Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo

But there was no sense in making her any more uncomfortable. She was already enough of a flight risk.

      “What do you want to know?” she asked guardedly.

      Brooks locked the door, then started toward the stairs. “Anything. What’s her favorite color?”

      A tiny smile tipped up the corners of Maryse’s mouth. “Oh. That kind of stuff? I can talk all day. She likes pink, but pretends that she doesn’t, because she’s worried someone will think she isn’t tough.”

      “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,