Brooks pulled away. He slid his palm to her hand, then ran his thumb over the ring on her finger and met her eyes.
“Wearing one of these usually carries a specific meaning,” he said, working to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice.
Two spots of color formed in her porcelain cheeks. “You think I’m— No.”
“No?”
“I’m not married.”
He studied her face for less than a second before deciding she was telling the truth. “Good.”
He pushed up, then cupped her cheek and kissed her again. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just a hint—no, a promise—of something he wanted to explore in more detail when the time was right.
When her daughter is safe...
He gave her bottom lip a little tug, then dragged himself back to the pressing circumstances of the present.
He stood up. “When I’m done, I’ll come back and knock twice. Then I’ll pause and knock four more times before I come in, so you’ll know it’s me. While I’m gone, don’t answer the door for any reason. If I have to get ahold of you, I’ll find a way to call through to the room. I’ll let it ring twice, then hang up. I’ll call back, and you pick up. But not until the fourth ring. Got it?”
She nodded. “Two knocks or rings, then four more.”
“Perfect. I’ll be gone fifteen minutes,” he told her. “No more.”
“And if you’re gone longer?”
“I won’t be. If I think my plan isn’t going to work, I’ll come back right away. If I’m stuck, I’ll call.” He gave her hand a final squeeze, then slipped to the door, opened it and put the do-not-disturb sign onto the door handle. “Just in case.”
His reassurance didn’t stop her face from pinching with worry. “Be careful.”
She signed the plea as well as spoke it, and Brooks signed back what he hoped was the equivalent of “Always am.”
Then he closed the door quickly, and as he made his way up the hall, then toward the stairs, he had to work to keep his mind on the task at hand. It was unusual for him to cross the line between professional and personal.
No, he corrected mentally. Not just unusual. Unheard of.
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.
She closed her eyes and dropped open her mouth, prepared to let out a scream. Her attacker was still quicker. A meaty palm landed on her mouth, muffling the sound. Then he was dragging her into the room, ignoring the way she gnashed her teeth against his skin, acting like he couldn’t feel the booted foot she slammed into his shin. And he was speaking to her, too. He was saying something in a low, insistent voice that was probably supposed to be soothing.
“Maryse.”
He knows my name.
“Maryse!”
She threw back an elbow.
“Dammit, ouch. Maryse, it’s me. It’s Brooks.”
And it finally registered. It was him.
Her body sagged so hard that she was sure he was now holding her up rather than holding her back. He released her mouth, but kept the arm around her waist in place for several more seconds.
“You didn’t do the knock,” Maryse said, her voice breathless.
“I’m sorry. It went out of my head. We have a bigger problem. And I think it’s about to—” A sharp crack sounded from the other side of the room and cut him off.
Maryse’s eyes flew toward the noise. A heavy curtain covered the source, but she knew on the other side was a set of sliding glass doors. Someone was breaking in.
“C’mon,” Brooks urged.
He slid his hand to hers, then turned toward the door. But before they could make it two steps, the click of a cocking gun sounded from behind them.
“Drop her hand,” ordered a gruff voice. “Or I’ll fire.”
Immediately, Brooks’s warm fingers left hers.
“Good,” added the voice. “Now move back and step apart. Slowly.”
And Maryse didn’t dare do anything but comply.
Chapter 6
Brooks took a breath and weighed his options, lightning fast. He knew without asking that something about the gunman was off. Over the course of his career, he’d come across his fair share of desperate people, and the man’s voice gave away that he was riding that particular line.
Not worth the risk to try and jump him, Brooks decided. Not yet, anyway.
He gave Maryse a quick touch in the small of her back, hoping it was enough to reassure her that he would come up with a plan, even if he didn’t have one right that second. Then he stepped aside, putting the requested space between them.
“Also good,” said the gunman. “Now I need both of you to follow my instructions carefully. Understand?”
Brooks glanced toward Maryse to make sure she was acknowledging the gruff speaker’s request. She was nodding shakily, but as she lifted her gaze to the man, she let out a strangled gasp.
Brooks followed her stare, and it only took him a moment to figure out why she’d made the noise.
The fake concierge.
Even though Brooks had only seen the cell phone photo, he recognized him, too. He’d cataloged the man’s features as a course of habit.
Thick brow.
Weak jaw, covered with a goatee.
Wide nose and a thin slash of a mouth.
Definitely the same man.
Now, though, he looked far worse off than he had in the picture. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow. Under his sweatshirt, his hotel uniform was rumpled, and there was even a small tear visible in its collar. The hand that held the gun shook as he spoke.
“I want you to move over there, beside the closet,” he commanded, giving his upper lip a nervous lick. “Put your palms above your head and press them flat against the wall. Legs apart, eyes forward.”
Brooks curbed his natural instinct, which was to balk, and pushed himself to obey instead. He did keep his gaze on Maryse and the gunman, though, leery of breaking complete contact.
The phony concierge waited until Brooks was in position, then nodded at the pretty brunette. “You can sit down.”
Brooks willed her to be strong, and he was glad that she seemed to be holding it together. She took a breath and stepped to the high-backed chair, then perched on the edge, her eyes fixed nervously on the weapon. Its muzzle was pointed firmly at her chest, even though the man wielding it kept flipping his attention back and forth between her and Brooks.
Need to get him to point that over here, he decided.
Keeping his voice level—and conciliatory—he directed a question to the gunman. “Is there a problem we can help you work through?”
The man immediately swung the gun toward Brooks. “What?”
“It seems like you might need some help.”
“Help?”
“That’s not what you’re here for?”
The man licked his lips again, then lifted his free hand to scratch at his chin. “No?”
Distracted. Good.
Brooks offered a small smile. “You sound a little unsure.”
The gun wavered, then steadied. “No. I don’t need help. I need my brother.”
“Okay. Is he somewhere here in the hotel? Or in the city?”
“He’s dead.”
Damn, Brooks thought, while out loud he said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr....”
The man paused, opened his mouth, then shook his head. “No names.”
Damn again.
Brooks still kept his tone agreeable. “Okay. How about if you tell me how your brother died instead.”
The phony concierge jabbed the gun back toward Maryse. “She showed up, and they killed him.”
“Ah. Was he the man in the street? The one who got shot?”
“Yes.” The man nodded, then shifted from foot to foot. “This was
his idea. For the money.”
“Well. I truly am very sorry for your loss. But I’m not quite following.” Brooks dropped one arm to his side, careful to keep the change in stance casual. “For the money? What money?”
This time when the other man scratched at his chin, he used the gun. “We just wanted to make an exchange.”
Maryse burst in then, like she couldn’t help it. “An exchange? For Camille?”
“We had her,” the man confirmed.
“Had?” Maryse repeated.
“We have her,” the man amended quickly, his eyes darting from Brooks to Maryse, then back again.
“Who’s ‘we’?” Brooks brought his other arm down, too, then angled himself into the room; he sensed that things were about to take a bad turn and he wanted to be between Maryse and whatever was about to happen.
The gunman shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”
Then his face screwed up, his features crunching together. He drew in a choked breath, and for a strange second, Brooks thought he might cry. Instead, he lifted the gun again and took aim. Straight at Maryse.
Brooks didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He just dived hard across the room, his arms closing on the other man’s waist. Together, they flew backward and landed on the bed. The folder he’d hidden under his shirt came free in the tussle, and the papers inside scattered across the room.
Brooks ignored them. He needed to concentrate on the threat—the gun. He threw one elbow into the other man’s chest, while at the same time reaching for the other man’s wrist. A few seconds of flailing and he had it. He squeezed. When that didn’t work, he dragged the man’s wrist over the bed and slammed it into the nightstand. Once. Twice. On the third time, the gun finally clattered to the ground.
“Grab the weapon!” Brooks shouted.
Maryse blurred past him. Vaguely, he saw her reach for the gun.
Then the man beneath him bucked and kicked, commanding his attention again. For a moment, he retained the upper hand. He used his forearm and his lower body strength to press the man to the bed. But Brooks’s strength and skill were overtaken by brute determination and surprise. The phony concierge lifted his head, slammed it into Brooks’s own, and the world clouded over in a haze.
Silent Rescue Page 6
