To find her daughter, she must trust a handsome stranger

Since her brother’s tragic death, Maryse LePrieur has been in hiding. Left to care for her niece as her own, Maryse heeded his cryptic wish: that they run fast...and far. But Maryse discovers far wasn’t quite far enough when she wakes up one morning to find her beloved daughter missing. Frantic, she enlists the assistance of an unexpected ally...

When he spots a beautiful woman being forced through the streets at gunpoint, Detective Brooks Small acts quickly. But helping Maryse brings passions and unexpected connections to the surface and elevates this mission from professional to personal. Brooks soon realizes love between mother and daughter isn’t the only kind of relationship at stake.

She ran her hands over the corded muscles without shame, then lifted her gaze to meet his.

He was smiling, and his eyes had darkened to the color of maple syrup. The warmth she found there held her, stilling her completely.

“Hey there,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You’re beautiful up there, you know.”

“Likewise. Well. Down there. And you know. Handsome.”

He chuckled and reached up to touch her cheek. “I’ve got an idea. How about a bit little more of that quid pro quo.”

She frowned. “You want to save my life again?”

He laughed again, then tugged on the bottom of her shirt. “Nope. Yellow looks good on you, but I feel like we should even the playing field.”

“Oh.” Pushing through a renewed shyness, Maryse used both hands to pull off the top.

“Better?”

Brooks’s eyes traveled over every inch of exposed skin before he answered. “You have no idea.”

“I have some idea.” She gave him an equally thorough onceover, then bent to kiss him once more.

* * *

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Dear Reader,

Silent Rescue is a book that started with a single, imagined scene. A man watches a woman from afar. She’s hurrying through the streets, her concerns and goals unknown. The woman is focused. Driven. But where is she going, and why? Is her pace the result of fear? Distress? Determination? All three? Or is the man just projecting his own worries onto the woman? Maybe he is. But then he sees the flash of a gun, and he knows his gut instinct is correct...

This is how Maryse and Brooks came to be. It’s how I started to get to know them both. I discovered what a smart, dedicated mother Maryse would be. I learned that she would do anything for her daughter’s safety—even risk her life and trust a man she’d just met. This one scene taught me that Brooks would have a gruff exterior but a caring heart. It showed me how his experience as a detective would mix with that kindness and help him go out of his way to rescue a child he’d never even seen. It made me want to tell their complete story. So I did.

Happy reading,

Melinda Di Lorenzo

Silent Rescue

Melinda Di Lorenzo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Amazon bestselling author MELINDA DI LORENZO writes in her spare time—at soccer practices, when she should be doing laundry and in place of sleep. She lives on the beautiful west coast of British Columbia, Canada, with her handsome husband and her noisy kids. When she’s not writing, she can be found curled up with (someone else’s) good book.

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To all the moms and dads out there who would lay everything on the line for their kids

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Six Years Ago

Maryse glanced down at her watch and cursed her inability to move quickly. Two minutes more, and she would miss the bus that would take her to the spot where she’d promised to meet her brother, Jean-Paul. Not that she was excited about whatever he had to say. Probably a request for more money or to tell her he’d been fired from his latest job. He was always in some kind of trouble—of the illegal variety, half the time—and Maryse was always the one to bail him out.

She hated the fact that he’d even talked her into coming from Seattle to Las Vegas for the week in the first place. Two days had gone by and she’d only seen him once. When he picked her up from the airport.

“Brother-sister bonding, my foot,” she muttered.

She snapped up her purse from the counter, then pushed open the door. As always, the desert heat hit her like a slap in the face. The air was painfully dry. Maryse could already feel her hair wanting to bounce from its gentle waves to thick curls. She wished she’d thought to tie it back.

No time now.

With a sigh, she turned the spare key in the lock, securing her brother’s basement suite. Then she paused as a soft mewl drew her attention to the bushes to the side of the doorstep. She peered over. A large cardboard box sat in the shade of the prickly foliage. Had someone left a kitten out there? Annoyed, Maryse shook her head, then moved closer. Her brother wouldn’t be thrilled if she brought some flea-ridden beast into his place, but she couldn’t leave the poor thing outside. Even at ten in the morning, it was sweltering.

She reached the box, put her hand on the edge, then gasped.

It wasn’t a kitten.

“Oh, God,” she said softly.

It was a baby. A newborn, swaddled in pink. Whimpering.

Maryse reached in to lift the child—a girl, she assumed—and was surprised to find the blanket cool to the touch. She glanced into the box again. One side held a diaper bag. But the other held an ice pack. Maryse raised her head and looked around the yard in search of whoever had cared enough to try to keep her cool, but had been heartless enough to abandon the poor thing in the first place. No one was in sight.

She looked down at the infant again. A tiny black smudge adorned the girl’s cheek, and Maryse reached up to rub it away gently. Her tiny eyes opened, and her blue, unfocused gaze seemed to be seeking out the source of the attention. Then the baby let out another cry, this time a little louder, and instinct took over. With one hand, Maryse cradled the girl, rocking her. She murmured soothing things as she used the other hand to rifle through the bag until she found a full bottle. The formula inside was cool, but Maryse figured that meant it wouldn’t have spoiled. And the baby was clearly hungry. She nudged back the blanket and pressed the bottle to the newborn’s mouth. The baby immediately settled in, sucking enthusiastically.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Maryse said softly, settling to the ground.

Careful not to disturb the little one’s feeding, she lifted the diaper bag and pushed it open. Inside, she found two Canadian passports, and when she thumbed open the first one, her blood went cold. Her own picture stared up at her, and the name was just as startling.

Maryse Anne LePrieur.

It was hers. But not hers, too. Maryse and Anne were correct. But the surname was her mother’s maiden one.

She grabbed the second passport.

Camille Anne LePrieur.

And the photo was of the infant.

Feeling numb, Maryse adjusted the baby—Camille—and dug farther in the bag. Her hand found a thick envelope, and a quick look told her it was an enormous stack of cash. Her hands shook as she lifted a small, folded-up piece of paper from the front of the envelope. With dread pooling in her gut, she opened it. Her brother’s familiar, untidy handwriting sprawled over the page.

Run. Far. Fast. Keep her safe. Don’t trust anyone, and don’t risk going to the police. Just love her like your own. She’s yours now. And if they say I did it, know it’s a lie.

Maryse stood quickly. And she and her belongings were gone before the first sirens even got close to her brother’s house.

Chapter 1

Maryse swung open the bedroom door, a huge smile on her face. A few minutes earlier, she’d turned on the news and learned that black ice had forced her daughter’s school to close for the day. She knew a lot of moms would be cursing the weather and cursing the school board and wondering what they were going to do with their kids on this extra wintery day. But Maryse was thrilled. She didn’t mind the cold. She didn’t mind a day off. And she didn’t mind an excuse to pull out the ice skates and do loops on the pond with her daughter.

“Rise and shine, Camille!” she called to the lump of blankets on the bubble gum–pink bed.

Not that she thought the six-year-old could hear her, but because old habits die hard. And sometimes, Maryse thought if she didn’t speak out loud now and again, she might lose her voice altogether.

Besides that...though she was deaf, the little girl was impossible to sneak up on. She heard everything in her own way.

You vibrate, Cami signed to her once.

Vibrate? Maryse had repeated, thinking she’d missed something.

Though Cami was a natural ASL speaker and had been taught the proper grammatical rules from the time she was small, Maryse knew her own understanding was sometimes lacking. She tended to try to translate what she wanted to say from English first, and it often mucked things up. But this particular time, she’d got it right.

Vibrate, her daughter confirmed, then giggled and added, Like an elephant walking across the floor.

Maryse smiled at the memory and twisted the blind slats open just enough to let in the sunshine, and with it, a puff of cold air. Because Quebec weather could be deceptive like that. The glowing orb up there in the sky looked so much like it should be warm. Like it wanted to provide some heat. But it was an unforgiving light instead.

For a second, the chill seemed ominous, and a shiver made Maryse wrap her arms around her own body, rubbing her palms against the comforting fuzz of her faux-angora sweater. Then she pushed off her worry and reminded herself that today was going to be a fun day.

“Nothing a jacket won’t fix. Right, sweet pea?” she said as she turned back toward the bed. But the down comforter didn’t move. Not an inch. “Camille?”

She stepped forward and put out a hand, wondering if her daughter was sick. But when she reached for Camille’s shoulder, she found a pillow instead.

Panic didn’t set in right away—the little girl was fond of pranks. And hide-and-seek.

“Very funny!” Maryse said, then gestured, too, in case her daughter was hiding somewhere she could see.

She moved around the room, peeking into the usual hiding spots. The closet. The book cubby. Under the bed, then in the tiny bathroom that adjoined the room. Empty.

She stood in the bedroom’s doorway, put her hands on her hips and turned slowly, searching for her too-clever girl. Stuffed animals and knickknacks galore dominated the shelves.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she called, her hands moving to make the words come to life.

As Maryse turned to move her search to the rest of the house, her sock-covered foot slipped on something on the floor, and she slid across the carpet, landing on one knee. She bit back a curse—Camille always seemed to know when she let one drop—and reached out to snap up the offending object.

What the— A key card?

She frowned down at the slim piece of plastic.

Maison Blanc.

She flipped it over and found an address in Laval. The city was an hour and a half south of the tiny town, LaHache, where they lived.

“Where’d you get this one, Cami?” she murmured as she pushed herself to her feet, then set the card beside the rest of the odd little trinkets on the nearest shelf.

Collecting things was a Camille habit. Just one of the hobbies that made the kid interesting.

Maryse smiled to herself, then stepped out to scan the hallway. “Okay, kiddo. Give me a hint.”

But the house stayed silent, and as she covered the scant eight hundred square feet of space, her smile began to slip.

All closets. Nope, nope and nope twice more.

Every cupboard large enough to hold a fifty-pound child. Nothing.

Concern crept in quickly.

“Camille!” Maryse called her daughter’s name loudly. Useless, she knew. But she still did it again. “Cami!”

She looked in the laundry basket and up the sooty chimney. With her heart in her throat and thoughts of the subzero temperature outside on her mind, she eased open the only entrance to the house—a door off the living room. But all she found was the same day-old dusting of snow that had coated the patio yesterday. Impossible for Camille to have gone over it without a trace. Relief made her sag temporarily.

But where is she?

Maryse took a breath and made her way back to the bedroom, where she scanned for some hint of something she might’ve missed. Her eyes found the window, then stayed there. Her brain grabbed a thought and hung on to it.

That little blast of cold air...

Woodenly, she stepped closer. She gripped the blinds’ rod and turned. And yes. There it was. Evidence. The childproof lock had been forced across the ridge at the bottom of the window, leaving a nasty groove through the metal. And when Maryse pushed the blinds aside, she could see the sliver of an opening.

Oh, God. Please, no.

Her heart thumped hard against her rib cage as she spun back to the pile of pink bedding. Then she saw it sticking out from under one of the frilly pillows: a slip of familiar notepaper dotted with fluttering butterflies.

Maryse snatched it up, her hand shaking so badly she almost couldn’t read the words that were written there in large, deliberate block letters. She inhaled and forced herself to go still.

Two sentences. Two. And they were enough to take her world, stop it from spinning, then flip it in the other direction.

I TOOK WHAT YOUR BROTHER OWED ME. CONSIDER HIS FATE A WARNING - NO POLICE.

She breathed in. She breathed out.

She fought the threatening blackness and made herself look at Camille’s familiar things. The favorite stuffed bunny, one loose ear and one eye gone. The ribbon she used as a bookmark tucked into the pages of her latest read. The radio she insisted on having even though she couldn’t listen to it.

And then her eyes landed on the single item in the room that she was certain she hadn’t seen before.

The key card for Maison Blanc. A clue. But what did it mean she should do?

The police!

The urge to call them was instinctual. Logical, even. Or it would be under normal circumstances.

Normal.

The word was nearly laughable. There was nothing normal about this. Still. Her feet itched to move. To take her to her cell phone so she could make the “normal” choice. But there was more to consider than simply placing her daughter’s fate in the hands of the police.

For one, there was the not-so-small issue of guardianship. No matter how Maryse sliced it, there was nothing legal about her parentage. Or even her identity. Sure, she had ID that had passed even strict scrutiny over the years. But this was different. This was the police, picking apart all aspects of her life. If they figured out that she was a fraud, it might influence how the case was viewed. Would they throw her in jail? Keep her from the investigation?

Of course, that was actually a small matter compared to the note and its warning. Because Cami’s safety was definitely worth more than protecting her own identity, and there was no getting around what fate her brother had met. He’d died in the fire supposedly set by his own hand.

Maryse swallowed. The idea that something similar might happen to her daughter was unbearable. More than unbearable. Unthinkable.

But she was sure that every kidnapper made the same warning about contacting the authorities. That was what they always showed in the movies, anyway. So did that mean she should just do it anyway? Was calling them worth the risk in spite of the warning? They’d already snuffed out Jean-Paul’s life. Would they hesitate on making this new threat a reality, too?

And what about ransom?

Her rapidly churning thoughts paused for a moment. There was no mention of money. Was it coming later?

No. Because they already took what they wanted. Cami herself.

The thought made her want to go for the phone all over again. Because if they weren’t after anything in exchange, what did she have to negotiate with? The police were surely better equipped to deal with this than she was.

Her head spun even more.

If Cami died and it was because she made the wrong call...

If Cami died and it was because she didn’t make the call...

And besides all of that...would the cops even believe her story?

Probably not.

Not quick enough, anyway. It was too complicated. Too far-fetched. And the nearest police station was an hour away. In the amount of time it would take them to make their way to her, she could get halfway to Laval herself. If she hurried, she could even be there before breakfast.

Maryse exhaled, then squeezed the Maison Blanc card once more. A phone call to the hotel would be pointless. It had taken him—whoever he was—six years to find her and Cami. He wouldn’t have left a clue behind. Not on purpose. He was there. He had Cami.

And Maryse was going to take her back.

* * *

Brooks Small stretched out his long legs, leaned back and attempted to bask in the sun. For about three seconds, it worked. Then a blast of crisp air cut across his face, throwing the hood of his parka down from his head to his shoulders, reminding him a little too thoroughly that it was winter.

Except it’s not winter, growled his inner, surly self. It’s mid-April.

Stubbornly, he reached up to snap his hood back into place, and his elbow snagged on the edge of his wicker coffee-shop chair. He heard a loud tear.

Dammit.

Pulling on every ounce of patience he had, Brooks closed his eyes, counted to twelve—because ten sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it right that second—and eased the jacket away from the chair.

“You hated the coat anyway,” he muttered.

It was true. Mostly because he hated everything to do with being away from his home in the ironically named town of Rain Falls, Nevada. He preferred being minutes from the bright lights of Vegas and he enjoyed the often-scorching summer days.

If he was there, now, in the good old US of A, his neighbors would be opening their pools. Not scraping the snow off their backyard ponds so they could enjoy the supposedly unseasonably cold weather.

As if this frozen city has a season other than winter.

He exhaled noisily, his breath frosty and visible. Brooks had heard on the radio that it was minus eighteen degrees Celsius outside today. Which translated to roughly zero degrees Fahrenheit.

Two months Brooks had been in Laval, Quebec, and he had yet to see anything but snow.

Snowy streets.

Snowy parks.

Snowy everything.

Like nature had whitewashed the entire city.

Don’t forget the icicles, Brooks reminded himself. Actual damned icicles, hanging from actual damned eaves.

“Monsieur?”

Brooks’s head snapped up at the voice, and the teenage waitress attached to the soft-spoken question jumped back. He tried to smooth out his expression, at least into something passably pleasant. He failed. It was evident in the way that the waitress continued to stand a few feet away, cowering just a little. His espresso was still in her shaking hand, and it was cooling rapidly.

Brooks inclined his head toward the demitasse cup. “Mon café?”

“Oui.”

He stifled a sigh. Usually his complete bastardization of the language of love was enough to squeeze the English out of even the most French of the French-Canadian.

Not today, apparently.

“Mademoiselle?” he prodded.

When she continued to stand stock-still, Brooks decided she needed a bit of motivation in a more universal language. He dug into the zippered pocket of his parka and fished out three wide gold-and silver-colored coins. He eyed them skeptically. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the things, no matter how long his banishment to Canada lasted. The damned coins seemed like toy money to Brooks, and they sure as hell didn’t look like enough cash to pay for his coffee and leave a four-dollar tip on top of that.

When he set them down on the table, though, the waitress finally did snap out of her fear-daze. With something approximating a smile, she slipped the coins into her tiny apron and set Brooks’s coffee—without spilling a drop, he noticed—in its place.

“Merci,” she said, then scurried away quickly, back into the enveloping warmth of the café.

Brooks waited until she’d disappeared before he took a sip of coffee. He knew it didn’t make a ton of sense to sit outside in the freezing cold, but the ritual wasn’t about reason. It was about principle. Like many cops, Brooks got into a groove and stuck to it. He didn’t know if it could be classified as superstitious behavior or if it bordered on compulsive, but he did know it worked for him. He’d even argue that it made him better at his job, because sticking to a routine made it easier to spot the out-of-the-ordinary.

Every morning at home, he sat on the patio, took stock of the day, did the crossword and enjoyed an espresso. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little thing like the temperature change that.

Yep. Principles.

Brooks had them.

He suppressed a sigh and glanced down at his watch.

It was 9:33 a.m. on a Tuesday.

In a few minutes, a gray-haired man would come by, light a cigarette, smoke it quickly, then go inside to order something in the largest cup the café offered. Shortly after that, a frazzled mother with her toddler in tow would park illegally, dash inside and come out with her personalized cup steaming. The kid would have a cookie.

Most days were like that. The same people at the same time, fully predictable. Nicely so.

Brooks noted them all, and noted the discrepancies even more.

Like right that second.

A tall, slim brunette was coming up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She had her chin tucked into the collar of her tan duffle coat, hurrying, but trying to look like she wasn’t. She kept her head still and her gaze forward, but every two or three steps, her eyes would dart first one way, then the other. Maybe the average observer wouldn’t have noticed. Or maybe just assumed she was looking for a certain address. To Brooks, she looked like trouble.

Automatically, he sat up a little straighter, making more detailed mental notes.

Five foot eight, easily. Maybe five-nine.

A hundred and twenty pounds? Bulky jacket, though. Could add a few pounds to her frame.

Too thin, Brooks thought absently. Not eating? Ill, maybe?

Except her face had nothing sallow about it. Her skin was pale, but in a porcelain way rather than a sickly one. Altogether pretty, actually.

She got closer still, and Brooks fleshed out his description even more. Tight bun at the nape of her neck. Thick enough to let him know her hair would be long. A stray curl hung down over one cheek—which he could see now wasn’t quite so pale, but instead, marked with a rosy glow. Likely brought on by the cold, he thought. Her lips were full and nearly crimson, and she was makeup-free.

And not just pretty, he realized. Stand-out-in-a-crowd stunning.

Was that why she wore her hair in that severe style? Did it have something to do with her plain skin? A mask?

She’d reached the corner across from him now, and, for a second, she just stood there, her stare seemingly fixed on the café. Then she lifted a pair of sunglasses from her pocket, placed them on her face and leaped from the sidewalk to the street. Straight into the path of a brave winter cyclist.

Brooks’s heart jumped to his throat, but before he could react—and rush in like some deranged, parka-clad hero—the woman sidestepped lightly, lifted her hand in an apology and moved toward the café. Straight toward Brooks.

* * *

Maryse’s eyes rested on the man sitting in front of the café that neighbored the Maison Blanc.

He was dressed for the weather. But something about him made her think he didn’t belong. And even though he looked away quickly, his gaze had been too sharp, his interest in her too pointed. Did he know something? Or was she being paranoid?

An hour and a half in the car hadn’t done her mind any good. Try as she might to stay focused on making a plan, her brain had insisted on swirling with dark worry, playing out every one of her worst fears.

Cami is alive, she told herself firmly.

She had to be. But the breathless, sick feeling churning through her wouldn’t rest.

From behind her deliberately dark sunglasses, Maryse let herself study the man for another few seconds, while pretending to look at the hotel.

Under his hood, she could just see that his hair was buzz-cut, his face clean shaven. He had a thick build, made even more so by the big, black coat. His face had a certain roughness, too. A fierce mouth and the strongest jaw she’d ever seen. Powerfully handsome. That was how she would describe him. But when he lifted his eyes to her once more, his expression softened him somehow. There was a measure of concern there. Kindness.

So, no. It’s not him, she decided. There won’t be anything kind about whoever took her.

Her gaze stayed on him for one more moment before she moved past him—and his undeniable undercurrent of attractiveness—and past the café toward the brass-framed doors of the Maison Blanc. She pushed her way through, appreciating the blast of warm air that hit her as she did. It took the edge off her hours-long chill. But she didn’t pull off her gloves as she strode toward the counter—she needed them to curb the urge to sign as she spoke.

Hoping she looked more confident than she felt, she approached the concierge desk. But the uniformed man behind the counter was on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone, his brows knit together with irritation. He didn’t turn her way, and Maryse let out a little cough. She didn’t have time to waste. So when he still didn’t look up, she cleared her throat a second time.

He spun, seeming startled by her presence.

For a second, that paranoia reared its head again. She forced it back and dragged her sunglasses from her face to her head.

He set the phone down on the counter, then smiled at her. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Maryse replied, glad that her voice didn’t shake. “I’m meeting some people—a couple of business contacts—and I think they gave me the wrong room number. The key I have won’t open the door, and no one answered when I knocked.”

“Which room is it supposed to be?”

“Two-twenty-eight?” She lied quickly, hoping there was a room 228.

She tugged the key from her coat pocket and handed it over. He took it and swiped it across the keyboard in front of him, then frowned at the screen.

“Well,” he said. “That explains it. This key is for room eight—no two-twenty in front of it—right here on the first floor. But I’m afraid they’ve asked for calls to be held, and I can’t issue you a new key unless the room is in your name.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

The concierge tapped the key card on the counter for a second, then smiled again. “You know what I can do for you, though? I can take you down to room eight myself and we can check if your contact is there. We’ll call it a housekeeping emergency.”

Maryse considered the offer. Then rejected it. She was tempted. She wanted to get to Cami. Badly. But she didn’t want to endanger anyone else.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just give them a call on my cell and leave a message.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She slipped away from the counter and moved to the chairs in the lobby area. She perched on the edge of one of them, then pulled out her phone and pretended to dial. But she was really watching the concierge. Waiting for a distraction. And it only took a few moments. He lifted the desk phone again and started up with his hushed conversation, turning away from the lobby in the process.

Thank God.

Moving as swiftly as she dared, she eased herself up. She took another glance at the concierge, then scurried across the tiled floor to the hallway, pausing just long enough to read which direction would lead her to room eight, then hurried to the left. She stripped off her gloves now—she’d need her hands to talk to Cami—and counted off the doors in her head.

One.

Two.

Three.

And that was as far as she got. Something jabbed her in the back, and then a click sounded from behind her, and a man’s gravelly voice spoke right into her ear.

“Move,” it said. “Slowly. Walk with me and act like you’re having a good time. If you scream, run or try anything I think is funny, I’ll make sure your daughter is the one who pays the price. Even think about getting the authorities involved and I’ll make sure the price is extracted slowly. And not from you.”

The threat was more than enough to make her obey.

Chapter 2

Brooks took a sip of his espresso—now cold—and told himself he was being ridiculous. That he had an overactive cop imagination waving flags when none were necessary.

For a second, though, he could’ve sworn the dark-haired woman was staring right at him. Scrutinizing him. Looking for something. Which she definitely didn’t find, judging by how quickly she bolted into the hotel.

It bothered him, and he had no idea why. What was her deal? Was she actually in trouble? He wished he’d asked her.

And say what? he wondered. Pardon me, ma’am, but are you looking for someone? Or no? Maybe hiding from someone? Yes, here in the middle of this street. No, no. Don’t call the cops.

Brooks shook his head and took another icy gulp of coffee. Canadians were friendly—that characterization had turned out to be true—but he somehow doubted that gregariousness extended to a tolerance for on-leave cops from south of the border asking nosy questions.

Still...

The sudden buzz of Brooks’s cell phone jarred his attention back to the moment.

“Small,” he said into the phone, his voice clipped.

There was a familiar chortle on the other end. “Now, now. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Does that never get old for you, Masters?” he asked his longtime partner.

“Never.”

“At least one of us is getting a laugh.”

There was a pause. “Not enjoying your vacation?”

“It’s hardly a vacation.”

“Civilian life.”

“Barely that, either. Isn’t it, like, four in the morning there?”

Sergeant Masters let out another chuckle. “Almost seven, actually. Finishing up the night shift.”

“So you thought you’d call me?”

“Oh, c’mon, Small. I hear the Great White North has plenty to offer.”

“Like?”

“Hockey? Canadian bacon? Girls looking for a warm-blooded American to melt their igloos?”

Brooks rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many movies, my friend.”

“You’re telling me there isn’t one pretty girl in that entire country?”

Brooks opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again as he lifted his eyes just in time to see the brunette step out of the hotel doors. The top button of her coat had come undone, exposing her creamy throat, and she appeared oblivious to the cold air.

Yeah, he conceded silently. At least one pretty girl.

“You there, man?”

Brooks forced his attention back to the phone conversation. “What I’m telling you, Masters, is that there isn’t one single igloo here—meltable or otherwise—and quite frankly, I’m a little let down.”

On the other end, his partner laughed so hard he sounded like he was choking. When his amusement finally subsided, he launched into some story about their captain. But Brooks was already distracted again, the long tale fading into the background.

A man in a dark trench coat worn over a well-tailored suit was standing behind the woman. A poor-boy cap covered his head, a scarf obscured the bottom half of his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses blocked his eyes.

A tingle crept up along Brooks’s spine, then settled between his shoulder blades.

He’d tuned out Masters’s voice completely now, his attention focused entirely on the scene unfolding in front of him. He’d already set down his empty coffee cup. He kept his hands open and relaxed. He didn’t have to work on the pose at all. Years on the job—years of waiting patiently for the right moment while looking like he wasn’t waiting at all—bred a certain kind of readiness into a man. A second nature.

Brooks’s eyes flicked to the man in the cap. Then to the brunette. Then back.

The man leaned down and put his face at an even level with her ear. Brooks watched his mouth work silently above the scarf. Though he couldn’t hear a word, the intimacy of the conversation was obvious. Seconds later, the man put out his hand, palm up, and the woman reciprocated by placing her fingers in his.

A gold wedding band—on the woman’s left hand, but not on the man’s—caught the cold sun and glittered.

A total misread, Brooks realized.

It wasn’t a criminal activity. It was an affair.

He averted his eyes, embarrassed that he’d been so caught up in the brunette’s action that he’d attributed her nervousness to something dangerous, when in fact it was actually caused by something far more cliché.

You need to get back to work. For real.

“Masters,” he said loudly, interrupting the unending flow of the other man’s story and not caring in the least. “Did the captain say anything about when I can come home?”

The silence on the other end was a bad sign. Clearly, something had been said, and whatever it was...the news wasn’t good.

“C’mon,” his partner replied after a few weighted seconds. “Any of the guys would kill to be in your position. Paid leave in a foreign country? No collars to run down, no worrying about having some two-bit drug dealer shooting you in the—”

Brooks cut him off. “I’ll take that as a no.”

There was another pause, then a sigh. “We all know what hell you went through, Small. None of us would wish it on our worst enemies. But you lost control. A good man died.”

Regret hit Brooks straight in the gut. More painful than a gunshot wound, and far more lasting, too.

He refused to let it overwhelm him. “Parler slept with my informant. He got himself killed. And the girl, too. The man’s ‘goodness’ is questionable at best.”

This time, the blank air went on for so long that Brooks thought momentarily that his partner might’ve hung up. He knew better, though. Masters was simply giving him a chance to retract his statement. To let his brain catch up to his mouth. But he wasn’t going to give in to the silence.

I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a killer.

He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until Masters answered him.

“I know that, man. Anyone with his lid screwed on tight knows that. But when the chief’s favorite rookie winds up dead...”

The other man’s voice carried on, but Brooks had tuned him out again, this time because he really didn’t want to hear what Masters had to say.

His gaze drifted back toward the striking brunette, but she and her lover were gone.

Maybe to take their tryst to the next level. Maybe to—

Brooks’s musings cut off as he spotted them on the corner of the road.

The girl’s mouth was open in a silent cry, her body bent away from the man, who held her elbow tightly. Too tightly. The man lifted his other hand then and pressed it to the small of the woman’s back. Something metallic glinted in the small space between them.

Brooks leaped to his feet. His thighs slammed into the table hard enough to send the espresso cup rolling off. It smashed to the ground, and his jacket snagged on the chair again, leaving him stuck.

“Small?” Masters’s voice was full of concern.

“I have to go.”

“C—”

Whatever his partner had been about to say was lost as Brooks clicked the hang-up button. He abandoned his jacket, dropped the phone into his pocket and took off at a run.

Because he recognized that glint for what it was.

A gun.

* * *

Without warning, the man with the gun slid an arm around Maryse and pulled her back into a darkened doorway. He clamped a hand over her mouth, pushed the weapon into her back and warned her to keep quiet as a blurred figure went running by. Even with the freezing air surrounding her, and the thick winter coat acting as a buffer, the cool metal drove into her and made her shiver.

She wanted to recoil away from it. Almost as much as she wanted to recoil away from the man wielding it. The single glance she’d stolen before he bundled up his face was enough to make her chest squeeze with fear. His eyes were dark, angry slashes. His mouth no better. A terrible, star-shaped scar covered one cheek.

Maryse closed her eyes for just a second and reined in another shiver.

What were you expecting? she chastised silently. A kidnapper who looked like Santa Claus?

But truthfully, it didn’t matter what he looked like, any more than it mattered he had a weapon. The uncertainty of her daughter’s fate and the hope that this man would lead Maryse to her were more than enough to keep her quiet.

After several long minutes, he forced her back to the sidewalk. And as he led her through the warren of streets, she swore she could feel the cool metal barrel digging a little farther into the small of her back with each step.

Hold on, she told herself. Means to an end. This man knows where Cami is.

She resisted an urge to ask about Camille’s safety. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to hear the sound of her voice. When they’d left the hotel doors, she’d uttered a single word and he’d pinched her so hard that it still smarted.

Trying to distract herself, she glanced up at the nearest building and tried to place it. But it was too late to orient herself. They’d already managed to weave through a half dozen streets that blended together.

Rue Rouge.

Rue Laurent.

Rue...who knew what?

The corners came quickly, and the buildings were piled atop one another, each looking as drearily the same as the other.

Please, she prayed silently, just let her be okay.

In spite of her resolve not to show any emotion, tears pricked at her eyes. It got worse when she glanced up and saw a discarded doll hanging from the edge of a balcony. Normally, that kind of thing made her smile. This time, it made her cringe. Unconsciously, she slowed to stare. And it earned her yet another sharp jab.

“Go,” growled the gunman.

Maryse stumbled a little as they reached yet another corner, this one unmarked by any street sign at all. In her boot, one of her ankles twisted. Even though she tried to bite down and keep it in, a little cry escaped her lips.

Weakness, she chastised herself.

Not something she should be showing. Not if she wanted to negotiate her daughter’s release. The smallest chink in the armor could jeopardize that chance. So she ignored the searing pain that shot up her leg from her twisted ankle, and she let the man behind her push her on.

But they only made it four more steps—not quite all the way across the road—when he abruptly released her arm. As he let her go, he barked out something gutturally unintelligible. For a second, she thought he’d switched to speaking in French. Puzzled, Maryse spun to face him.

Then stepped back as he flew toward her.

What the—

Her thought cut off as her mind worked, trying to make sense of what she saw.

His eyes were wide, his mouth open. A crimson drop fell from one corner of his lips. Then his body hit the ground, and she figured it out.

Not French, she realized. And not English, either.

The sound he’d made hadn’t been words at all. Just a last utterance.

As if to confirm it, his coat flapped open, revealing an increasing pool of red, with a narrow hole in the center.

A gunshot wound.

Maryse’s gut twisted, and she doubled over. The motion saved her. A bullet whizzed by, then slammed into the ground just a few feet in front of her.

With her heart in her throat, Maryse righted herself, turned and fled toward the buildings on the other side of the road. She pushed her back flat against the icy structure just as another bullet hit the cement, this time mere inches from her boots.

Sure it had come from above, her gaze flew up, searching. Was that a pinprick of red light, up in the window of the low-rise up the road? Did the curtains just flash? But everything was still now.

She hazarded a quick glance toward the fallen man. His head had rolled to one side, and his chest no longer rose up and down at all.

Cami.

Oh, God. What did this mean for her daughter? The man on the ground had been her one link to whoever had her.

The wall Maryse had been holding around her heart for the last few hours teetered. A dull ache formed in her chest as the anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. It made her sway a little on her feet. And she stumbled.

But surprisingly, she didn’t fall.

Instead, a warm, strong hand closed on her elbow, steadying her. Then the hand pulled her back into the building. Out of sight. Out of the potential line of fire. It gripped her tightly. And for a paralyzing instant, Maryse’s instinct wasn’t fight, and it wasn’t flight. It was simply to sink into the reassuringly solid touch. And the strange sensation worsened when she looked up and met a man’s gaze. Hazel, flecked with gold, and full of genuine concern.

She had to force herself to pull away enough to take in a little more of his appearance. Whoever he was, he had a frame as bulky as it was tall, and if his height topped less than six foot three, Maryse would eat her wool hat. But as he pulled back a bit more and opened his mouth, it wasn’t his impressive size that made her gasp. It wasn’t even the fact that she finally recognized him as the man who’d been sitting outside the café near the hotel. It was the slight flash of metal at his hip.

Oh, God. This man is the shooter.

And Maryse was off as fast as her legs could take her. Three steps to the edge of the street. Another five to put her past the body lying there. Two more and—

The stranger’s body slammed into hers, then twisted. The motion sent them to the ground together, and for a second, Maryse was on top. But the momentum kept them going, and they rolled. Once. Twice. And on the third time, his powerful forearms locked to her elbows and his thick thighs locked hard against her hips, pinning her to the icy concrete.

He stared down at her, his hazel eyes dark. Like it was she who’d done something wrong. And it made Maryse mad. All the stress of the last few hours funneled through her, found purchase in her knee, then jerked up full force. The man must’ve seen something in her gaze, though, because he swung sideways at the last second, and she just barely managed to graze his hip.

“Stop,” he ordered, his voice full of authority.

Yeah, right.

“I’m trying to help you,” he growled.

Equally unlikely. She struggled harder to free herself, flailing wildly.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked in badly accented French. “I want to let you go so we can get the hell out of here.”

As if to prove his point, he released her arms. She reached up to throw a fist at him, but before she could follow through, three more bullets—not quite rapid-fire, but successive enough to be thoroughly jarring—hit the building behind them.

It really wasn’t him, Maryse realized.

He glared down at her, an I-told-you-so look on his face. The smugness didn’t last longer than a second, though. Another shot made him jerk backward in surprise.

He let out a groan, then rolled off her and pushed to his feet. “C’mon.”

Maryse only hesitated for a heartbeat. Long enough to glance down and realize the flash she’d seen at his waist hadn’t been a gun—just a belt buckle. She took his outstretched hand and let him guide her away from the gruesome scene, and away from whoever was still firing on them.

And just in time. The wail of sirens cut through the air, warning them that authorities were on their way.

Chapter 3

Brooks was careful to keep their flight as casual as possible. Not just because he had a sharp, dangerous burn in his shoulder, but because he knew what the cops would be looking for. He knew what he would be looking for himself, if he was in their shoes: a couple on the run. So he hugged the buildings to stay out of sight and moved at an unsuspicious pace. He could tell that the woman—who was now gripping his hand tightly, and who still hadn’t said a word—wanted to move faster. Her feet kept trying to pick up the pace, and Brooks was the one holding them back.

Why had the sound of the siren spooked her even more?

She was visibly shaken up by the impending arrival of the police, and in Brooks’s experience, that usually meant trouble. And running from the scene of a crime... He shook his head. Never mind the legality of it, he knew how bad it looked.

Deal with it later, he said to himself. When she feels safe and is calm enough to explain.

If she ever did. She kept glancing over her shoulder, then jerking her head forward.

“If you can understand me,” Brooks said softly. “Try to focus on something ahead of you instead of thinking about what’s behind you. Look at the fire hydrant. Then, when we get there, pick something else. A sign or a landmark. Anything.”

He had no idea if she knew what he meant, or if it was just his tone, but she took a breath, and her frantic movements eased. Her pace slowed, too.

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.

The obvious caring and commitment was something Brooks found admirable. More than admirable, if he was being honest. It was attractive as all hell. And it affirmed his decision to offer his help.

As he pulled his car into the side lot at the hotel, Brooks reached over to give Maryse’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “My goal is to be in and out of there in ten minutes.”

Her eyes met his, and she held tightly to his hand. “You think you can find something out that quickly?”

“I can definitely find out whether or not there is something to know,” he assured her. “I’ll report back to you as soon as I figure it out, okay?”

She gave him a sharp nod, then released his hand. As he moved to get out of the car, though, she reached for him again.

“Wait,” she said, then pulled out her phone, tapped lightly on the screen and flashed a picture at him. “This is her. Just in case.”

Brooks stared down at the photo, memorizing the details of the little girl’s face. She was cherubic, just as Maryse described, with more than a hint of mischief present in her sparkling baby blues.

“She doesn’t speak,” Maryse added.

Brooks nodded. “She’s the reason you sign.”

“Yes. She’s deaf. But even if you sign with her...she might not trust you. So tell her that Bunny-Bun-Bun misses her as much as Mommy does.” Now her smile was heartbreaking.

Spontaneously, he lifted his hand to her cheek. He cupped it in his palm.

“You got it,” he said softly.

She leaned into his touch. “Brooks?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. And then he did something he never did. He made a promise he wanted to keep, but wasn’t sure he could.

“I’ll get her back for you,” he said, then pulled away and slipped from the car.

* * *

Maryse watched Brooks disappear into Maison Blanc, a strange mix of emotions tugging at her heart. She still felt the swirling fear, and she still had the hard pit of sickness in her stomach. But there was hope, too. And not the one she’d been forcing herself to have since the second she realized Cami was missing. This hope was concrete. Rooted in a six-foot-three-inch package of calm certainty. Who’d looked at Cami’s picture, then softened and touched her face as he assured her—with authority—that he’d retrieve her daughter. There was something to be said for all the pieces of that brief interaction.

Maryse lifted her phone to examine the photo she’d shown him. It was a typical Camille shot. Arms in the air, a wild grin on her face, seemingly oblivious to the snow falling all around her.

Maryse’s heart squeezed. And in spite of the way she urged herself not to do it, she couldn’t help but scroll through the next few frames. They were all taken the same day, out in the yard on the property where they lived. One on a sled. Another with a rudimentary snowman—Cami had insisted on doing it herself.

She flicked to the next, knowing it would be the one where her daughter had fallen facedown, then got back up, her hat askew and her expression unimpressed. Smiling already, Maryse lifted the phone. Then stopped. In the background, up behind the sled hill, almost blending in with a patch of trees, she could swear she spied a blurry figure.

Maryse squinted. What is that?

She dragged her fingers across the phone, enlarging the background. Sure enough, there it was. There he was, to be more accurate. A man in jeans and a duffle coat.

With her heart thumping, Maryse enlarged the picture even more, then used the auto-enhance feature to clear up the image as much as she could.

Oh, God.

Even with what remained of the blurriness, she could see the man’s face. It was tilted down. Fixed on the one thing at the bottom of the hill. Camille. And to make things even worse, she recognized him. The concierge from inside the hotel. The man who’d offered to take her to room eight.

It was a trick, she realized.

He’d been working with the gunman to get her to that hallway, and she’d played right into it.

Maryse lifted her gaze to the entryway.

Brooks.

She had to warn him.

With limbs like lead, she opened the door and climbed from the vehicle. She hurried over the concrete to the doors. This time when she made her way through them, the rush of warm air didn’t provide any relief. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. She paused to push her hand to her stomach in an attempt to stifle it, then looked toward the concierge desk. Brooks was there, his distinctly wide shoulders bent over the counter as he spoke with the person on the other side.

I need to get his attention.

Her eyes traveled around the wide lobby in search of some way to do it. She couldn’t find one. The area was quiet enough that any loud noise would draw attention. But it was also quiet enough that it would probably draw everyone’s notice. Including that of the concierge who’d been spying on her in her own backyard.

Maryse shivered. Don’t think about it.

She watched as Brooks’s head swung toward the hall that led to room eight, and she willed him not to go there. The gunman who’d grabbed her might be dead, but she doubted he was the only one involved. She took a small step closer to the desk. Then froze as Brooks moved aside even more, and the uniformed man behind the counter came into view. His gaze landed on Maryse, then slid straight over her and went back to the computer in front of him.

Maryse’s body sagged. It wasn’t him.

She watched for a moment as he tapped something on the keyboard, then nodded at Brooks, lifted a finger to indicate he’d be right back, then stepped into the office behind the desk.

Thinking quickly—and not wanting to take the chance that the other concierge was somewhere nearby, just waiting to show up again—Maryse strode toward Brooks. When she reached him, she pressed her hand to his back and held it there. She didn’t know if anyone was listening or watching, and she didn’t want to take a chance on that, either.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said breathlessly. “I’m having a problem with the car outside. Can you give me a hand?”

If the close contact or overly familiar greeting startled him, he didn’t show it. Just the opposite, in fact. In a smooth move, he dropped his head down and settled his mouth against her cheekbone, then slid it up to her ear. A caress that was close enough to a kiss that it made her shiver. She couldn’t help but inch a tiny bit closer.

“You all right?” Brooks said, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Nod if you are.”

Maryse nodded. Then shook her head. Then nodded again.

He draped an arm over her shoulders and nuzzled her neck. “Which is it?”

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “But this hotel isn’t.”

“You don’t want to stay here?”

“I don’t think it’s—” She cut herself off as the concierge returned to the desk.

She wished she could lean back and finish in sign language. Things were so much easier when she could speak without being heard.

The man smiled at her, then at Brooks. “Looks like your wife made it, after all! Sorry about the interruption.”

“No worries at all,” Brooks assured him.

“I’m used to a much slower gig,” the concierge added. “The day manager went home, and I have to admit...filling in is harder than I thought it would be.”

“The day manager?” Maryse repeated, relieved that she wouldn’t run into him.

But the concierge’s next words gave her pause. “Yep. She’s a force. Makes me glad I work the night shift.”

She?

Maryse lifted her gaze to Brooks’s face, wondering if he noticed the discrepancy between what she’d told him earlier about a man at the desk and the fact that it was supposed to be a woman.

“It’s funny, actually,” the guy behind the desk added almost absently. “She claimed to have to go home to be with her kid. But in the year she’s worked here, she’s never mentioned that she’s a mom before.”

“Funny,” Brooks echoed, and it was obvious—at least to Maryse—that he knew something was up.

“Guess there’s always something new to learn about people.” The concierge smiled again, then turned his attention to the computer screen. “All right. The ground-level suite you were asking about—eight—is actually undergoing an upgrade. Whole thing got wrecked in a flood and renovations are scheduled to go well into next month. We do have a room available on the second floor, though. Same layout, functional balcony... If you and your wife would like to book there instead, I can give you a last-minute deal.”

Maryse jumped in quickly. “Yes, please.”

Brooks’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and she nodded—more for his benefit than for that man booking the room.

“Even if it’s not the room we were hoping for, it’ll be nice to stay in the city for the evening.” She forced a light laugh. “Sometimes life in a small country town makes you feel like someone’s always watching.”

“True enough,” Brooks murmured, squeezing her shoulder again, then letting her go to pull out his wallet.

Maryse started to argue—to reach for the small handbag she had tucked into her jacket—then stopped as she realized it would look a little odd for a wife to argue with her husband about who would be paying for a room. It was safer, as well. If someone else at the hotel was looking for her, it would be better to be booked in under Brooks’s name. She vowed to herself that she would pay him back, but kept silent as he made an excuse for their lack of luggage, accepted the key cards—identical to the one she’d discovered in Cami’s room—then led her to the elevators. Brooks stayed quiet, too. Through the ride up, through the short walk to their room, and until the door was firmly locked behind them.

Then he faced her and—in a tone just shy of bossy—said, “Tell me.”

Chapter 5

Brooks waited as Maryse dragged out her phone, then clicked it on and held it up for him to see.

“That’s the man who helped me at the desk earlier today,” she said. “Not the one filling in right now.”

“And not a woman, if the beard is any indication,” Brooks replied.

She shook her head, then pulled the phone away, tapped on the screen, then showed him again. “It was taken at my house. Two days ago.”

Brooks took it from her hand, studying the shot. It gave him a chill to see just how close the man had come to Maryse and her daughter without being detected. How long had he watched them?

“And you’d never seen him before?” he asked.

“No. Never.” Her answer was firm.

“Okay. Give me a second to run through what we know.” He tapped his thigh thoughtfully. “The man in that picture... Was he definitely a hotel employee?”

“Yes. Well. He was wearing a uniform, and he was on the phone behind his desk.”

“Did anyone else see him?”

She closed her eyes as if trying to recall, then opened them and nodded at him. “There were a few other hotel employees around. A baggage guy and a woman talking to some guests.”

“And presumably, they would have noticed if some stranger dressed in a fake uniform was behind the front counter.”

“I think so.”

“So. He is an employee. Just not a concierge. And the woman who was supposed to be at the counter went home to a kid that the night guy didn’t know she had.”

He paused, and Maryse filled in the rest of his thoughts. “It could be her kid. But what if it’s not?”

“What are the chances that she’s been working with him for a whole year, but never mentioned that she had a child?” He shook his head. “No mom I’ve ever met could go that long without bringing up some funny story, or without bringing up some bit of trouble her kid is causing.”

He met her eyes, and he saw a glimmer of guarded hope there as she replied. “Sometimes, I’m sure I manage to work Cami into every conversation I have.”

He had an overwhelming need to make that glimmer expand. “We need to find out for sure.”

“How?”

He tapped his thigh again. “Her personnel file, maybe. Even if it doesn’t list her dependents, it will have her contact info. Easy enough to fabricate a reason to give her a call.”

“But we need the file first. I doubt they’re going to hand it over.”

Brooks frowned. She was right. He was too accustomed to simply flashing his badge to get his way. He paced the room for a moment.

“Need to think like a criminal,” he muttered.

“You mean steal it?” Maryse asked.

“Yes. Exactly. There has to be an employee contact list in that office behind the concierge desk.”

He stilled his movements, sure—even though he hardly knew her at all—that she wasn’t going to like what he was about to suggest. He met her worried gaze, then opened his mouth. And he was right. She shook her head before he even got the idea partway out.

“No,” she said quickly. “Trying to sneak into the office is too risky.”

“It’s riskier not to try,” Brooks replied. “If this woman has your daughter, we have to find out.”

“If the current concierge catches you, he might kick us out or call the police. If the guy who was pretending to be the concierge does, it’ll be even worse.” A frown creased her forehead, and her blue eyes clouded for a moment before she closed them and sank down onto the corner of the bed. “If that’s even possible.”

Brooks stepped to where she sat, then crouched down in front of her. One of his knees brushed her thigh, and a jolt of longing just about made him lose his balance. He gripped the edge of the bed to keep himself up, and fought another urge to pull her close and try to soothe away her aches. He knew what she needed most was to get her daughter back, safe and sound.

“Maryse.”

Her lids lifted, and that sad, blue gaze hit him as hard as her whispered reply. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured her.

She looked down at her hands. “I always plan things ahead.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“No. It’s how I cope with things. And I’m just...not used to not knowing what to do.”

He slid his fingers overtop of hers and clasped them tightly. “You don’t have to know what to do right this second, okay? I’ve got this part. I’ve been a cop for more than twelve years. Over a third of my life. I’m very good at assessing safety, and I promise you... I won’t do anything that will put Camille at risk.”

She swallowed, then raised her eyes up again. “I won’t ever be able to repay you for this. I mean, the cost of the hotel...yes. But even the way you’ve helped me in the last couple of hours... I don’t think there’s enough money in the world.”

“I told you I’m old-fashioned. That means getting the job done is reward enough.”

A responding smile lit up her face for a moment, and he couldn’t help but wish it was a more frequent expression. He wondered if it was more frequent in her day-to-day life. He hoped so.

“Thank you, Brooks. Again.”

Spontaneously, he pushed up to his knees and leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek. Nothing more than a quick, tender reassurance—that was his aim. At the same moment, though, Maryse tipped her face to the side, and instead of landing on her face, Brooks’s mouth brushed hers. For a startled second, he didn’t move. He just hung there, pressed against the soft skin of her lips.

Then her hand came up and found the back of his neck, clinging to it with a surprising amount of need. He couldn’t help but want to meet it. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to do something so badly—especially in regards to a woman. The lingering effects of his last relationship’s demise were still far too close to the surface.

Or at least they had been until now.

Brooks deepened the contact into a proper kiss, exploring the contours of her mouth with his own. She was sweet and yielding, warm and inviting. But as her fingers came up a little more to find the edge of his hairline, a brush of cool metal reminded him of the ring he’d spotted on her finger.

She hadn’t mentioned a man in her life, husband or otherwise. She hadn’t said a word about the missing child’s father, either. So chances were good that there wasn’t a significant other in the picture.

But what do you know about her, really? The answer was easy. Nothing.

There were a hundred things he should ask, both as a law-enforcement official, and as a man who wanted to take a gentle kiss and turn it into something else entirely. At that moment, though, there was only one question he needed to resolve.

Brooks pulled away. He slid his palm to her hand, then ran his thumb over the ring on her finger and met her eyes.

“Wearing one of these usually carries a specific meaning,” he said, working to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice.

Two spots of color formed in her porcelain cheeks. “You think I’m— No.”

“No?”

“I’m not married.”

He studied her face for less than a second before deciding she was telling the truth. “Good.”

He pushed up, then cupped her cheek and kissed her again. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just a hint—no, a promise—of something he wanted to explore in more detail when the time was right.

When her daughter is safe...

He gave her bottom lip a little tug, then dragged himself back to the pressing circumstances of the present.

He stood up. “When I’m done, I’ll come back and knock twice. Then I’ll pause and knock four more times before I come in, so you’ll know it’s me. While I’m gone, don’t answer the door for any reason. If I have to get ahold of you, I’ll find a way to call through to the room. I’ll let it ring twice, then hang up. I’ll call back, and you pick up. But not until the fourth ring. Got it?”

She nodded. “Two knocks or rings, then four more.”

“Perfect. I’ll be gone fifteen minutes,” he told her. “No more.”

“And if you’re gone longer?”

“I won’t be. If I think my plan isn’t going to work, I’ll come back right away. If I’m stuck, I’ll call.” He gave her hand a final squeeze, then slipped to the door, opened it and put the do-not-disturb sign onto the door handle. “Just in case.”

His reassurance didn’t stop her face from pinching with worry. “Be careful.”

She signed the plea as well as spoke it, and Brooks signed back what he hoped was the equivalent of “Always am.”

Then he closed the door quickly, and as he made his way up the hall, then toward the stairs, he had to work to keep his mind on the task at hand. It was unusual for him to cross the line between professional and personal.

No, he corrected mentally. Not just unusual. Unheard of.

Yet everything about the blue-eyed woman made him want to take the line between the two, toss it aside, then stomp on it.

Why?

Maybe because the job had been his life for the last five years. Maybe because this was the first time he’d stopped to breathe since things went south with his ex.

Brooks shook his head. He didn’t have time to question himself any more than he had time to question Maryse. The little girl was the most important thing.

He took a breath, put on a smile and pushed through the stairwell door and into the lobby. He strode confidently toward the front desk, calling out cheerfully before he even reached it.

“Hey! I’ve got a bit of a concern, and I’d like it if you could take care of it personally.”

In under a minute, he talked the concierge into running a phony errand. And the moment the other man disappeared up the hall, Brooks slipped in behind the counter. A quick scan of the office led him to a filing cabinet with the top drawer labeled with the word Personnel. Thankful for whoever favored the paper route over the digital, he reached for the handle. It didn’t move.

Locked.

Brooks turned his attention back to the room. He immediately spotted a container full of paper clips. Shoving aside a tickle of law-breaking guilt, he snapped up one of the clips. He forced the pliable metal open, then spun back to the filing cabinet and stuck it into the keyhole. It only took a few seconds to jiggle the lock free. Inside, Brooks found a set of tidily organized folders. He tossed a cautious glance out the door, assured himself he was good to go, then began to flip through. His search quickly yielded him the correct set of paperwork.

“White, Dee,” it read. “Daytime Concierge.”

He pulled it free and tucked it under his shirt, then exited the office, sliding to the customer side of the counter just as the substitute concierge rounded the corner with an armful of fresh blankets. Brooks smiled a genuinely pleased smile, offered the man a tip and his gratitude, then snagged the linen and started back toward the room, a whistle on his lips.

His self-satisfaction was short-lived. As he turned up the hall, a flash out the window end caught his eye. His cop instinct reared its head, and he slowed. A short, squat figure stood at the edge of the nearest ground-level balcony. Whoever it was had a hood pulled up and over their face, making it impossible to tell anything beyond the fact that it was a man.

As Brooks watched, the figure moved along the grass carefully, head down. After a few steps, the person stopped. He lifted his head and stared straight ahead for several long seconds. Brooks followed the stare with a pointed gaze of his own, and when he spied the goal at the end, his throat constricted with worry.

The fire escape.

Sure enough, the man swung his face back and forth, then reached up to release the metal ladder.

There was no doubt in Brooks’s mind that the man was headed for the balcony of his own room.

The room where Maryse sat waiting.

Unguarded.

Unarmed.

Unsuspecting.

Without another thought, Brooks dropped a curse under his breath, cast aside the folded blankets and ran toward the stairs at full speed.

* * *

Maryse sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tapping the plush bedspread. Her heart and her mind had knotted up equally, and she didn’t know where to focus her thoughts.

Cami.

Brooks.

The former dominated, as always. Right now, Maryse’s worry was a thick lump in her stomach and it wasn’t going away anytime soon. Not until she had her daughter back in her arms.

But the latter wasn’t going away, either. He and his kind hazel eyes definitely kept sneaking up on her. Just like his kiss had done.

She lifted her fingers to her lips, touching the spot where his mouth had landed. His kiss had been gentle. Unexpected. And admittedly wonderful.

Even though Maryse thought maybe it had started out as an accident, a few quick seconds in had changed that. And it had warmed her from the inside out. A slow, fiery burn.

Which is completely inappropriate, she told herself sternly.

But was there a set of rules that dictated against kissing while in a situation like this? She somehow doubted it. And even if there were...she still had an unreasonable urge to do it again.

She glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. Eight minutes had passed. It felt like forty.

She pushed up from the bed and paced the room, trying to settle down.

Maryse wasn’t good at holding still. And she wasn’t good at letting someone else do the work, either. A big part of her hands-on nature was brought on by her six years as a single mom. If she didn’t get something done...it didn’t get done. But she knew she’d been a little like that before Cami ever came into her life. It was probably why her brother relied so heavily on her, even when they became adults. And definitely the reason he’d entrusted his daughter to her.

Maryse’s heart squeezed. Oh, Jean-Paul. What did you do? What could possibly catch up with you this far down the road?

In the year leading up to his death, she’d been sure he was turning things around. He’d been more upbeat. He hadn’t asked for a cent. He’d even secured a job at some company called People With Paper, and he’d talked about finally moving on with his life.

Over the last half a decade, Maryse had wondered if the last bit had something to do with Cami. If he’d been excited about the prospect of a whole new world.

Maybe he just couldn’t escape the old one.

The thought—as always—broke her heart. At one time—before her daughter came into the picture—her brother had been the one who mattered most. It weighed on her.

“And there’s another reason not to hold still,” she said aloud to the empty room.

Too much stillness led to too much dwelling on the past. Even on the best of days, she had a hard time dealing with thoughts of her brother. And not only was today not the best of days, it was the worst day.

Except for Brooks and the kiss.

She had to admit that in spite of her fear, he was the tiniest silver lining—a bright speck in an otherwise dismal day. Inappropriate or not, she was grateful for his presence.

The sound of a key card sliding noisily into the door cut through her scattered thoughts then, and with a slight tingle in her limbs, she stopped her pacing and fixed her gaze on the door handle.

Then she remembered.

No preceding knocks.

It’s not him.

For the briefest moment, she considered that it might be a hotel employee or someone trying for the wrong room. Just as quickly, she dismissed the idea.

The do-not-disturb sign.

Whoever was on the other side of the door had to have seen it. And the fumbling of the lock had stopped, and the handle was already turning.

She scanned the room, her eyes searching for the nearest loose, heavyish object. She needed something fast. Something she could wield easily.

The phone.

It would be no match for a gun, but it would have to do. It might, at least, provide enough of a distraction that she’d have time to slip out and go in search of Brooks.

She snatched it up, tearing it from the wall, then positioned herself to the side of the door frame. And just in time, too. As she lifted the phone over her head, the door flew open and a bulky figure—definitely not dressed in a hotel uniform—darkened the space there. Maryse swung the makeshift weapon with as much force as she could muster.

But the man entering the room was quicker than she anticipated. His wide fingers closed on her wrist and squeezed.

Maryse’s hand released, and the phone fell from her grip. It clattered to the ground, useless any longer.

No.

She closed her eyes and dropped open her mouth, prepared to let out a scream. Her attacker was still quicker. A meaty palm landed on her mouth, muffling the sound. Then he was dragging her into the room, ignoring the way she gnashed her teeth against his skin, acting like he couldn’t feel the booted foot she slammed into his shin. And he was speaking to her, too. He was saying something in a low, insistent voice that was probably supposed to be soothing.

“Maryse.”

He knows my name.

“Maryse!”

She threw back an elbow.

“Dammit, ouch. Maryse, it’s me. It’s Brooks.”

And it finally registered. It was him.

Her body sagged so hard that she was sure he was now holding her up rather than holding her back. He released her mouth, but kept the arm around her waist in place for several more seconds.

“You didn’t do the knock,” Maryse said, her voice breathless.

“I’m sorry. It went out of my head. We have a bigger problem. And I think it’s about to—” A sharp crack sounded from the other side of the room and cut him off.

Maryse’s eyes flew toward the noise. A heavy curtain covered the source, but she knew on the other side was a set of sliding glass doors. Someone was breaking in.

“C’mon,” Brooks urged.

He slid his hand to hers, then turned toward the door. But before they could make it two steps, the click of a cocking gun sounded from behind them.

“Drop her hand,” ordered a gruff voice. “Or I’ll fire.”

Immediately, Brooks’s warm fingers left hers.

“Good,” added the voice. “Now move back and step apart. Slowly.”

And Maryse didn’t dare do anything but comply.

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