Melinda Di Lorenzo - Silent Rescue

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.