“Is she?”
“Tough? Yes.” The smile got a bit bigger. “Very. And tries to be even tougher than she is.”
“Good.”
Over the next few minutes—both on the walk to the underground parking garage and on the short drive over to the Maison Blanc—Maryse painted a thorough picture of her daughter. Brooks had no problems envisioning her—smart and intuitive, with a solid helping of sass. Unlike her mother, she was a blonde cherub. They shared the same blue eyes, though, and also a love of junk food and painting. She didn’t mention the little girl’s father, and Brooks found himself wondering if the man had something to do with her kidnapping. Sure, Maryse claimed not to know who had Camille, but did that mean she didn’t know anything about what prompted the abduction in the first place? Brooks resisted an urge to ask. He suspected she wouldn’t tell him anyway. Clearly, she felt that not sharing what she knew posed less of a risk to her daughter than actually disclosing it. Because throughout their whole conversation, one thing was abundantly clear—Maryse loved her daughter more than anything.
The obvious caring and commitment was something Brooks found admirable. More than admirable, if he was being honest. It was attractive as all hell. And it affirmed his decision to offer his help.
As he pulled his car into the side lot at the hotel, Brooks reached over to give Maryse’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “My goal is to be in and out of there in ten minutes.”
Her eyes met his, and she held tightly to his hand. “You think you can find something out that quickly?”
“I can definitely find out whether or not there is something to know,” he assured her. “I’ll report back to you as soon as I figure it out, okay?”
She gave him a sharp nod, then released his hand. As he moved to get out of the car, though, she reached for him again.
“Wait,” she said, then pulled out her phone, tapped lightly on the screen and flashed a picture at him. “This is her. Just in case.”
Brooks stared down at the photo, memorizing the details of the little girl’s face. She was cherubic, just as Maryse described, with more than a hint of mischief present in her sparkling baby blues.
“She doesn’t speak,” Maryse added.
Brooks nodded. “She’s the reason you sign.”
“Yes. She’s deaf. But even if you sign with her...she might not trust you. So tell her that Bunny-Bun-Bun misses her as much as Mommy does.” Now her smile was heartbreaking.
Spontaneously, he lifted his hand to her cheek. He cupped it in his palm.
“You got it,” he said softly.
She leaned into his touch. “Brooks?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He nodded. And then he did something he never did. He made a promise he wanted to keep, but wasn’t sure he could.
“I’ll get her back for you,” he said, then pulled away and slipped from the car.
* * *
Maryse watched Brooks disappear into Maison Blanc, a strange mix of emotions tugging at her heart. She still felt the swirling fear, and she still had the hard pit of sickness in her stomach. But there was hope, too. And not the one she’d been forcing herself to have since the second she realized Cami was missing. This hope was concrete. Rooted in a six-foot-three-inch package of calm certainty. Who’d looked at Cami’s picture, then softened and touched her face as he assured her—with authority—that he’d retrieve her daughter. There was something to be said for all the pieces of that brief interaction.
Maryse lifted her phone to examine the photo she’d shown him. It was a typical Camille shot. Arms in the air, a wild grin on her face, seemingly oblivious to the snow falling all around her.
Maryse’s heart squeezed. And in spite of the way she urged herself not to do it, she couldn’t help but scroll through the next few frames. They were all taken the same day, out in the yard on the property where they lived. One on a sled. Another with a rudimentary snowman—Cami had insisted on doing it herself.
She flicked to the next, knowing it would be the one where her daughter had fallen facedown, then got back up, her hat askew and her expression unimpressed. Smiling already, Maryse lifted the phone. Then stopped. In the background, up behind the sled hill, almost blending in with a patch of trees, she could swear she spied a blurry figure.
Maryse squinted. What is that?
She dragged her fingers across the phone, enlarging the background. Sure enough, there it was. There he was, to be more accurate. A man in jeans and a duffle coat.
With her heart thumping, Maryse enlarged the picture even more, then used the auto-enhance feature to clear up the image as much as she could.
Oh, God.
Even with what remained of the blurriness, she could see the man’s face. It was tilted down. Fixed on the one thing at the bottom of the hill. Camille. And to make things even worse, she recognized him. The concierge from inside the hotel. The man who’d offered to take her to room eight.
It was a trick, she realized.
He’d been working with the gunman to get her to that hallway, and she’d played right into it.
Maryse lifted her gaze to the entryway.
Brooks.
She had to warn him.
With limbs like lead, she opened the door and climbed from the vehicle. She hurried over the concrete to the doors. This time when she made her way through them, the rush of warm air didn’t provide any relief. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. She paused to push her hand to her stomach in an attempt to stifle it, then looked toward the concierge desk. Brooks was there, his distinctly wide shoulders bent over the counter as he spoke with the person on the other side.
I need to get his attention.
Her eyes traveled around the wide lobby in search of some way to do it. She couldn’t find one. The area was quiet enough that any loud noise would draw attention. But it was also quiet enough that it would probably draw everyone’s notice. Including that of the concierge who’d been spying on her in her own backyard.
Maryse shivered. Don’t think about it.
She watched as Brooks’s head swung toward the hall that led to room eight, and she willed him not to go there. The gunman who’d grabbed her might be dead, but she doubted he was the only one involved. She took a small step closer to the desk. Then froze as Brooks moved aside even more, and the uniformed man behind the counter came into view. His gaze landed on Maryse, then slid straight over her and went back to the computer in front of him.
Maryse’s body sagged. It wasn’t him.
She watched for a moment as he tapped something on the keyboard, then nodded at Brooks, lifted a finger to indicate he’d be right back, then stepped into the office behind the desk.
Thinking quickly—and not wanting to take the chance that the other concierge was somewhere nearby, just waiting to show up again—Maryse strode toward Brooks. When she reached him, she pressed her hand to his back and held it there. She didn’t know if anyone was listening or watching, and she didn’t want to take a chance on that, either.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said breathlessly. “I’m having a problem with the car outside. Can you give me a hand?”
If the close contact or overly familiar greeting startled him, he didn’t show it. Just the opposite, in fact. In a smooth move, he dropped his head down and settled his mouth against her cheekbone, then slid it up to her ear. A caress that was close enough to a kiss that it made her shiver. She couldn’t help but inch a tiny bit closer.
“You all right?” Brooks said, barely loud enough for her to hear. “Nod if you are.”
Maryse nodded. Then shook her head. Then nodded again.
He draped an arm over her shoulders and nuzzled her neck. “Which is it?”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “But this hotel isn’t.”<
br />
“You don’t want to stay here?”
“I don’t think it’s—” She cut herself off as the concierge returned to the desk.
She wished she could lean back and finish in sign language. Things were so much easier when she could speak without being heard.
The man smiled at her, then at Brooks. “Looks like your wife made it, after all! Sorry about the interruption.”
“No worries at all,” Brooks assured him.
“I’m used to a much slower gig,” the concierge added. “The day manager went home, and I have to admit...filling in is harder than I thought it would be.”
“The day manager?” Maryse repeated, relieved that she wouldn’t run into him.
But the concierge’s next words gave her pause. “Yep. She’s a force. Makes me glad I work the night shift.”
She?
Maryse lifted her gaze to Brooks’s face, wondering if he noticed the discrepancy between what she’d told him earlier about a man at the desk and the fact that it was supposed to be a woman.
“It’s funny, actually,” the guy behind the desk added almost absently. “She claimed to have to go home to be with her kid. But in the year she’s worked here, she’s never mentioned that she’s a mom before.”
“Funny,” Brooks echoed, and it was obvious—at least to Maryse—that he knew something was up.
“Guess there’s always something new to learn about people.” The concierge smiled again, then turned his attention to the computer screen. “All right. The ground-level suite you were asking about—eight—is actually undergoing an upgrade. Whole thing got wrecked in a flood and renovations are scheduled to go well into next month. We do have a room available on the second floor, though. Same layout, functional balcony... If you and your wife would like to book there instead, I can give you a last-minute deal.”
Maryse jumped in quickly. “Yes, please.”
Brooks’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and she nodded—more for his benefit than for that man booking the room.
“Even if it’s not the room we were hoping for, it’ll be nice to stay in the city for the evening.” She forced a light laugh. “Sometimes life in a small country town makes you feel like someone’s always watching.”
“True enough,” Brooks murmured, squeezing her shoulder again, then letting her go to pull out his wallet.
Maryse started to argue—to reach for the small handbag she had tucked into her jacket—then stopped as she realized it would look a little odd for a wife to argue with her husband about who would be paying for a room. It was safer, as well. If someone else at the hotel was looking for her, it would be better to be booked in under Brooks’s name. She vowed to herself that she would pay him back, but kept silent as he made an excuse for their lack of luggage, accepted the key cards—identical to the one she’d discovered in Cami’s room—then led her to the elevators. Brooks stayed quiet, too. Through the ride up, through the short walk to their room, and until the door was firmly locked behind them.
Then he faced her and—in a tone just shy of bossy—said, “Tell me.”
Chapter 5
Brooks waited as Maryse dragged out her phone, then clicked it on and held it up for him to see.
“That’s the man who helped me at the desk earlier today,” she said. “Not the one filling in right now.”
“And not a woman, if the beard is any indication,” Brooks replied.
She shook her head, then pulled the phone away, tapped on the screen, then showed him again. “It was taken at my house. Two days ago.”
Brooks took it from her hand, studying the shot. It gave him a chill to see just how close the man had come to Maryse and her daughter without being detected. How long had he watched them?
“And you’d never seen him before?” he asked.
“No. Never.” Her answer was firm.
“Okay. Give me a second to run through what we know.” He tapped his thigh thoughtfully. “The man in that picture... Was he definitely a hotel employee?”
“Yes. Well. He was wearing a uniform, and he was on the phone behind his desk.”
“Did anyone else see him?”
She closed her eyes as if trying to recall, then opened them and nodded at him. “There were a few other hotel employees around. A baggage guy and a woman talking to some guests.”
“And presumably, they would have noticed if some stranger dressed in a fake uniform was behind the front counter.”
“I think so.”
“So. He is an employee. Just not a concierge. And the woman who was supposed to be at the counter went home to a kid that the night guy didn’t know she had.”
He paused, and Maryse filled in the rest of his thoughts. “It could be her kid. But what if it’s not?”
“What are the chances that she’s been working with him for a whole year, but never mentioned that she had a child?” He shook his head. “No mom I’ve ever met could go that long without bringing up some funny story, or without bringing up some bit of trouble her kid is causing.”
He met her eyes, and he saw a glimmer of guarded hope there as she replied. “Sometimes, I’m sure I manage to work Cami into every conversation I have.”
He had an overwhelming need to make that glimmer expand. “We need to find out for sure.”
“How?”
He tapped his thigh again. “Her personnel file, maybe. Even if it doesn’t list her dependents, it will have her contact info. Easy enough to fabricate a reason to give her a call.”
“But we need the file first. I doubt they’re going to hand it over.”
Brooks frowned. She was right. He was too accustomed to simply flashing his badge to get his way. He paced the room for a moment.
“Need to think like a criminal,” he muttered.
“You mean steal it?” Maryse asked.
“Yes. Exactly. There has to be an employee contact list in that office behind the concierge desk.”
He stilled his movements, sure—even though he hardly knew her at all—that she wasn’t going to like what he was about to suggest. He met her worried gaze, then opened his mouth. And he was right. She shook her head before he even got the idea partway out.
“No,” she said quickly. “Trying to sneak into the office is too risky.”
“It’s riskier not to try,” Brooks replied. “If this woman has your daughter, we have to find out.”
“If the current concierge catches you, he might kick us out or call the police. If the guy who was pretending to be the concierge does, it’ll be even worse.” A frown creased her forehead, and her blue eyes clouded for a moment before she closed them and sank down onto the corner of the bed. “If that’s even possible.”
Brooks stepped to where she sat, then crouched down in front of her. One of his knees brushed her thigh, and a jolt of longing just about made him lose his balance. He gripped the edge of the bed to keep himself up, and fought another urge to pull her close and try to soothe away her aches. He knew what she needed most was to get her daughter back, safe and sound.
“Maryse.”
Her lids lifted, and that sad, blue gaze hit him as hard as her whispered reply. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured her.
She looked down at her hands. “I always plan things ahead.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”
“No. It’s how I cope with things. And I’m just...not used to not knowing what to do.”
He slid his fingers overtop of hers and clasped them tightly. “You don’t have to know what to do right this second, okay? I’ve got this part. I’ve been a cop for more than twelve years. Over a third of my life. I’m very good at assessing safety, and I promise you... I won’t do anything that will put Camille at risk.”<
br />
She swallowed, then raised her eyes up again. “I won’t ever be able to repay you for this. I mean, the cost of the hotel...yes. But even the way you’ve helped me in the last couple of hours... I don’t think there’s enough money in the world.”
“I told you I’m old-fashioned. That means getting the job done is reward enough.”
A responding smile lit up her face for a moment, and he couldn’t help but wish it was a more frequent expression. He wondered if it was more frequent in her day-to-day life. He hoped so.
“Thank you, Brooks. Again.”
Spontaneously, he pushed up to his knees and leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek. Nothing more than a quick, tender reassurance—that was his aim. At the same moment, though, Maryse tipped her face to the side, and instead of landing on her face, Brooks’s mouth brushed hers. For a startled second, he didn’t move. He just hung there, pressed against the soft skin of her lips.
Then her hand came up and found the back of his neck, clinging to it with a surprising amount of need. He couldn’t help but want to meet it. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to do something so badly—especially in regards to a woman. The lingering effects of his last relationship’s demise were still far too close to the surface.
Or at least they had been until now.
Brooks deepened the contact into a proper kiss, exploring the contours of her mouth with his own. She was sweet and yielding, warm and inviting. But as her fingers came up a little more to find the edge of his hairline, a brush of cool metal reminded him of the ring he’d spotted on her finger.
She hadn’t mentioned a man in her life, husband or otherwise. She hadn’t said a word about the missing child’s father, either. So chances were good that there wasn’t a significant other in the picture.
But what do you know about her, really? The answer was easy. Nothing.
There were a hundred things he should ask, both as a law-enforcement official, and as a man who wanted to take a gentle kiss and turn it into something else entirely. At that moment, though, there was only one question he needed to resolve.
Silent Rescue Page 5