you around, okay?"
His smile faded. "Okay. You call me if you need me." He grabbed a piece of hotel stationery from the desk by the bed and jotted something on it. "That's my cell phone number. I'll leave it on in case you need me."
"Thank you." she said.
But she had no intention of needing Maddox anymore. She closed the door behind him and leaned against it, her heart racing.
An hour later, the nap she'd planned to take continued to elude her. Maybe she'd been wrong to come back here instead of returning to the conference. What if someone at the seminar could tell her more about Dr.Grinkov's Telarafia lab and just exactly what it was he did there?
She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Halfway down the hall, she felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. A gnawing emptiness carved low in her belly. She faltered to a stop, recognizing the sensation. Slowly, she turned and looked down the hall behind her.
A few feet away stood the bearded man from the Tropico. Panic knotted her insides, "I'll scream."
He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, covering her mouth. "No, you won't."
Chapter Eight
"Oh, You again."
Maddox looked up to find Charles Kipler standing in front of him. "Chuck! Fetching lunch for the missus?"
A glint of humor lightened Kipler's eyes, catching Maddox by surprise, "Yeah. You, too?"
Maddox looked down at the take-out ticket in his hand, "She said she wasn't hungry. But she needs to eat."
Kipler sat next to Maddox flipping his own take-out ticket between his fingers. "Did Ms. Browning tell you what she and Celia spoke about?"
"You don't know?"
"No."
Maddox shook his head. "Me, either."
Kipler loosened his tie. "I thought you didn't know Ms. Browning, Just some tourist, you said."
"She is."
"Rather pretty one "
Maddox slanted a look at him. "Chuck. I think I liked it better when we weren't sitting around having heart-tollerts."
The cashier announced the arrival of Maddox's order. He waggled the ticket at Kipler and went to pay for the food.
He probably should have asked Iris if she minded an impromptu lunch date, but he was afraid she'd say no. For a woman who looked like a delicate flower most of the time, she had a stubborn streak as wide as the Mississippi. She didn't like to be treated as if she were fragile.
He respected that attitude, but he was also afraid that she was pushing herself too hard. She'd gone through a lot in the past two days, trying to help her missing friend. She needed to take some time to take care of herself.
The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor and he exited, balancing the take-out boxes, which were beginning to tilt. With his attention focused on the boxes, he was several steps down the hall before he looked up. He froze, his mind shifting gears too slowly.
Iris was struggling with the bearded man a few yards away.
Maddox dropped the boxes to the floor and raced toward them, anger bubbling up in his gut. "Quinn!"
Quinn let go of Iris and started running for the stairs. Iris ran to Maddox, flinging her
self into his arms. He could feel the triple-time cadence of her heartbeat against his chest.
"It's okay. Iris. I've got you." He cradled her face between his hands. "You okay? He didn't hurt you?"
"I'm okay." She let go of him and stepped back, taking a couple of long, trembling breaths.
"Did he say anything to you?"
She shook her head. "Just to be quiet and go into my room with him. I couldn't let him get me in there."
Maddox gazed past her toward the stairway exit, his eyes narrowed. "Iris, lock yourself in your room. Don't let anyone in but me." He released her and started toward the stairs.
"What are you doing?"
"Just lock yourself in your room!" He raced for the stairs, easing the door open and stepping inside the stairwell. He paused at the top landing, listening for sounds.
Quinn would expect him to follow. The obvious choice would be to head down the stairs toward an exit. But Quinn was anything but obvious. What was his game? Obviously he wanted something from Iris-was it connected to the conference?
If Maddox was right about Tahir Mahmoud, Quinn would definitely want to know why an al-Adar terrorist with a lot of innocent American blood on his hands was attending a psychics' conference in Mariposa. But what did that have to do with Iris? Why her?
Maddox started up the steps to the next floor. He turned at the landing and faltered to a stop.
Quinn stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall. "I was wondering if you'd drag yourself away from her long enough to follow."
"What do you want from her?"
"You know I can't tell you that"
"You think I'd burn you?" Maddox glared at him. "Man, you don't know me at all."
"I think you'd keep her from doing what I need her to do" Quinn started down the steps toward him,
"I won't let you hurt her."
"I don't intend to hurt her."
"You never do."
Quinn's hazel eyes hardened. "Don't get in my way."
Maddox blocked him from passing. "Or what?"
Quinn launched himself from the third step, slamming Maddox backward into the wall of the stairwell. His head hit the concrete block wall with a crack, blackening his vision for a second. Quinn followed his advantage with two quick, hammer like jabs to Maddox's gut, knocking the wind out of him.