Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo

to look at the hotel.

      Under his hood, she could just see that his hair was buzz-cut, his face clean shaven. He had a thick build, made even more so by the big, black coat. His face had a certain roughness, too. A fierce mouth and the strongest jaw she’d ever seen. Powerfully handsome. That was how she would describe him. But when he lifted his eyes to her once more, his expression softened him somehow. There was a measure of concern there. Kindness.

      So, no. It’s not him, she decided. There won’t be anything kind about whoever took her.

      Her gaze stayed on him for one more moment before she moved past him—and his undeniable undercurrent of attractiveness—and past the café toward the brass-framed doors of the Maison Blanc. She pushed her way through, appreciating the blast of warm air that hit her as she did. It took the edge off her hours-long chill. But she didn’t pull off her gloves as she strode toward the counter—she needed them to curb the urge to sign as she spoke.

      Hoping she looked more confident than she felt, she approached the concierge desk. But the uniformed man behind the counter was on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone, his brows knit together with irritation. He didn’t turn her way, and Maryse let out a little cough. She didn’t have time to waste. So when he still didn’t look up, she cleared her throat a second time.

      He spun, seeming startled by her presence.

      For a second, that paranoia reared its head again. She forced it back and dragged her sunglasses from her face to her head.

      He set the phone down on the counter, then smiled at her. “Can I help you?”

      “I hope so,” Maryse replied, glad that her voice didn’t shake. “I’m meeting some people—a couple of business contacts—and I think they gave me the wrong room number. The key I have won’t open the door, and no one answered when I knocked.”

      “Which room is it supposed to be?”

      “Two-twenty-eight?” She lied quickly, hoping there was a room 228.

      She tugged the key from her coat pocket and handed it over. He took it and swiped it across the keyboard in front of him, then frowned at the screen.

      “Well,” he said. “That explains it. This key is for room eight—no two-twenty in front of it—right here on the first floor. But I’m afraid they’ve asked for calls to be held, and I can’t issue you a new key unless the room is in your name.”

      “Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

      The concierge tapped the key card on the counter for a second, then smiled again. “You know what I can do for you, though? I can take you down to room eight myself and we can check if your contact is there. We’ll call it a housekeeping emergency.”

      Maryse considered the offer. Then rejected it. She was tempted. She wanted to get to Cami. Badly. But she didn’t want to endanger anyone else.

      “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just give them a call on my cell and leave a message.”

      “You sure?”

      “Yes.”

      She slipped away from the counter and moved to the chairs in the lobby area. She perched on the edge of one of them, then pulled out her phone and pretended to dial. But she was really watching the concierge. Waiting for a distraction. And it only took a few moments. He lifted the desk phone again and started up with his hushed conversation, turning away from the lobby in the process.

      Thank God.

      Moving as swiftly as she dared, she eased herself up. She took another glance at the concierge, then scurried across the tiled floor to the hallway, pausing just long enough to read which direction would lead her to room eight, then hurried to the left. She stripped off her gloves now—she’d need her hands to talk to Cami—and counted off the doors in her head.

      One.

      Two.

      Three.

      And that was as far as she got. Something jabbed her in the back, and then a click sounded from behind her, and a man’s gravelly voice spoke right into her ear.

      “Move,” it said. “Slowly. Walk with me and act like you’re having a good time. If you scream, run or try anything I think is funny, I’ll make sure your daughter is the one who pays the price. Even think about getting the authorities involved and I’ll make sure the price is extracted slowly. And not from you.”

      The threat was more than enough to make her obey.

       Chapter 2

      Brooks took a sip of his espresso—now cold—and told himself he was being ridiculous. That he had an overactive cop imagination waving flags when none were necessary.

      For a second, though, he could’ve sworn the dark-haired woman was staring right at him. Scrutinizing him. Looking for something. Which she definitely didn’t find, judging by how quickly she bolted into the hotel.

      It bothered him, and he had no idea why. What was her deal? Was she actually in trouble? He wished he’d asked her.

      And say what? he wondered. Pardon me, ma’am, but are you looking for someone? Or no? Maybe hiding from someone? Yes, here in the middle of this street. No, no. Don’t call the cops.

      Brooks shook his head and took another icy gulp of coffee. Canadians were friendly—that characterization had turned out to be true—but he somehow doubted that gregariousness extended to a tolerance for on-leave cops from south of the border asking nosy questions.

      Still...

      The sudden buzz of Brooks’s cell phone jarred his attention back to the moment.

      “Small,” he said into the phone, his voice clipped.

      There was a familiar chortle on the other end. “Now, now. Don’t sell yourself short.”

      “Does that never get old for you, Masters?” he asked his longtime partner.

      “Never.”

      “At least one of us is getting a laugh.”

      There was a pause. “Not enjoying your vacation?”

      “It’s hardly a vacation.”

      “Civilian life.”

      “Barely that, either. Isn’t it, like, four in the morning there?”

      Sergeant Masters let out another chuckle. “Almost seven, actually. Finishing up the night shift.”

      “So you thought you’d call me?”

      “Oh, c’mon, Small. I hear the Great White North has plenty to offer.”

      “Like?”

      “Hockey? Canadian bacon? Girls looking for a warm-blooded American to melt their igloos?”

      Brooks rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many movies, my friend.”

      “You’re telling me there isn’t one pretty girl in that entire country?”

      Brooks opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again as he lifted his eyes just in time to see the brunette step out of the hotel doors. The top button of her coat had come undone, exposing her creamy throat, and she appeared oblivious to the cold air.

      Yeah, he conceded silently. At least one pretty girl.

      “You there, man?”

      Brooks forced his attention back to the phone conversation. “What I’m telling you, Masters, is that there isn’t one single igloo here—meltable or otherwise—and quite frankly, I’m a little let down.”

      On the other end, his partner laughed so hard he sounded like he was choking. When his amusement finally subsided,