Forbidden Touch. Пола Грейвс

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      THE PHONE on the hotel bedside table rang while Iris was dressing after a long shower. She grabbed the receiver, hoping Sandrine would be on the other end of the line with a crazy explanation for where she’d been.

      But it was the hotel front desk. “There’s a letter at the front desk for Miss Beck,” the concierge explained in his crisp British accent. “Shall I send a porter with it?”

      “Please.” Iris finished dressing in a hurry and dug in her handbag for money to tip the porter. He arrived within five minutes and traded a creamy linen envelope for the cash. Iris locked the door behind him and opened the envelope, hoping the contents would give her a clue to Sandrine’s whereabouts.

      A rectangular card with embossed edges lay inside the envelope. “You and a friend are invited to a cocktail party in the Paradise Room at Hotel St. George,” she read. The date listed in shiny silver ink was today’s date. Eight o’clock.

      The invitation requested an RSVP and listed a cell phone number. Iris picked up the phone and dialed the number.

      A woman with a Midwestern accent answered on the first ring. “Cassandra Society.”

      Iris paused. Cassandra Society? What was the Cassandra Society?

      “Hello?” the voice repeated.

      Iris cleared her throat. “Hi. I received this invitation to a cocktail party tonight in the Paradise Room.”

      “Will you be able to attend?”

      “Do you mind telling me how many people you expect to attend?” Crowds in close quarters were a nightmare for her these days.

      “Sixteen invitations went out. We’ve had twelve people confirm so far.”

      A maximum of thirty-two people. In a private hotel meeting room, a number that size should be bearable, she decided. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

      “Your name?”

      “I’m calling for my friend. Sandrine Beck.”

      There was a brief pause on the line, punctuated by the sound of papers rustling. “You must be Iris Browning.”

      Iris dropped onto the edge of the bed, surprised. How did this woman know her name? “Yes.”

      “Sandrine mentioned you’d be here today. I hope we’ll see you at the seminar tomorrow, as well?”

      Seminar? What in the world had Sandrine gotten her into? She licked her lips and took a plunge. “I’ll be there.”

      Wherever there was.

      She hung up the phone and stared at the balcony door across from the bed, her mind racing to catch up with the chaos of clues she’d just received about her friend’s whereabouts.

      Seminars meant a conference of some sort. That would be easy enough to establish. She picked up the phone and called the front desk. The concierge answered.

      “This is room two-twelve. I believe the Cassandra Society is holding a conference of some sort in this hotel, correct?”

      “That is correct. Is there a problem?”

      “No. No problem. Can you tell me anything about the Cassandra Society? What’s its focus?”

      The concierge hesitated before answering. “I believe that information is covered in their conference brochure, madam. Shall I have someone bring you a copy?”

      “Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful.”

      “You are most welcome. I’ll send someone presently.”

      She thanked the concierge again and rang off. Within a couple of minutes, there was a knock on the door, and a bellman handed over a tri-fold brochure printed on dove-gray paper. The title was printed in clean black type: Expanding Horizons: The Third Annual Conference of the Cassandra Society.

      Iris opened the brochure and scanned the contents. Most of the language was carefully chosen to portray the Cassandra Society conference as scientific inquiry, but the bottom line was, the conference catered to people interested in psychic phenomena. That made sense, given the organization’s name. Cassandra obviously referred to the heroine of Greek mythology whose prophecies were fated never to be believed.

      The conference was exactly the sort of thing that would interest Sandrine. She was a medium herself and liked to study paranormal phenomena. It also explained why she’d have signed Iris up without giving her any forewarning. Sandrine knew Iris’s ambivalence about going public with her abilities. She’d probably guessed—correctly—that Iris would’ve refused to come had she known about the conference.

      She read through the brochure, looking for more information about the organization, but most of the text inside outlined the conference schedule and speaker bios. There was almost nothing about the Cassandra Society itself.

      She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she’d brought her laptop computer from home. If there’d ever been a time for a Web search, it was now. There had to be more detailed information about the Cassandra Society on the Internet than she was finding in this oh-so-uninformative brochure.

      She finger-combed her damp hair away from her face and crossed to the closet where she’d deposited her luggage without unpacking yesterday afternoon. The second luggage rack in the closet sat conspicuously empty, reminding her that wherever Sandrine had gone, she’d taken her bags with her.

      Pushing away a wave of despair, Iris unzipped the garment bag that contained the two dressy outfits she’d brought with her. The cinnamon-red silk dress was a little longer than the natural linen sheath and would hide her skinned knees. She pulled it from the bag and smoothed the sleek skirt. It would work for the cocktail party.

      Meanwhile, she had just a few hours to research the Cassandra СКАЧАТЬ