are you doing this?”
He didn’t follow. “Doing what?”
“Helping me out.” Her dark-eyed gaze grew wary. “Do you expect something from me in return?”
He didn’t know whether to feel insulted or mortified. “I don’t expect anything from you, sugar. I’m just helpin’ out a tourist in need.”
“You make a habit of that?”
“You caught me on a good week. I’m between jobs.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips. “I don’t have a lot of money with me, but I can get some from my room—”
He grabbed her hand. She made a soft sound of surprise. “I don’t need your money. What do you think I am?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” Her brow furrowed. “I just thought—”
“I know what you thought.” He released her hand, looking away from her.
“I really am sorry,” she said again, catching his hand with hers. He tried not to look at her, but the feel of her fingers, soft on his skin, drew him in. Her gaze was full of remorse. “You’ve been good to me today. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You just did. Don’t worry about it.” He withdrew his hand, wishing he were anywhere but here with this woman.
“I should attend the seminar tomorrow, shouldn’t I?” Iris asked.
“Maybe you’ll find your friend there.”
“Maybe.”
“But you don’t really think so.”
She released a shaky breath. “She would have left me a message if she knew she was going to be away overnight.”
“Are you sure she didn’t?” he asked, wanting to smooth the frown from her pretty forehead. “Maybe it got misplaced.”
Her expression shifted. “Maybe they sent the note to the wrong room. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Her sudden look of excitement made his stomach hurt. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s just something to look into.”
“Maybe you’re right.” She started up the steps to the hotel entrance. “Thanks again for everything!”
He tamped down the urge to follow her inside. His good deed for the day was done, and then some. He’d told her about Celia Shore. He’d helped her find a computer so she could look up the Cassandra Society. Hell, he’d even tucked her into bed when she’d fainted on him.
And besides, he’d see her tonight at the cocktail party.
BY 7 P.M., Maddox had taken his second shower of the day, dressed in a pair of black trousers and a white dress shirt, and headed back to the Hotel St. George to put his plan for the evening in motion. And a big part of the plan had just pulled into the St. George’s employees’ parking lot.
“Milo!” Maddox pushed away from the wall and walked toward the barrel-chested waiter parking his scooter a few slots down from Maddox’s Harley.
Milo Maroulis looked up cautiously. “Mad Dog. What you up to?” He kept moving toward the kitchen entrance.
Blocking Milo’s path, Maddox pulled a pair of twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. “I need you to call in sick. I need inside the cocktail party going on tonight.”
“Why?” Milo asked, his voice wary.
Maddox flashed the waiter a sly grin. “Why do you think?”
Milo looked surprised. “You’re not gonna hit on one of them crazy people, are you?”
Maddox stood in the doorway to keep Milo from going inside. “I’ll make it sixty. You can use my cell phone to call in.”
Milo pursed his lips. Maddox could tell he wouldn’t put up a real fight; his eyes gleamed with unconcealed eagerness to take the money and run. Maddox added an extra twenty to the two bills in his hand and waved them in front of Milo.
Milo grabbed the bills from Maddox’s hand and stuffed them in his pants pocket. “Go talk to Thomas. He knows you. Tell him I’m home with a sore throat and I asked you to take my place.” Milo headed for the parking lot, a spring in his step.
Maddox entered through the kitchen, ignoring the curious looks from the staff already assembling appetizers for the party. He snagged a spiced shrimp off one platter, flashing a smile at the pretty Creole sous chef, and went to look for the wait staff manager to talk his way into the cocktail party.
THERE HAD BEEN no note waiting for Iris in her box when she returned to the hotel that afternoon. She’d asked the desk clerk about the possibility of a mix-up, but the clerk had told her that nobody had mentioned getting the wrong note, so far.
She hoped the Cassandra Society cocktail party would offer more information about her friend’s disappearance.
The Paradise Room didn’t quite live up to its name. Though live potted palms dotted the room and the walls were painted in a gradation of red, coral and saffron in an attempt to capture the colors of an island sunset, the room was small and windowless, rendering the attempt at setting a mood kitschy.
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