Silent Rescue

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Yeah, sweetheart?”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  She waved a hand around in the air. “Say a bunch of things that immediately make me feel better. And stay so calm and reasonable while you’re doing it.”

  His mouth tipped up into a grin—partly because he was glad to make her feel better and partly because the last part was a first. “I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being calm before.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Part of the reason my boss sent me up here was my short temper.”

  “He sent you up here?”

  “Forced vacation.”

  “So...vacation-ish?” Maryse asked.

  “Yep. Vacationish,” he agreed, slowing down to match the posted speed limit at the edge of town. “You want to give me directions from here?”

  “Straight through, all the way to the end of this road. There’s a stop sign and a T and you’ll want to go left. Hang a left again at the second run-down barn, then follow that road to the duck-shaped mailbox. That’s us.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Duck-shaped mailbox?”

  “Cami didn’t want the regular one. She has a thing for ducks, so I indulged.” She shrugged, her lips turning up, then down quickly.

  “You have real ones in the pond?”

  “No.”

  “You can get some.”

  “Live ducks?”

  “Yeah. People even hatch them from eggs.” He winked at her as he turned at the promised T in the road. “You’re not very good at living the country life if you don’t raise animals.”

  “Is that a specialty of yours out there in the desert?”

  “As a matter of fact... I’ve got a cat. Rufus. My neighbor’s kid is probably spoiling him rotten as we speak.”

  She smiled again, and this time it didn’t fall away. “Cats are probably tied with ducks in Cami’s mind.”

  “Ah. The great battle between waterfowl and house pets. Not a good combo in the same pond, though,” Brooks said, then nodded out the windshield. “Is that the second barn up there?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He stepped on the gas pedal a little. “What would you choose?”

  “Choose?”

  “A desert cat or a Canadian duck?”

  Once again, he felt the shift. It was a seemingly casual question. A teasing one. Yet somehow the pause after he asked it turned it into something loaded.

  “I guess that would depend,” Maryse said slowly.

  “On what?”

  “What Camille had to say about it.”

  And as he pulled up to the duck-shaped mailbox, he knew for certain that rescuing Maryse’s daughter was only slightly more important than one other thing—making sure that once he did, her little girl liked him. A lot.

  Chapter 12

  Maryse led Brooks up the driveway, feeling an enormous pressure for him to appreciate her living space. She was admittedly an untidy housekeeper. Her life with Camille was chaotic and full, and she didn’t waste moments worrying about whether or not she’d put away the laundry as soon as it came out of the dryer. And Brooks’s assurance that he wasn’t there to judge didn’t put her mind at ease.

  She opened the front door slowly, flicking on the light as she stepped inside, then stood still as the big man scanned the small entryway. His whole body seemed to fill the space, making it even tinier than it already was, and Maryse might’ve noticed that more if she hadn’t been so busy being self-conscious about the disarray. Camille’s jacket and snow pants hung from a hook over a wide plastic mat, and several pairs of boots—rain, winter and dressy—sat in a pile on a bench. Why hadn’t she wiped up the melted snow? Or at least opened the bench and shoved the footwear into it?

  Self-consciously, she slipped out of her boots and coat. He did the same, hanging his sweater beside her jacket like it belonged there and lining his boots up beside hers, too.

  Maryse cleared her throat. “So.”

  “So,” Brooks repeated.

  “This is it.”

  “It’s a great place to put your shoes,” he joked.

  “Oh. Right. Come in.” Maryse hoped her embarrassed flush wasn’t too obvious as she led him from the foyer to the adjoining living room. “Sorry it’s so cold in here. I guess I left the heat down this morning. I usually light a fire first thing, but...”

  “You had more important things on your mind,” he filled in.

  “Yes.”

  His wide shoulders took up the entire doorway for a moment. Then he moved into the room, his gaze sweeping the space. Maryse bit her lip, worrying more than necessary about what he thought. About what he saw when he looked at the mismatched set of furniture—one brown love seat, one forest green ottoman and a beige chair—which sat quiet and empty. Did he notice the patchwork quilt that she’d fallen asleep under the night before? It hung between the coffee table and the love seat. Did he see the stack of socks without mates that took up one corner of the room and the pile of firewood that filled another? Was it too crowded? Too full in unfinished home-life business?

  She was very aware that there was evidence everywhere of Cami. Children’s books and macaroni art. A half-finished fleet of paper airplanes and a doll sitting in a plastic high chair. The biggest source of pride in her life.

  But not very sexy.

  The thought caught Maryse by surprise. Being sexy was about as low on her list of priorities as something could get. But as she eyed Brooks, following his continued perusal of her cozy home, she wished she’d put it somewhere a little higher up. Like maybe somewhere in the top three. Because for the first time since taking Camille into her life, she wanted someone to see her as a woman as well as a mother.

  No. Not just someone, she corrected mentally. Brooks.

  Yes, it was definitely a specific-to-him desire. The way he moved through the room made Maryse tingle with a need to be noticed. She watched as his hands found the back of the love seat then ran over its worn fabric, and she had to admit—at least to herself—that she was a little envious of the attention the material was getting. When he turned a smile her way, though, envy slipped to the back of her mind. His eyes were full of appreciation and enough warmth to cut through the chill in the air.

  “It’s nice,” he said, the two words somehow conveying much more.

  “You think so?”

  “Suits you, I think.”

  She couldn’t help but ask, “Why?”

  He swept his hand across the room. “It’s not new and shiny, and it doesn’t need to be, because it’s got solid class. It’s clean, but not sterile, so it’s comfortable. Lots of personal touches.”

  “Is that how you see me? As classy and comfortable?”

  “When you say it like that, it sounds like an insult.”

  “Was it a compliment?”

  He took a small step toward her. “Definitely.”

  “So you like classy and comfortable.”

  He took another step, putting him within touching distance. Within feeling distance. The heat in his gaze was matched by the heat emanating from his body, warming Maryse, inside and out.

  “I like those things, yes,” he said, his voice low and full of promise.

  Maryse’s heart was beating faster and faster. “And you haven’t been able to find a woman like that?”

  “Hadn’t been able to.”

  “Oh.”

  At her squeaky reply, Brooks’s mouth tipped up in a slow, sexy smile. “What about you?”

  “Me? No. I’ve never been able to find a classy, comfortable woman to settle down with.”

  “Do you want to settle down?”

  “More than I want most things.”

  “Just you and Ca
mille?”

  “That’s all it’s ever been.”

  “Never been tempted to date? Get married? Give Cami a brother or sister?”

  “I never really thought about it.”

  “But if you had...what would you be looking for?”

  Now the heat in her body traveled up to settle in her cheeks as she answered with the first things that came to mind. “Someone smart. Hardworking. Someone not afraid of a challenge and not afraid of having fun. Who would love Cami the way I do—as if she were his own.”

  “That’s it?” he teased.

  “It’s more comprehensive than classy and comfortable.”

  “Hmm. Comprehensive. Then I guess I’d better add to my list. I also like a strong, capable woman who recognizes that asking for help when she needs it isn’t a sign of weakness.”

  “That’s it?” Maryse echoed breathily.

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “I appreciate a woman whose name starts with the letter M. And who has a heart big enough to drop her life to raise a child, and who can take a tiny house in the middle of nowhere and make it her home.”

  “Home...ish.”

  “Ish,” he confirmed.

  “So nothing too specific, then.”

  “Very general.”

  He reached out to touch her cheekbone with the back of his hand. Automatically, she tipped her head up to lean into the caress. As she did, his hand turned and his palm cradled her jawline, drawing her mouth close to his. And even though she was already anticipating the newly familiar feel of his lips, the contact sent a shock wave of desire ricocheting through her body. It moved from her mouth to her throat, to her chest to her abdomen, to her thighs to her calves, then back up again. And the want was as specific as it was startling. This man lit her on fire. Turned her blood to molten lava. Made her want to slip away from the world and explore everything he had to offer.

  And she couldn’t hold back a little moan as his hands slid to her back, one set of fingers finding a sensitive spot just above her waistband and the other pressing between her shoulder blades. He dragged his palms back and forth, pulling her closer. Maryse was more than happy to sink into the attention. Eager to deepen the kiss. She brought her arms up to his shoulders and tucked her curves as closely to his hard lines as she could. Then she tasted the edges of his lips with her tongue. Tentatively at first, then with more fervor. Very quickly it was hard to tell where her mouth started and his began, and when the backs of Maryse’s knees hit the edge of the love seat, she honestly couldn’t have said if she was the one who propelled them toward it, or if it was he who initiated the move. Either way, the result was the same. She leaned back—just a little—and they tumbled together into the soft, familiar fabric.

  As she landed beneath him, her denim-clad knees parted, and Brooks fell between them with just enough force to make her gasp. Before Maryse could recover, he let out a low growl, clasped her waist and flipped them over so that she was on top. Immediately, he lifted his head and his mouth sought hers again. He nipped at her lips, then trailed kisses along her cheek to her earlobe, which he pulled between his teeth and tugged. His mouth was dizzyingly thorough. Deliciously warm. And his hands were equally attentive and just as shiver-inducing. They traversed up her thighs. His fingers spread over her hips. He kneaded and squeezed and stroked his way up to the bottom of her sweater. For a blissful second, his rough palm was on the sensitive skin just below her rib cage. Then it slid out again, working its way up her sweater. At the lower edge of her covered bra, he paused.

  “Brooks,” Maryse murmured against his mouth.

  She wriggled a little to get him to keep going, and both of his hands moved. The first one cupped her breast, his thumb tracing an unhurried circle over the curve. The second landed on her hip, rocking forward into him. And in spite of the layers between them, there was no mistaking his reciprocal desire.

  Oh, God.

  The fabric blocking her from what she craved was going to make her crazy. She had to do something about it. Urgently. Her fingers flew to the almost-nonexistent space between them, fumbling for the button on his jeans. She didn’t get far in her search. Brooks grabbed her again and swung her so that her back was pushed to the love-seat cushions again.

  He held himself poised above her, his wide pupils darkening the hazel of his irises to an almond brown under his sandy lashes. His gaze was full of heated desire, and the strong ridges of his wide chest were visible, even through his sweater. They begged to be bared. Maryse wanted nothing more than to lift off his shirt and let it happen. She even brought her hands to its hem and slid her fingers underneath it. But Brooks spoke then, stopping her from giving in to her wanton need.

  “Sweetheart...” he said, the endearment sounding raw and ragged. “You have no idea how very little I want to ask this, but...how much time do we have?”

  The plane.

  Guilt trickled in. Not quite a bucket of icy water, but at least a cool breeze. Just enough to ease the intensity of her ache.

  “Not long,” she told him. “A little more than five hours.”

  “Not long enough.” His tone was imbued with regret, but he pushed up to a sitting position, then pulled Maryse up, too. “Two hours to the airport from here if we don’t have any problems. And you know they want us there three hours early.”

  She wanted to argue that they could hurry. That they could make good use of the few minutes they had to spare. But ultimately...what she wanted wasn’t a quick fix. And judging from the serious look on Brooks’s face, it wasn’t what he was after, either.

  Which is a good thing, she told herself. And this flight is what gets you to Camille.

  The reminder was enough to bank the intensity of Maryse’s urgency.

  “You’re right,” she said, moving to stand. “I’ll get my passport and pack my bag.”

  Brooks grabbed her arm gently. She met his eyes, which were full of undisguised concern.

  “It’s not that I want to stop,” he stated. “But I don’t think I would forgive myself if I was the reason we missed our flight and slowed down our search for Camille.”

  Maryse’s chest filled with a different kind of a heat. Her appreciation of Brooks’s help had nothing on her appreciation of his genuine care. He didn’t know Cami. He barely knew her—though he’d made it clear that he could read her just fine—but his face told her he meant what he’d just said. The fact that he used the words we and our so casually, so naturally... For a second, Maryse’s throat closed and she actually thought she might cry at the feeling of overwhelming gratitude.

  She fought it and bent down to give him a swift kiss. “Back in a minute.”

  Then she hurried away. And it was just in time. Because the tears came anyway.

  * * *

  Brooks watched Maryse’s curves disappear up the narrow hall, and he seriously debated going after her. Most of him wanted to.

  Okay, more than most, he admitted silently.

  He was damned sure, though, that it could—would—only end one way. A way that he wanted to savor. To give meaning to. Not something he wanted to rush through or minimize.

  And nothing I ever want to become a possible source of regret.

  So he battled the urge to chase her down the hall and instead distracted himself by moving around the room, examining the glimpses into Camille’s and Maryse’s life together. What he saw made him smile. Unfinished projects and mementos galore. He got the feeling that most of the chaos was Cami-induced. The little bits of grown-up-themed space—few and far between—were organized. A collection of books, arranged tallest to shortest. An entertainment system, each wire carefully untangled and fed through a color-coded organizer that attached to the wall. A small desk that housed a sticky-note-covered computer and stack of tidy papers that gave him the impression t
hat whatever she did for a living, she must work from home in that exact spot. Probably while Cami played in the background.

  Brooks smiled. What had Maryse been like, pre-kid? Had she been neat and tidy? Fastidious, even? He suspected at the very least she’d been an everything-in-its-place kinda girl. But he liked that she’d adapted, and that she didn’t try to tuck away the mess.

  Whistling a little under his breath, he stepped past a clay sculpture that looked like a toss-up between a snake and a horse. A row of photographs above the fireplace caught his eye. Curious, he moved closer and examined them. Most were of Camille involved in varying activities. He chuckled at the one of the little girl dressed in a swimsuit and hurtling toward a good-sized body of water, presumably the pond. Her blond hair was pulled back in braids, which were streaming out behind her, and she had a wildly ecstatic grin on her face.

  Behind that photo was an older one of both Maryse and her daughter. The two were dressed in matching red-and-black dresses, and the background was a professional backdrop sheet. The picture itself, though, was unposed. Maryse’s head was thrown back in laughter, and a smaller, chubbier Camille had a hand on her mother’s cheek and an adoring look in her eyes. The love between them was obvious. It made Brooks envious. The story he’d told her about Gia was completely true. A family had always been on his agenda, and he’d taken for granted that he’d start one sooner rather than later. Kids and Popsicles and bedtime stories. Something happy to come home to after the hard things he witnessed at work.

  Suppressing a regretful sigh, he turned his attention to the next picture. What he saw made him frown. It was another older shot, this time of Maryse as a teenager. She stood beside another teen—a young man with his arm slung across her shoulders. But it wasn’t jealousy that gave Brooks pause. It was something else.

  Recognition.

  He knew the other kid in the photo from somewhere.

  Slowly, he reached out and picked it up so he could examine it more closely. For a second, the only thing that really stood out was the guy’s blue eyes. The same shade as Maryse’s. As Camille’s. Brooks made the connection quickly.

  Her brother.