Silent Rescue

Good, Brooks thought. Just a couple out for a leisurely stroll. In arctic temperatures.

Which he was really starting to feel now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The only thing keeping him from being completely frozen was the closeness of the woman beside him. In his hurry to keep her safe, he’d almost forgotten what had drawn his attention to her in the first place. Her classic, China-doll beauty. Walking beside her, hands clasped, hips bumping...it was impossible not to think about it. Definitely enough to warm him far more than the parka he hated. Which he was never going to get back now. Because even though they had come nearer to the hotel and the café—just a few streets away, in fact—he didn’t want to risk returning. If someone had seen his sudden departure, they might put two and two together and want to ask questions he didn’t have the answers for. Yet.

He gave the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze, then directed her up a street he knew well. His own.

He let go of her hand and stopped in front of the familiar brick building he’d called home for the last two months, then pointed up before asking again, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her pretty mouth set in a line but her arms and hands moving silently. It took Brooks a moment, but as her face and hands worked, he realized it wasn’t random. It was something he recognized. A language he knew, at least partly.

Crazy if he thinks I’m answering, she was saying. Crazier still if he thinks I’m going in there with him.

Are you deaf? he signed back—clumsily and more of a literal translation than a true use of the language, but to the best of his ability. Or do you just like to talk to yourself in ASL?

Her clear blue eyes widened, and she didn’t have to sign what she was thinking. She clearly hadn’t expected him to recognize the gestures, let alone understand them.

I had a cousin who was deaf, he signed, then added, Well? Anything to say?

She sighed. “I’m not deaf.”

“And you do speak English.”

“Yes. And French. Better than you do, apparently.”

He noticed that she had to hold her hands stiffly at her sides to keep from signing along with her words. Who in her life was deaf? He glanced down at her ringed finger. Her husband? Where was he, while she was out here getting shot at in the streets of Laval? And why did it bother Brooks so much that the man wasn’t there to protect her?

He forced his attention back to the moment. “Do you really have time to fight about my language skills?”

“No. I don’t. Speaking of which...” She turned away.

Automatically, Brooks shot out a hand to restrain her. “You can’t just go running right back out there.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do have a choice.”

She shook off his grip and glanced up at his apartment building. “That’s not a choice.”

“Listen to me,” Brooks said. “Whoever called the police may have got a good look at you. If you head back into those streets, you risk being caught. If not right this second, then as soon as they start circulating your description.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she argued.

“But you are a witness, and I’m guessing that if you don’t have time to argue with me about my pronunciation, you don’t have time to give an hours-long statement to the police, either,” he replied. “And even if you do somehow manage to elude them, I’m guessing that whoever was firing at you isn’t going to just give up.”

Her face crumpled, and for a second, Brooks thought she might cry. An unexpected tug of sympathy pulled at his heart, and an accompanying urge to pull her into his arms. He made himself resist, but when he spoke again, it was in a far gentler tone.

“You may not like the choice, but I’m all you’ve got.” He paused, then signed the rest of what he had to say. I saved your life. I might be able to help you again. At the very least, give me a chance to keep you alive long enough to learn your name.

Her eyes flicked up the street, then to the apartment building, then back to Brooks. There was the tiniest sliver of hope in those baby blues.

“Ten minutes,” she said.

“Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

He led her through the front doors, then down the hall and up the stairs to his second-floor suite. It was a small, one-bedroom deal, prefurnished and practical. Clearly intended for short-term stay.

“Sorry about the lack of luxury,” he said. “Laval isn’t home for me, usually.”

“It’s okay.”

He waited for her to add something else. A personal detail about her own home—wherever it might be—but she just stood in the center of the adjoining kitchen and living room, like she wasn’t sure where to go. Admittedly, it felt funny to Brooks, too, to have company. He’d been treating the apartment more like a hotel room than like a home, barely unpacking his suitcase or adding any personal touches. Of course, this was the first time he’d even been conscious of that fact.

“Sit down,” Brooks suggested. “Coffee?”

“I’m fine.”

He stifled a sigh. The pain in his shoulder was back with a vengeance, and it was worsening his mood. He didn’t feel much like being patient, but the last thing he wanted was for her to bolt. And from the way her eyes kept twitching toward the door, he was sure she was counting the seconds until she could do it.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

Why would I? she signed.

So I can help you, he replied.

“I doubt it’s possible,” she said aloud.

“Try me.”

“Tell me something first,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Why did you help me?”

Brooks said the first thing that popped into his head. “Women in distress. Personal weakness.”

She blinked. “That’s very honest.”

“I’m an honest man,” he agreed. “And a bit old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Not a bad combination.” It was a hesitant statement—almost a question.

“I like to think it works in my favor. Most of the time.”

“And you’re not afraid of guns?”

“Not afraid of them? No. But I do have a healthy respect for what they’re capable of doing.” Unconsciously, he rolled his shoulder.

She picked up on the gesture, and as she eyed his upper arm, a little gasp escaped her lips. “You got shot!”

Brooks tipped his head down to follow her gaze. Yep. A graze only, but the blood was there, marking a thin tear across his sleeve.

“Damn,” he muttered.

He automatically started to unbutton his shirt. He got three undone before he realized that she was staring at him, her bottom lip sucked nervously between her teeth. Her eyes were on the bit of chest he’d already exposed. For a second, her stare was...warm. Then she tore her gaze away and fixed on a spot on the wall.

Yeah, he said to himself as he stilled his hands. Because undressing in front of a woman you barely know isn’t normal behavior.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Not used to having anyone around.”

“No. You really should...” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“God, an apology isn’t enough, is it? I just have to go.”

“You’ve barely given me five of the ten minutes you promised.”

“It took less than five minutes of being near me for you to take a bullet for me.”

“Exactly,” Brooks said, managing a half smile. “You owe me.”

She didn’t smile back. “What?”

“I took a bullet for you. So you owe me. And all I want is a five-minute explanation. And maybe you could bandage up my arm while you give it?”

She inhaled, exhaled heavily, then nodded. “Okay. Where should I start?”

“First things first. I’m Brooks.”

He stuck out a hand, and she took it. Her skin was surprisingly warm and pleasantly soft.

“Maryse,” she said.

“Good. Now that that’s out of the way...” He guided her to the barely used couch and pushed her into a sitting position. “I’ll grab the antiseptic and the Band-Aids. And you can tell me why someone’s trying to kill you.”

* * *

As the big man—Brooks, he’d called himself—exited the room, Maryse watched his receding shoulders. Something about him and his calm, matter-of-fact reasoning made her comfortable.

Well, except for the bit where he started to take his shirt off. That hadn’t been comfortable at all. It had been...something else entirely. Something she didn’t have time to think about.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, afraid of getting distracted. No matter how badly she wanted to take off her coat, to settle in and unburden herself, she wouldn’t let it happen. Doing so—even for the promised ten minutes—seemed like a violation of her commitment to saving her daughter.

Not that I have a lead right now.

She brushed off the thought. It was almost too much to bear. She was pretty sure her only option was to go back to the hotel. To get into the room attached to that key she’d found in Cami’s room. What she itched to do, though, was to call the police. Her cell phone was in her pocket, and the proper help was just three little numbers away.

But the threat made by the man who’d been gunned down in the street stuck with her. And what Brooks had said made sense, too. She would be tied up if the police got ahold of her. Cami’s life would only matter to them as a professional interest, while to Maryse, the little girl was everything. And that wasn’t even bringing in the truth of Cami’s parentage and the questions that would bring up. And what it would risk.

But losing her is better than losing her, isn’t it?

She put her head in her hands.

“Maryse?” Brooks’s voice was soft and full of the same concern that had seemed to dominate his gold-flecked gaze since the second she’d spotted him.

She answered without looking up. “It’s my daughter.”

The couch bounced under her, and a pleasant, musky scent filled her nose, and she knew Brooks had seated himself beside her.

“Your daughter?” he said back, low with worry.

“They—someone—took her. And it’s just...really complicated.” It sounded lame, and Maryse knew it.

But he only paused for a second before answering. “So complicated that you can’t go to the police.”

“Yes.”

She finally looked up. Brooks was close enough to touch, and her reaction to his nearness was startling. She tingled, head to toe. Her breath wanted to catch.

Powerfully attractive.

Hadn’t that been the phrase she’d initially used to describe him when she’d first spotted him? It was even more apt now.

He’d changed out of the long-sleeved dress shirt and into a tight-fitting undershirt. His shoulders took up twice as much space as hers, and his arms were no less impressive. When he held out the first-aid supplies, she had no choice but to take them. And of course, her fingers brushed his, and of course the tingling grew that much worse.

Startled by the strength of her attraction, Maryse jerked back and just about dropped the items. Trying to distract herself, she focused her attention on the wound itself. It was a small, angry line that would’ve looked almost like rug burn if not for the dip in the center.

“Not so bad,” she told him.

“Pretty lucky, I think,” he agreed. “More of a gutter wound than anything.”

She opened the alcohol wipe and ran it gently over the cut, wincing even though he didn’t react. “Sorry.”

He waved off her apology with his free hand. “Your daughter. Was she taken from Maison Blanc?”

“No. We live north of here on a little farm. She was taken from her bedroom.”

“So the hotel was...”

“A clue. A starting point. That didn’t work out.”

“And do you know who took her?”

Maryse shook her head and dabbed at the cut with a piece of gauze. “That’s part of what makes everything so complicated. But I guess the real answer is no. I don’t know who took her.”

“And the man who got shot?”

“I thought he had her. He knew she’d been taken, anyway. But as far as who he was, or why he got shot... I’m lost.” The last word came out in a choked-out half sob, and she barely managed to secure the bandage just below Brooks’s shoulder before a real tear escaped.

Immediately, the big man adjusted on the couch to pull her closer. For a second, Maryse resisted the unexpected embrace. She didn’t know him. She didn’t need him. Except she did. Or she needed something, anyway—a release or a bit of comfort, maybe. And Brooks seemed willing to give it. So she accepted what he offered and curved her shoulder into his solid form, and she let herself cry. It lasted for less than thirty seconds, but it was exactly right for the moment. And even though she still had nothing more to go on in regards to finding Cami, when she pulled away, Maryse felt a little better. Or at least strengthened.

She wiped her eyes. “Thank you. Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Brooks replied easily, meeting her eyes. “I want to help you. And I think I can.”

He sounded sure enough that Maryse couldn’t just dismiss his offer, and she had to admit that she probably did need help. Even just in terms of how to get from point A to point B. She’d left her own car near the hotel, but would the police be looking for it? Or would the person who’d shot at her recognize the vehicle, too? And on top of that, she hadn’t even figured out where point B was.

But you can’t expect a stranger to take on this kind of danger. Honesty and “healthy respect” for guns aside, he doesn’t know what he’s getting into. You don’t even know yourself.

“You said you were lost,” Brooks added gently, stopping her protest before it could even start. “So at least think about my offer before you walk away.”

She nodded—not in agreement of taking his help, but in her agreement to consider it. “Can I have a minute?”

“Take all the time you need.”

“Is there a bathroom I could borrow?”

“Sure. Down the hall, first door on the left.”

Maryse pushed to her feet and did her best to smile at him, but was sure she failed miserably. She moved quickly, stepped through the door, flicked on the light and gave herself a hard look in the mirror. Then she turned on the tap and splashed a healthy amount of crisp, cold water onto her face. It didn’t ease the worried ache in her chest, but it was a wake-up. She realized that she’d known she was going to say yes to Brooks before she even reached the bathroom. What other choice did she have? If there was even the slightest chance that this man could help her get to Camille, she’d take it.

She took in a breath, then turned back to the door, swung it open and frowned as she spied a bedroom rather than the hall she’d just come from. A quick glance backward told her the bathroom actually had two doors rather than one.

Whoops.

Maryse moved to close the second door, then paused as a framed picture on the nightstand drew her eye. Maybe it was because of the way the light from the bathroom reflected off the pewter. Or maybe it was just plain curiosity about the only personal item on display. Either way, she found herself drawn to it. She glanced back again, then slipped into the bedroom and moved toward the photo. She picked it up. And as she did, her blood ran almost as cold as it had when she’d found Camille’s empty bed.

It was a picture of Brooks, his arm linked with another man’s, the two of them grinning at the camera. And in the photo, he wore a uniform. A gun. And a badge.

“He’s a cop,” Maryse whispered to the empty room.

Saying it aloud made it all too real. All too risky. A fact that could only endanger both her and her daughter.

She had to get out of the apartment, and she had to do it fast. She considered her options. There was the idea of just plain telling him she had to leave. He’d said he’d let her go.

Sure. But he also failed to mention that he was a police officer. Not exactly an oversight. Did he intend to turn her in?

Her heart thundered with worry, and her gaze flew around the room, the voice of the gunman from the hotel filling her head.

Not authorities. Punishment. And not for her.

“Cami,” she whispered.

Her eyes found the window. Just outside, a few feet away, was the balcony. And a fire escape.

It wasn’t reasonable. Or logical. But it gave her a damned fine way of getting out without an argument.

Chapter 4

As Brooks dumped the bits of leftover first-aid supplies into his kitchen trash can, the muffled sound of smashing glass made him jump.

What the hell?

It only took him a second to realize it had come from up the hall.

“Everything okay?” he called loudly.

Silence.

“Maryse?”

More quiet air.

Brooks’s tickle of worry thickened. Stepping quickly, he moved from the kitchen, through the living room, and booted it straight for the bathroom.

He tapped the wood. “You there?”

He counted to five, then closed his hand on the doorknob and he turned.

Locked.

He rattled it harder. No response. Fearing the worst—and wishing he had a weapon—he turned toward the bedroom. He pushed his back to the wall and slid along it quickly. When he reached the door frame, he pushed out one foot, then waited. Nothing. He eased his body forward. Still nothing.

“Maryse?”

Continued silence greeted his softer call. He couldn’t wait any longer. He swung into the room and dropped to one knee defensively. Something sharp bit into his knee, and a blast of arctic-temperature air blew across the top of his head.

Brooks’s gaze flicked through the room. Maryse was nowhere to be seen, but the window was open.

You’re kidding me.

He looked down. Shards of glass dotted the carpet.

“What in God’s name— Oh.” The picture. My uniform. Crap.

Damning himself for wanting to put out a single memento in the first place, Brooks pushed to his feet and strode toward the window. As he leaned out, he caught sight of her. Sixteen feet off the ground. Inching along the narrow ledge toward his balcony. And just out of grabbing distance.

“Stay there,” she said without turning his way.

“I was just going to say the same thing,” he replied. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re a cop.”

“And that made you climb out a window?”

“You lied. And even if you hadn’t lied, my daughter’s life is at stake and I’m pretty sure working with a cop is going to get her killed.”

“I am a cop. But I didn’t lie.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie.”

“You could’ve just walked out the front door.”

“Right.”

She moved a little farther down the ledge, and Brooks cringed.

“The front door is still an option,” he said.

“I’ll take my chances with the fire escape and the trees down there, thanks,” she told him.

Brooks eyed the foliage in question. It was a cluster of dense, short evergreens and looked like a safe place to land. Except underneath it—invisible from above—was a small rock garden, framed by a wrought-iron fence.

Brooks cringed again. “Trust me. You don’t want to fall into what’s down there.”

“Trust you?” she called back. “Nice one.”

“Listen to me, Maryse. I’m not a cop here, okay? I’m only a cop at home in Nevada.”

“Right,” she said again.

He lifted a knee to the windowsill and gritted his teeth. “I’m not overly fond of heights, but I swear to God, I’m going to come out there. Then we’ll probably both fall. But I’ll make sure to land on the bottom. I’ll probably take one of those spikes under the tree straight into an organ I need. I’ll be dead. Because you couldn’t use the front door. But, hey, you’ll be on your way.”

She finally tipped her head his way. “That’s—”

He cut her off. “The truth. Just like the fact that I don’t have a gun, or a badge, or any kind of cross-border authority. I’m on vacation.”

“But you don’t feel obligated to turn and tell the Canadian authorities what’s going on?”

“Maybe a little,” Brooks admitted. “But I feel more obligated to help you. I have considerable firsthand experience solving crimes. And resources I can use. Subtly. Or you can just consider me a bodyguard. But please...come back inside.”

A gust of wind kicked up, making her coat flap. She wobbled. Then gasped.

Dammit.

Brooks lifted himself into the frame and pushed through. Without looking down, he stretched out his hand.

Come on.

And thankfully, a heartbeat later, her fingers landed in his palm. He tugged her gently back to the window. Then through it. He slid if shut forcefully behind them and—in an instinctive need to reassure himself that she was safe—he pulled her into his arms.

She fit perfectly against his chest, her head at just the right level to tuck against his chin. He held her that way for a long moment. Fiercely protective and strangely intimate.

Then he pulled away and adjusted her to arm’s length so he could look her in the face. “Please don’t do that again.”

Her eyes were wide. “I won’t.”

Brooks sagged. “Thank you.”

“Are you really not going to call the local police?” she asked.

“I’m really not going to,” he confirmed. “If I get tempted, I promise to warn you ahead of time.”

Her expression lightened hopefully, then drooped again. “My daughter...”

Brooks nodded. “Let’s start with what you know. The hotel, right?”

“Yes.”

He slid to his closet, pulled out a hooded gray sweatshirt—one he liked far better than the parka, anyway—then yanked it over his head. “Did you ask a lot of questions while you were there?”

“No,” she said. “I was just trying to get into the room.”

“What room?”

“I found a key card in Camille’s—that’s my daughter’s name—room. It was the only thing out of place, so I knew I had to go there.”

“Okay.” Brooks gestured toward the hall, and Maryse exited in front of him. “Do you think they’d remember you at the desk?”

“I’m not sure. The guy did offer to help me,” she replied. “Is it bad if he does?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter. Just need to know what to expect. If you’re comfortable with it, I might go in on my own and ask a few things. You can just lie low.”

“Lie low where?”

“My rental car.” He lifted his keys from the living room table, then led her to the door. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your daughter?”

Her brows knit together, and her lips pursed nervously. Brooks couldn’t help but wonder what secrets she was guarding. Something illegal? More dangerous than he’d already witnessed? He forced himself not to ask. When—if—she wanted to share them, she would. But there was no sense in making her any more uncomfortable. She was already enough of a flight risk.

“What do you want to know?” she asked guardedly.

Brooks locked the door, then started toward the stairs. “Anything. What’s her favorite color?”

A tiny smile tipped up the corners of Maryse’s mouth. “Oh. That kind of stuff? I can talk all day. She likes pink, but pretends that she doesn’t, because she’s worried someone will think she isn’t tough.”

“Is she?”

“Tough? Yes.” The smile got a bit bigger. “Very. And tries to be even tougher than she is.”

“Good.”

Over the next few minutes—both on the walk to the underground parking garage and on the short drive over to the Maison Blanc—Maryse painted a thorough picture of her daughter. Brooks had no problems envisioning her—smart and intuitive, with a solid helping of sass. Unlike her mother, she was a blonde cherub. They shared the same blue eyes, though, and also a love of junk food and painting. She didn’t mention the little girl’s father, and Brooks found himself wondering if the man had something to do with her kidnapping. Sure, Maryse claimed not to know who had Camille, but did that mean she didn’t know anything about what prompted the abduction in the first place? Brooks resisted an urge to ask. He suspected she wouldn’t tell him anyway. Clearly, she felt that not sharing what she knew posed less of a risk to her daughter than actually disclosing it. Because throughout their whole conversation, one thing was abundantly clear—Maryse loved her daughter more than anything.