Kitabı oku: «Forbidden Touch», sayfa 3

“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.

“The heat got to her. I helped her get somewhere cool.”

“Aren’t you the Good Samaritan?” The other well-shaped eyebrow rose to join the first. “Where’d you take her?”

“I’m not at liberty to supply you with that information.”

“I can make it worth your while.”

He chuckled. “Lady, I’m not for sale. Tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll try to find her for you and tell her you want to see her. Then it’ll be up to her. That work for you?”

He could tell she wasn’t entirely pleased. Probably wasn’t used to being at the mercy of other people’s whims. But she finally nodded her assent. “I’ll be released from the hospital tomorrow. If I don’t hear from you or your tourist friend by then, I’ll have Charles contact you with our location.”

“So you’re staying on the island?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. I came here for business. I intend to keep to my schedule as much as possible.”

Maddox stood. “Well, I really am glad you’re feelin’ better. I hope the police can find out what happened to you.”

“Thank you. And despite what you seem to think, I am grateful for your help this morning.” She turned her head toward the window and closed her eyes, ending the conversation. He took the hint and left the hospital room.

Outside, Charles Kipler was pacing in front of the door. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s spiffy, Chuck.” Maddox gave a polite nod and headed for the elevators.

Out in the parking lot, the Harley was where he’d left it. The guard in the kiosk gave a wave, and Maddox waved back before straddling the bike and strapping on his helmet.

He headed south toward the St. George, trying to figure out how to approach Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist with Celia Shore’s request. From what little he knew of Iris, she’d probably volunteer to camp out in the woman’s room just in case she needed help. Fortunately, he could assure her that Celia had Chuck the Cabana Boy to fetch and carry.

Maybe he was wrong about Iris. Maybe her friend had finally turned up and Iris was out on the beach right this minute catching some sun. Maybe she wouldn’t give a damn that Celia Shore wanted to talk to her.

But his gut told him he wasn’t wrong. Iris had Goody Two-shoes written all over her.

As he slowed at a crosswalk on Seville Street near the club district, he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw Claudell standing in the doorway of the Beachcomber.

“Mad Dog!” Claudell flapped a bar towel at him to get his attention.

Maddox drew the Harley to the curb. “What now, Claudell?”

“Woman come lookin’ for you. Name Iris.”

Anticipation fluttered through Maddox’s chest, catching him by surprise. Ignoring it, he pulled off his helmet. “You didn’t take any of her money, did you?”

“No, sir. I figure you wanna see a pretty girl like that. I tell her you probably at the Tropico.”

“Damn it, Claudell, you sent that girl to the Tropico?” Anxiety washed into Maddox’s gut on a wave of acid.

“You know them guys not gonna give her no trouble. She safer down there than up at the Tremaine.”

Claudell was wrong. Iris wasn’t safe alone anywhere, not in her fragile condition. “If she gets hurt, I’m comin’ after you, Claudell.”

Stomach clenching, Maddox whipped back onto the street, weaving through the haphazard traffic congesting Seville. A couple of blocks down, he took a left, heading into a seedier part of the club district.

FROM THE OUTSIDE, the Tropico looked like a dive. Flaking paint on the clapboard facade suggested that at some point, the place had been painted a lively mango-yellow, but the color had long since faded under the tropical sun. A single wood door sagged off-kilter in the storefront, about as uninviting an entryway as Iris had ever seen.

Figured a guy like Maddox would frequent a place like this.

The street was dark and growing darker, a dilapidated two-story building across the street casting shadows on the scene. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly four. She was running out of time before the cocktail party. Taking a deep breath, she opened the sagging door and stepped inside the bar.

The bar’s interior looked as disreputable as the outside. A scuffed wooden bar took up the far end. Rickety shelves lining the walls behind the serving area were laden with dusty, half-full bottles that looked to be on the verge of tumbling off the shelves and shattering on the grungy concrete floor.

Several customers—all men—turned at the sound of the door opening. Most of them wore jeans and faded T-shirts stretched over bulging muscles or bulging bellies. Tattoos darkened their arms and necks and even faces.

It was a biker bar, Iris realized with a combination of fascination and dismay. Who knew there were biker bars in the Caribbean?

A large black man with a snake tattoo coiled around his neck stepped away from the billiard table wedged into a cramped space on the left side of the bar. “You lost, missy?”

She debated asking for Maddox, but he clearly wasn’t here, and she didn’t need to be here, either. “Must have taken a wrong turn,” she murmured and backed out of the bar.

The empty feeling that had begun to fade as she approached the Tropico slammed into her chest the moment she stepped into the street. Reeling from the sensation, she groped for the wall, the rough clapboard scraping her palms. She slumped against the bar front, trying to regain her equilibrium.

“Miss?” The raspy masculine voice was tinged with a foreign accent.

She jerked upright, opening her eyes.

A pair of hazel eyes stared back at her from a craggy face only inches away. It took a second to realize she’d seen the man before. He was the sandy-haired man with the Vandyke beard she’d seen earlier outside the café, talking on a cell phone.

“What do you want?” she asked, apprehension clenching her heart.

The man bent closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I may know something about your missing friend.”

Iris stared at him, suspiciously. Had he been following her? “What are you talking about?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“My friend Hana Kuipers was at the St. George for the conference, too,” he said. “She disappeared yesterday, just like your friend Miss Beck.”

Iris couldn’t tamp down a flutter of hope. But before she could speak, the door of the Tropico opened, and an enormous Mariposan biker emerged, his gaze moving immediately to the bearded man.

“You botherin’ the lady?” The biker towered over the man.

The bearded man shook his head. “I’m just talking to her.”

The biker stepped forward menacingly. “Go back to fancy town, Dutchman.”

Iris slumped against the wall of the bar, overcome by the fierce anger coming from the biker. The bearded man looked her way, his eyes darkening. For the first time, the sense of emptiness around the bearded man disappeared, filled in by a flutter of emotion she thought might be concern.

She looked up at him, releasing a small hiss of surprise.

The emotion cut off immediately, as if she’d suddenly run headfirst into a brick wall. The bearded man’s gaze shifted.

The biker lunged suddenly, driving the bearded man against the front wall of the bar. The impact made the clapboard rattle. As the biker reared back to deliver a punch, the bearded man rolled to the side in one nimble movement. The biker’s hand slammed into the clapboard, splintering the wood. He yelped in pain.

Iris gasped as shattering pain sped through her hand. She pressed her fist into her belly, trying not to cry out.

The bearded man delivered a pair of vicious jabs to the biker’s kidney, grunting with satisfaction at the man’s howl of pain. The biker slid face-first down the wall, landing on his knees. Iris fell with him, her back aching in sympathy.

The bearded man knelt by Iris. She stared at him, realizing he was no ordinary tourist. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. The door to the Tropico was opening, about to spill a dozen of the Creole biker’s comrades to join the fray. Somewhere down the street, a feral growl of a motorcycle approached, getting louder.

The bearded man gave Iris one last look and took off running.

Chapter Four

Maddox wasn’t sure what he’d find when he reached the Tropico. Iris playing Florence Nightingale certainly wasn’t it.

Yet there she was, kneeling next to Jacob Massier’s crumpled body on the street in front of the biker bar, her hands moving over the biker’s back while a small crowd of bar regulars gathered in a restive semicircle behind her. She didn’t look up as Maddox pulled the Harley to a stop nearby.

He took his helmet off and started to ask what the hell she thought she was doing when he realized he’d seen the glassy-eyed look on her face once before, on the beach when she’d held Celia Shore’s hand while they waited for the EMTs to arrive.

Jacob Massier stirred suddenly, pushing up on one elbow. Iris dropped her hands away from his back and fell sideways, slumping against the front wall of the bar. A murmur of confusion broke out among the gathered bikers, as if they weren’t sure if they should go to her aid or leave her alone to recover from whatever was ailing her.

Maddox pushed past them and crouched by Iris, lifting her chin to check her eyes. They focused slowly on him, a soft breath escaping her lips. “I was looking for you,” she said.

“So I hear,” he responded, lifting his fingers to her throat to check her pulse. She flinched at his touch, as if it hurt her. He dropped his hand away, satisfied that her pulse was strong and steady, and rocked back on his heels. “I thought you were going to take a long nap and let yourself recover.”

“I was feeling better,” she answered.

“Obviously not better enough.” He offered her his hand.

She eyed it warily.

“I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

She rewarded the hoary joke with a lopsided grin that went a long way toward easing the knot that had settled in his belly seconds after Claudell had told him where she’d gone. She took his hand, trembling as he closed his fingers over hers.

“Is he okay?” Her gaze slid past him to settle on Jacob, who’d made it to a sitting position.

“You okay, Jake?” Maddox asked the biker.

“I’m good,” he answered gruffly, his expression betraying a hint of embarrassment. “Lady got the mojo.”

Considering the way his stomach was fluttering just from the feel of her soft hand in his, Maddox couldn’t argue.

“ARE YOU SURE you shouldn’t be back in bed, resting?” Maddox scooted his chair closer to Iris, the spicy smell of him mingling with the chicory aroma of the coffee at her elbow. As she’d figured, he’d known where to find the only place in Sebastian with Internet-wired computers for rent.

“I want to know more about this Cassandra Society.” Iris typed the name into the search engine, hoping she’d have better luck than Lily had.

“I want to know more about the guy with the beard,” Maddox muttered. “Tell me what he looked like.”

She looked away from the computer. “Sandy blond hair and hazel-green eyes. His beard was trimmed Vandyke style, and a little darker than his hair.”

“How old?”

“Late thirties, maybe older.”

The Internet café was nearly empty, though with the dinner hour approaching, a few more people were beginning to filter in. Iris was glad they were mostly alone. The relative isolation had helped her recover from her experience at the Tropico. Only a twinge remained in the general vicinity of her kidneys, and the stinging sensation in her right knuckles was nearly gone.

“You said he had an accent?”

“Yes. Dutch, maybe. Or German.” She turned back to the computer, glancing over the listings. As Lily had indicated on the phone, the Cassandra Society didn’t appear to have a Web site, but the search engine had come back with 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 forced her attention back to the Web search, clicking through several of the links. As Lily had mentioned, the references to the Cassandra Society were generally in passing, but clearly the Cassandra Society was an organization dedicated to paranormal research. Of the self-consciously serious type.

Lovely.

“Guess that’s why Celia Shore was in town,” Maddox murmured, reading over her shoulder.

“Must be.”

“Your friend too, huh?” He sounded almost apologetic, as if he pitied her for finding out her friend was involved with “those” kind of people.

“Sandrine is interested in the paranormal,” she said noncommittally.

“So.” He looked at her, trapping his lower lip between his teeth for a brief moment. “You goin’ to the seminars tomorrow?”

She should. She’d find out a lot more about Sandrine and the Cassandra Society that way. But right now, the thought of it was more than she could bear. “I don’t know.”

“I could take you to the hospital to see Celia before she’s checked out of there tomorrow. If you want.”

“Only if you have a second helmet.” The ride from the Tropico to the Sand Dollar Café had been one of the scariest experiences of her life.

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll drive the Jeep.”

Her cheek tingled where his fingers brushed her skin.

He dropped his hand and looked away, but not before she caught a hint of consternation on his face, as if he realized he’d overstepped some sort of line by touching her that way.

Good. That meant he knew there were lines in the first place. It made it easier to take him up on his offer of help.

She spent another fifteen minutes reading through the links without learning much more about the Cassandra Society. Sipping the last of her coffee, she turned to Maddox, who sat draped over the chair beside her, watching her with lazy blue eyes that made her breath catch.

She licked her lips. “Thanks for showing me this place. I should head back now. The party’s in a couple of hours.”

“Sure you don’t want a ride?” His cheeks dimpled with a slow smile.

“The walk will be good for me.”

“Okay.” He stood when she did. “I’ll walk you back.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“I’ll walk you back,” he repeated firmly. He put his hand between her shoulder blades, nodding toward the door. He stopped to say something to the guy at the cashier’s stand, handed him some cash and then led her outside.

“What about the Harley?”

“I paid that guy an extra ten to make sure it’s here when I get back. Let’s go.”

THE DAY WAS WANING, the sun already low on the western sky, gilding the Caribbean Sea as it stretched toward the horizon. The sun was warm on her cheeks, and the air was fragrant with the tang of the sea. For a moment, Iris could almost believe she was on a tropical vacation with nothing to worry about but where to go for dinner.

Almost.

“Hungry?” Maddox asked as they neared the main drag. “There’s a fish-and-chips stand just over there.”

She was hungry, she realized. She took him up on his offer, waiting while he dealt with the street vendor and returned with two cardboard boats full of fried fish and crispy French fries.

“Careful, it’s hot.” He handed her one of the boats.

She gingerly plucked off a piece of hot fish ad popped it in her mouth. The blend of spices on the breading and the delicate flavor of the fish made her hum with satisfaction.

“Good, huh?” He nudged her with his shoulder, motioning with a nod of his head for her to follow him. They set off down the main street toward the beach, mingling with the other tourists strolling the boulevard.

BY THE TIME THEY REACHED the beach road, Iris proclaimed herself stuffed and handed off the rest of her meal to Maddox. She’d eaten less than half, he noted with some consternation, but the meal and the exercise had seemed to do her some good. There was a little more color in her cheeks and she didn’t seem as weak as she’d been when he’d found her outside the Tropico.

“You must love living here in Mariposa.” Iris turned to look at him, her eyes alight. He felt a tug in the center of his chest, as if she’d pulled a string wrapped around his heart. “Do you ever get homesick?”

“I used to.” He tossed the remains of their dinner in one of the public trash bins lining the walkway. “I got over it.”

Iris laughed. Maddox found his gaze drawn by the low, throaty sound. Her eyes sparkled, lighting up her whole face from the inside. He found it hard to take a deep breath.

Why had he insisted on walking her home? Or hell, if he really wanted to ask a tough question, why had he followed her out of the café that morning in the first place?

A combination of curiosity and boredom could explain some of his interest. But not all of it.

“How’d you end up in Mariposa, anyway?” she asked.

“Took a right turn at St. Croix.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously. I was heading toward Trinidad for Carnival and took a detour on a whim. I liked it here and decided to stay.”

“How long ago?”

“A little over two years.”

She looked surprised. “I would have thought you’d been here longer. Everybody seems to know you, and you seem to know everything about this place.”

“I’m very adaptable. Who knows, I may decide next week to head on down to Trinidad after all.”

“A real rolling stone, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Never gathering any moss?”

“Nasty stuff, moss.” The words came out as a warning. One he hoped she’d heed.

Silence fell between them, not an entirely comfortable one, as they moved ever closer to the St. George’s pale pink facade.

He broke the silence. “What about you, sugar? What do you do up there in Alabama?”

“I own a plant nursery and I also do some botanical research on medicinal herbs.”

“Botanical research,” he echoed. Little Miss Jet-lagged Tourist had layers to her, didn’t she?

“I have a master’s degree in botany,” she explained. “Maybe one day I’ll finish my PhD. Too busy for it right now. What about you? What did you do before you took a right turn at St. Croix?”

“This and that. Nothing special.”

“It must be nice living in paradise year-round.”

“Mostly,” he agreed. “The weather’s great.”

As they reached the entrance of the St. George, Iris turned and looked up at him.

“Why 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.