She crossed and uncrossed her legs, afraid of getting distracted. No matter how badly she wanted to take off her coat, to settle in and unburden herself, she wouldn’t let it happen. Doing so—even for the promised ten minutes—seemed like a violation of her commitment to saving her daughter.
Not that I have a lead right now.
She brushed off the thought. It was almost too much to bear. She was pretty sure her only option was to go back to the hotel. To get into the room attached to that key she’d found in Cami’s room. What she itched to do, though, was to call the police. Her cell phone was in her pocket, and the proper help was just three little numbers away.
But the threat made by the man who’d been gunned down in the street stuck with her. And what Brooks had said made sense, too. She would be tied up if the police got ahold of her. Cami’s life would only matter to them as a professional interest, while to Maryse, the little girl was everything. And that wasn’t even bringing in the truth of Cami’s parentage and the questions that would bring up. And what it would risk.
But losing her is better than losing her, isn’t it?
She put her head in her hands.
“Maryse?” Brooks’s voice was soft and full of the same concern that had seemed to dominate his gold-flecked gaze since the second she’d spotted him.
She answered without looking up. “It’s my daughter.”
The couch bounced under her, and a pleasant, musky scent filled her nose, and she knew Brooks had seated himself beside her.
“Your daughter?” he said back, low with worry.
“They—someone—took her. And it’s just...really complicated.” It sounded lame, and Maryse knew it.
But he only paused for a second before answering. “So complicated that you can’t go to the police.”
“Yes.”
She finally looked up. Brooks was close enough to touch, and her reaction to his nearness was startling. She tingled, head to toe. Her breath wanted to catch.
Powerfully attractive.
Hadn’t that been the phrase she’d initially used to describe him when she’d first spotted him? It was even more apt now.
He’d changed out of the long-sleeved dress shirt and into a tight-fitting undershirt. His shoulders took up twice as much space as hers, and his arms were no less impressive. When he held out the first-aid supplies, she had no choice but to take them. And of course, her fingers brushed his, and of course the tingling grew that much worse.
Startled by the strength of her attraction, Maryse jerked back and just about dropped the items. Trying to distract herself, she focused her attention on the wound itself. It was a small, angry line that would’ve looked almost like rug burn if not for the dip in the center.
“Not so bad,” she told him.
“Pretty lucky, I think,” he agreed. “More of a gutter wound than anything.”
She opened the alcohol wipe and ran it gently over the cut, wincing even though he didn’t react. “Sorry.”
He waved off her apology with his free hand. “Your daughter. Was she taken from Maison Blanc?”
“No. We live north of here on a little farm. She was taken from her bedroom.”
“So the hotel was...”
“A clue. A starting point. That didn’t work out.”
“And do you know who took her?”
Maryse shook her head and dabbed at the cut with a piece of gauze. “That’s part of what makes everything so complicated. But I guess the real answer is no. I don’t know who took her.”
“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