Melinda Di Lorenzo - Silent Rescue

“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.”