Melinda Di Lorenzo - Silent Rescue

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.