Читать книгу Silent Rescue - Melinda Di Lorenzo - Страница 14

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.”