Melinda Di Lorenzo - Silent Rescue

“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.”