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 looking at the computer screen.
“You didn’t finish what you were saying,” she murmured. “Did your friend recognize Sandrine?”
He looked up at her slowly, his eyes narrowing. “No. But he’d heard about people going missing from the St. George.”
Dread curled inside her. With growing alarm, she realized that at least some of the cold, clammy sensation she was experiencing was coming from Maddox.
How bad did a situation need to be to scare a man called Mad Dog?
“How many people?” She tried to read his expression, see if she could discern any more of what he was feeling, but his expression was shuttered. And she wasn’t a mind reader.
“Claudell said more than one. And the man who approached you at the Tropico mentioned a missing friend.”
“If he was telling the truth.” She couldn’t shake the memory of the empty sensation emanating from the bearded man. He’d given off nothing. No fear, no pain—except for one brief moment when he’d looked at her with a quiver of concern that had quickly fled.
“Why do you think he wasn’t? Because he ran?”
She shook her head, unable to explain her instincts without going into details about her gift. “I just got the sense he was hiding something.”
Another wave of darkness washed through her, as if her words had opened a floodgate of anxiety inside him. She forced herself not to move away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to reach out to him, either.
She’d always felt it was her duty to relieve pain where she could. Otherwise, what meaning was there in having a gift that took such a toll on her body and her spirit?
All she had to do was take his hand and the darkness of his fear would flow out of him and into her. But she couldn’t do it. She felt too fragile right now. All her energy had to be focused on finding Sandrine.
“I’ll see what I hear at the party tonight,” she said. “Surely if other people have missing friends, there’ll be talk.” She looked back at the computer and tried another link.
“I’ll come by tonight, hang out and talk to some of the hotel staff, see if they have any stories to tell about the conference,” Maddox suggested. “If you need me at the party, I’ll be around. Just holler.”
To her surprise, the familiar cadence of his Georgia accent seemed to have a soothing effect on her rattled nerves. For the past twenty-four hours, she’d felt as if she were navigating an alien world. Hearing the inflections of home in Maddox’s slow drawl eased her growing sense of isolation.
But letting herself become too accustomed to having Maddox around was its own kind of folly, she knew.
She sneaked a quick glance at him. He’d cleaned up better than expected, she had to admit, the khaki slacks and crisp navy shirt a definite upgrade from the faded T-shirt and denim shorts he’d been wearing when she first met him at the café that morning. His overlong hair was pulled back neatly, revealing the full impact of his masculine features and the dimples that appeared whenever he smiled.
But she knew enough about bad boys to know that Maddox was a lousy bet. He might be a fun fling—she’d put money on it—but he’d end up breaking her heart.
She didn’t have much heart left to spare these days.
“I almost forgot why I was lookin’ for you in the first place,” he murmured, leaning closer to her. His breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple. “I went to the hospital to check on that lady on the beach.”
She gave a small start of surprise. She should have checked on the woman herself, she thought, dismayed that it hadn’t even crossed her mind. “How is she?”
“Doing well. You called it—mild concussion.”
“Did you talk to her? Did she know what happened to her?”
He shook his head. “She doesn’t remember anything after gettin’ on the plane in Miami.”
Iris shuddered at the thought. How horrible, to wake up in such a state and remember nothing about how it happened. “What’s her name?”
He pointed to the computer screen. There, on the list of hits from her computer search, was a link to the official Celia Shore Web site. “Celia Shore, psychic healer,” he intoned, obviously not impressed. “She wants to see you.”
Iris frowned. “Why?”
He shrugged. “To say thanks, I guess.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“She seems to think you did.”
A phantom memory of the injured woman’s pain buzzed through Iris’s nerves. “How long will she be in the hospital?”
“They’ll probably let her go tomorrow if there aren’t any changes in her condition.”
Then maybe I won’t have to see her, she thought, and immediately felt guilty. No matter what else Celia Shore might be, she was a woman who’d been assaulted and left on the beach to die. She was in pain, both physical and emotional, and Iris didn’t have the right to judge whether she was worthy of comfort and relief.
But she didn’t for a moment think the woman was actually a psychic. Iris knew what a real psychic looked like, how she behaved and the toll her special gift took on her. She’d seen it in her sister Lily’s retreat from the world and the migraines she’d endured just to fight the visions that tortured her. In Rose’s despair when the death veils had foretold the death of a friend. In her own ever-worsening pain whenever she tried to use her empathic healing gift to ease the suffering of others.
Real psychics didn’t go to Hollywood and make a fortune holding the hands of overpaid, emotionally immature celebrities.
She
