Her head spun even more.
If Cami died and it was because she made the wrong call...
If Cami died and it was because she didn’t make the call...
And besides all of that...would the cops even believe her story?
Probably not.
Not quick enough, anyway. It was too complicated. Too far-fetched. And the nearest police station was an hour away. In the amount of time it would take them to make their way to her, she could get halfway to Laval herself. If she hurried, she could even be there before breakfast.
Maryse exhaled, then squeezed the Maison Blanc card once more. A phone call to the hotel would be pointless. It had taken him—whoever he was—six years to find her and Cami. He wouldn’t have left a clue behind. Not on purpose. He was there. He had Cami.
And Maryse was going to take her back.
* * *
Brooks Small stretched out his long legs, leaned back and attempted to bask in the sun. For about three seconds, it worked. Then a blast of crisp air cut across his face, throwing the hood of his parka down from his head to his shoulders, reminding him a little too thoroughly that it was winter.
Except it’s not winter, growled his inner, surly self. It’s mid-April.
Stubbornly, he reached up to snap his hood back into place, and his elbow snagged on the edge of his wicker coffee-shop chair. He heard a loud tear.
Dammit.
Pulling on every ounce of patience he had, Brooks closed his eyes, counted to twelve—because ten sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it right that second—and eased the jacket away from the chair.
“You hated the coat anyway,” he muttered.
It was true. Mostly because he hated everything to do with being away from his home in the ironically named town of Rain Falls, Nevada. He preferred being minutes from the bright lights of Vegas and he enjoyed the often-scorching summer days.
If he was there, now, in the good old US of A, his neighbors would be opening their pools. Not scraping the snow off their backyard ponds so they could enjoy the supposedly unseasonably cold weather.
As if this frozen city has a season other than winter.
He exhaled noisily, his breath frosty and visible. Brooks had heard on the radio that it was minus eighteen degrees Celsius outside today. Which translated to roughly zero degrees Fahrenheit.
Two months Brooks had been in Laval, Quebec, and he had yet to see anything but snow.
Snowy streets.
Snowy parks.
Snowy everything.
Like nature had whitewashed the entire city.
Don’t forget the icicles, Brooks reminded himself. Actual damned icicles, hanging from actual damned eaves.
“Monsieur?”
Brooks’s head snapped up at the voice, and the teenage waitress attached to the soft-spoken question jumped back. He tried to smooth out his expression, at least into something passably pleasant. He failed. It was evident in the way that the waitress continued to stand a few feet away, cowering just a little. His espresso was still in her shaking hand, and it was cooling rapidly.
Brooks inclined his head toward the demitasse cup. “Mon café?”
“Oui.”
He stifled a sigh. Usually his complete bastardization of the language of love was enough to squeeze the English out of even the most French of the French-Canadian.
Not today, apparently.
“Mademoiselle?” he prodded.
When she continued to stand stock-still, Brooks decided she needed a bit of motivation in a more universal language. He dug into the zippered pocket of his parka and fished out three wide gold-and silver-colored coins. He eyed them skeptically. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the things, no matter how long his banishment to Canada lasted. The damned coins seemed like toy money to Brooks, and they sure as hell didn’t look like enough cash to pay for his coffee and leave a four-dollar tip on top of that.
When he set them down on the table, though, the waitress finally did snap out of her fear-daze. With something approximating a smile, she slipped the coins into her tiny apron and set Brooks’s coffee—without spilling a drop, he noticed—in its place.
“Merci,” she said, then scurried away quickly, back into the enveloping warmth of the café.
Brooks waited until she’d disappeared before he took a sip of coffee. He knew it didn’t make a ton of sense to sit outside in the freezing cold, but the ritual wasn’t about reason. It was about principle. Like many cops, Brooks got into a groove and stuck to it. He didn’t know if it could be classified as superstitious behavior or if it bordered on compulsive, but he did know it worked for him. He’d even argue that it made him better at his job, because sticking to a routine made it easier to spot the out-of-the-ordinary.
Every morning at home, he sat on the patio, took stock of the day, did the crossword and enjoyed an espresso. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little thing like the temperature change that.
Yep. Principles.
Brooks had them.
He suppressed a sigh and glanced down at his watch.
It was 9:33 a.m. on a Tuesday.
In a few minutes, a gray-haired man would come by, light a cigarette, smoke it quickly, then go inside to order something in the largest cup the café offered. Shortly after that, a frazzled mother with her toddler in tow would park illegally, dash inside and come out with her personalized cup steaming. The kid would have a cookie.
Most days were like that. The same people at the same time, fully predictable. Nicely so.
Brooks noted them all, and noted the discrepancies even more.
Like right that second.
A tall, slim brunette was coming up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She had her chin tucked into the collar of her tan duffle coat, hurrying, but trying to look like she wasn’t. She kept her head still and her gaze forward, but every two or three steps, her eyes would dart first one way, then the other. Maybe the average observer wouldn’t have noticed. Or maybe just assumed she was looking for a certain address. To Brooks, she looked like trouble.
Automatically, he sat up a little straighter, making more detailed mental notes.
Five foot eight, easily. Maybe five-nine.
A hundred and twenty pounds? Bulky jacket, though. Could add a few pounds to her frame.
Too thin, Brooks thought absently. Not eating? Ill, maybe?
Except her face had nothing sallow about it. Her skin was pale, but in a porcelain way rather than a sickly one. Altogether pretty, actually.
She got closer still, and Brooks fleshed out his description even more. Tight bun at the nape of her neck. Thick enough to let him know her hair would be long. A stray curl hung down over one cheek—which he could see now wasn’t quite so pale, but instead, marked with a rosy glow. Likely brought on by the cold, he thought. Her lips were full and nearly crimson, and she was makeup-free.
And not just pretty, he realized. Stand-out-in-a-crowd stunning.
Was that why she wore her hair in that severe style? Did it have something to do with her plain skin? A mask?
She’d reached the corner across from him now, and, for a second, she just stood there, her stare seemingly fixed on the café. Then she lifted a pair of sunglasses from her pocket, placed them on her face and leaped from the sidewalk to the street. Straight into the path of a brave winter cyclist.
Brooks’s heart jumped to his throat, but before he could react—and rush in like some deranged, parka-clad hero—the woman sidestepped lightly, lifted her hand in an apology and moved toward the café. Straight toward Brooks.
* * *
Maryse’s eyes rested on the man sitting in front of the café that neighbored the Maison Blanc.
He was dressed for the weather. But something about him made h
er think he didn’t belong. And even though he looked away quickly, his gaze had been too sharp, his interest in her too pointed. Did he know something? Or was she being paranoid?
An hour and a half in the car hadn’t done her mind any good. Try as she might to stay focused on making a plan, her brain had insisted on swirling with dark worry, playing out every one of her worst fears.
Cami is alive, she told herself firmly.
She had to be. But the breathless, sick feeling churning through her wouldn’t rest.
From behind her deliberately dark sunglasses, Maryse let herself study the man for another few seconds, while pretending to look at the hotel.
Under his hood, she could just see that his hair was buzz-cut, his face clean shaven. He had a thick build, made even more so by the big, black coat. His face had a certain roughness, too. A fierce mouth and the strongest jaw she’d ever seen. Powerfully handsome. That was how she would describe him. But when he lifted his eyes to her once more, his expression softened him somehow. There was a measure of concern there. Kindness.
So, no. It’s not him, she decided. There won’t be anything kind about whoever took her.
Her gaze stayed on him for one more moment before she moved past him—and his undeniable undercurrent of attractiveness—and past the café toward the brass-framed doors of the Maison Blanc. She pushed her way through, appreciating the blast of warm air that hit her as she did. It took the edge off her hours-long chill. But she didn’t pull off her gloves as she strode toward the counter—she needed them to curb the urge to sign as she spoke.
Hoping she looked more confident than she felt, she approached the concierge desk. But the uniformed man behind the counter was on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone, his brows knit together with irritation. He didn’t turn her way, and Maryse let out a little cough. She didn’t have time to waste. So when he still didn’t look up, she cleared her throat a second time.
He spun, seeming startled by her presence.
For a second, that paranoia reared its head again. She forced it back and dragged her sunglasses from her face to her head.
He set the phone down on the counter, then smiled at her. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Maryse replied, glad that her voice didn’t shake. “I’m meeting some people—a couple of business contacts—and I think they gave me the wrong room number. The key I have won’t open the door, and no one answered when I knocked.”
“Which room is it supposed to be?”
“Two-twenty-eight?” She lied quickly, hoping there was a room 228.
She tugged the key from her coat pocket and handed it over. He took it and swiped it across the keyboard in front of him, then frowned at the screen.
“Well,” he said. “That explains it. This key is for room eight—no two-twenty in front of it—right here on the first floor. But I’m afraid they’ve asked for calls to be held, and I can’t issue you a new key unless the room is in your name.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.
The concierge tapped the key card on the counter for a second, then smiled again. “You know what I can do for you, though? I can take you down to room eight myself and we can check if your contact is there. We’ll call it a housekeeping emergency.”
Maryse considered the offer. Then rejected it. She was tempted. She wanted to get to Cami. Badly. But she didn’t want to endanger anyone else.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just give them a call on my cell and leave a message.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She slipped away from the counter and moved to the chairs in the lobby area. She perched on the edge of one of them, then pulled out her phone and pretended to dial. But she was really watching the concierge. Waiting for a distraction. And it only took a few moments. He lifted the desk phone again and started up with his hushed conversation, turning away from the lobby in the process.
Thank God.
Moving as swiftly as she dared, she eased herself up. She took another glance at the concierge, then scurried across the tiled floor to the hallway, pausing just long enough to read which direction would lead her to room eight, then hurried to the left. She stripped off her gloves now—she’d need her hands to talk to Cami—and counted off the doors in her head.
One.
Two.
Three.
And that was as far as she got. Something jabbed her in the back, and then a click sounded from behind her, and a man’s gravelly voice spoke right into her ear.
“Move,” it said. “Slowly. Walk with me and act like you’re having a good time. If you scream, run or try anything I think is funny, I’ll make sure your daughter is the one who pays the price. Even think about getting the authorities involved and I’ll make sure the price is extracted slowly. And not from you.”
The threat was more than enough to make her obey.
Chapter 2
Brooks took a sip of his espresso—now cold—and told himself he was being ridiculous. That he had an overactive cop imagination waving flags when none were necessary.
For a second, though, he could’ve sworn the dark-haired woman was staring right at him. Scrutinizing him. Looking for something. Which she definitely didn’t find, judging by how quickly she bolted into the hotel.
It bothered him, and he had no idea why. What was her deal? Was she actually in trouble? He wished he’d asked her.
And say what? he wondered. Pardon me, ma’am, but are you looking for someone? Or no? Maybe hiding from someone? Yes, here in the middle of this street. No, no. Don’t call the cops.
Brooks shook his head and took another icy gulp of coffee. Canadians were friendly—that characterization had turned out to be true—but he somehow doubted that gregariousness extended to a tolerance for on-leave cops from south of the border asking nosy questions.
Still...
The sudden buzz of Brooks’s cell phone jarred his attention back to the moment.
“Small,” he said into the phone, his voice clipped.
There was a familiar chortle on the other end. “Now, now. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Does that never get old for you, Masters?” he asked his longtime partner.
“Never.”
“At least one of us is getting a laugh.”
There was a pause. “Not enjoying your vacation?”
“It’s hardly a vacation.”
“Civilian life.”
“Barely that, either. Isn’t it, like, four in the morning there?”
Sergeant Masters let out another chuckle. “Almost seven, actually. Finishing up the night shift.”
“So you thought you’d call me?”
“Oh, c’mon, Small. I hear the Great White North has plenty to offer.”
“Like?”
“Hockey? Canadian bacon? Girls looking for a warm-blooded American to melt their igloos?”
Brooks rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many movies, my friend.”
“You’re telling me there isn’t one pretty girl in that entire country?”
Brooks opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again as he lifted his eyes just in time to see the brunette step out of the hotel doors. The top button of her coat had come undone, exposing her creamy throat, and she appeared oblivious to the cold air.
Yeah, he conceded silently. At least one pretty girl.
“You there, man?”
Brooks forced his attention back to the phone conversation. “What I’m telling you, Masters, is that there isn’t one single igloo here—meltable or otherwise—and quite frankly, I’m a little let down.”
On the other end, his partner laughed so hard he sounded like he was choking. When his amusement finally subsided, he launche
d into some story about their captain. But Brooks was already distracted again, the long tale fading into the background.
A man in a dark trench coat worn over a well-tailored suit was standing behind the woman. A poor-boy cap covered his head, a scarf obscured the bottom half of his face, and a pair of dark sunglasses blocked his eyes.
A tingle crept up along Brooks’s spine, then settled between his shoulder blades.
He’d tuned out Masters’s voice completely now, his attention focused entirely on the scene unfolding in front of him. He’d already set down his empty coffee cup. He kept his hands open and relaxed. He didn’t have to work on the pose at all. Years on the job—years of waiting patiently for the right moment while looking like he wasn’t waiting at all—bred a certain kind of readiness into a man. A second nature.
Brooks’s eyes flicked to the man in the cap. Then to the brunette. Then back.
The man leaned down and put his face at an even level with her ear. Brooks watched his mouth work silently above the scarf. Though he couldn’t hear a word, the intimacy of the conversation was obvious. Seconds later, the man put out his hand, palm up, and the woman reciprocated by placing her fingers in his.
A gold wedding band—on the woman’s left hand, but not on the man’s—caught the cold sun and glittered.
A total misread, Brooks realized.
It wasn’t a criminal activity. It was an affair.
He averted his eyes, embarrassed that he’d been so caught up in the brunette’s action that he’d attributed her nervousness to something dangerous, when in fact it was actually caused by something far more cliché.
You need to get back to work. For real.
“Masters,” he said loudly, interrupting the unending flow of the other man’s story and not caring in the least. “Did the captain say anything about when I can come home?”
The silence on the other end was a bad sign. Clearly, something had been said, and whatever it was...the news wasn’t good.
“C’mon,” his partner replied after a few weighted seconds. “Any of the guys would kill to be in your position. Paid leave in a foreign country? No collars to run down, no worrying about having some two-bit drug dealer shooting you in the—”
Silent Rescue Page 2