Silent Rescue. Melinda Di LorenzoЧитать онлайн книгу.
not for her.
“Cami,” she whispered.
Her eyes found the window. Just outside, a few feet away, was the balcony. And a fire escape.
It wasn’t reasonable. Or logical. But it gave her a damned fine way of getting out without an argument.
As Brooks dumped the bits of leftover first-aid supplies into his kitchen trash can, the muffled sound of smashing glass made him jump.
What the hell?
It only took him a second to realize it had come from up the hall.
“Everything okay?” he called loudly.
Silence.
“Maryse?”
More quiet air.
Brooks’s tickle of worry thickened. Stepping quickly, he moved from the kitchen, through the living room, and booted it straight for the bathroom.
He tapped the wood. “You there?”
He counted to five, then closed his hand on the doorknob and he turned.
Locked.
He rattled it harder. No response. Fearing the worst—and wishing he had a weapon—he turned toward the bedroom. He pushed his back to the wall and slid along it quickly. When he reached the door frame, he pushed out one foot, then waited. Nothing. He eased his body forward. Still nothing.
“Maryse?”
Continued silence greeted his softer call. He couldn’t wait any longer. He swung into the room and dropped to one knee defensively. Something sharp bit into his knee, and a blast of arctic-temperature air blew across the top of his head.
Brooks’s gaze flicked through the room. Maryse was nowhere to be seen, but the window was open.
You’re kidding me.
He looked down. Shards of glass dotted the carpet.
“What in God’s name— Oh.” The picture. My uniform. Crap.
Damning himself for wanting to put out a single memento in the first place, Brooks pushed to his feet and strode toward the window. As he leaned out, he caught sight of her. Sixteen feet off the ground. Inching along the narrow ledge toward his balcony. And just out of grabbing distance.
“Stay there,” she said without turning his way.
“I was just going to say the same thing,” he replied. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You’re a cop.”
“And that made you climb out a window?”
“You lied. And even if you hadn’t lied, my daughter’s life is at stake and I’m pretty sure working with a cop is going to get her killed.”
“I am a cop. But I didn’t lie.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie.”
“You could’ve just walked out the front door.”
“Right.”
She moved a little farther down the ledge, and Brooks cringed.
“The front door is still an option,” he said.
“I’ll take my chances with the fire escape and the trees down there, thanks,” she told him.
Brooks eyed the foliage in question. It was a cluster of dense, short evergreens and looked like a safe place to land. Except underneath it—invisible from above—was a small rock garden, framed by a wrought-iron fence.
Brooks cringed again. “Trust me. You don’t want to fall into what’s down there.”
“Trust you?” she called back. “Nice one.”
“Listen to me, Maryse. I’m not a cop here, okay? I’m only a cop at home in Nevada.”
“Right,” she said again.
He lifted a knee to the windowsill and gritted his teeth. “I’m not overly fond of heights, but I swear to God, I’m going to come out there. Then we’ll probably both fall. But I’ll make sure to land on the bottom. I’ll probably take one of those spikes under the tree straight into an organ I need. I’ll be dead. Because you couldn’t use the front door. But, hey, you’ll be on your way.”
She finally tipped her head his way. “That’s—”
He cut her off. “The truth. Just like the fact that I don’t have a gun, or a badge, or any kind of cross-border authority. I’m on vacation.”
“But you don’t feel obligated to turn and tell the Canadian authorities what’s going on?”
“Maybe a little,” Brooks admitted. “But I feel more obligated to help you. I have considerable firsthand experience solving crimes. And resources I can use. Subtly. Or you can just consider me a bodyguard. But please...come back inside.”
A gust of wind kicked up, making her coat flap. She wobbled. Then gasped.
Dammit.
Brooks lifted himself into the frame and pushed through. Without looking down, he stretched out his hand.
Come on.
And thankfully, a heartbeat later, her fingers landed in his palm. He tugged her gently back to the window. Then through it. He slid if shut forcefully behind them and—in an instinctive need to reassure himself that she was safe—he pulled her into his arms.
She fit perfectly against his chest, her head at just the right level to tuck against his chin. He held her that way for a long moment. Fiercely protective and strangely intimate.
Then he pulled away and adjusted her to arm’s length so he could look her in the face. “Please don’t do that again.”
Her eyes were wide. “I won’t.”
Brooks sagged. “Thank you.”
“Are you really not going to call the local police?” she asked.
“I’m really not going to,” he confirmed. “If I get tempted, I promise to warn you ahead of time.”
Her expression lightened hopefully, then drooped again. “My daughter...”
Brooks nodded. “Let’s start with what you know. The hotel, right?”
“Yes.”
He slid to his closet, pulled out a hooded gray sweatshirt—one he liked far better than the parka, anyway—then yanked it over his head. “Did you ask a lot of questions while you were there?”
“No,” she said. “I was just trying to get into the room.”
“What room?”
“I found a key card in Camille’s—that’s my daughter’s name—room. It was the only thing out of place, so I knew I had to go there.”
“Okay.” Brooks gestured toward the hall, and Maryse exited in front of him. “Do you think they’d remember you at the desk?”
“I’m not sure. The guy did offer to help me,” she replied. “Is it bad if he does?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter. Just need to know what to expect. If you’re comfortable with it, I might go in on my own and ask a few things. You can just lie low.”
“Lie low where?”
“My rental car.” He lifted his keys from the living room table, then led her to the door. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your daughter?”
Her brows knit together, and her lips pursed nervously. Brooks couldn’t