Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo

going in there with him.

      Are you deaf? he signed back—clumsily and more of a literal translation than a true use of the language, but to the best of his ability. Or do you just like to talk to yourself in ASL?

      Her clear blue eyes widened, and she didn’t have to sign what she was thinking. She clearly hadn’t expected him to recognize the gestures, let alone understand them.

      I had a cousin who was deaf, he signed, then added, Well? Anything to say?

      She sighed. “I’m not deaf.”

      “And you do speak English.”

      “Yes. And French. Better than you do, apparently.”

      He noticed that she had to hold her hands stiffly at her sides to keep from signing along with her words. Who in her life was deaf? He glanced down at her ringed finger. Her husband? Where was he, while she was out here getting shot at in the streets of Laval? And why did it bother Brooks so much that the man wasn’t there to protect her?

      He forced his attention back to the moment. “Do you really have time to fight about my language skills?”

      “No. I don’t. Speaking of which...” She turned away.

      Automatically, Brooks shot out a hand to restrain her. “You can’t just go running right back out there.”

      “I don’t have a choice.”

      “You do have a choice.”

      She shook off his grip and glanced up at his apartment building. “That’s not a choice.”

      “Listen to me,” Brooks said. “Whoever called the police may have got a good look at you. If you head back into those streets, you risk being caught. If not right this second, then as soon as they start circulating your description.”

      “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she argued.

      “But you are a witness, and I’m guessing that if you don’t have time to argue with me about my pronunciation, you don’t have time to give an hours-long statement to the police, either,” he replied. “And even if you do somehow manage to elude them, I’m guessing that whoever was firing at you isn’t going to just give up.”

      Her face crumpled, and for a second, Brooks thought she might cry. An unexpected tug of sympathy pulled at his heart, and an accompanying urge to pull her into his arms. He made himself resist, but when he spoke again, it was in a far gentler tone.

      “You may not like the choice, but I’m all you’ve got.” He paused, then signed the rest of what he had to say. I saved your life. I might be able to help you again. At the very least, give me a chance to keep you alive long enough to learn your name.

      Her eyes flicked up the street, then to the apartment building, then back to Brooks. There was the tiniest sliver of hope in those baby blues.

      “Ten minutes,” she said.

      “Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

      He led her through the front doors, then down the hall and up the stairs to his second-floor suite. It was a small, one-bedroom deal, prefurnished and practical. Clearly intended for short-term stay.

      “Sorry about the lack of luxury,” he said. “Laval isn’t home for me, usually.”

      “It’s okay.”

      He waited for her to add something else. A personal detail about her own home—wherever it might be—but she just stood in the center of the adjoining kitchen and living room, like she wasn’t sure where to go. Admittedly, it felt funny to Brooks, too, to have company. He’d been treating the apartment more like a hotel room than like a home, barely unpacking his suitcase or adding any personal touches. Of course, this was the first time he’d even been conscious of that fact.

      “Sit down,” Brooks suggested. “Coffee?”

      “I’m fine.”

      He stifled a sigh. The pain in his shoulder was back with a vengeance, and it was worsening his mood. He didn’t feel much like being patient, but the last thing he wanted was for her to bolt. And from the way her eyes kept twitching toward the door, he was sure she was counting the seconds until she could do it.

      “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

      Why would I? she signed.

      So I can help you, he replied.

      “I doubt it’s possible,” she said aloud.

      “Try me.”

      “Tell me something first,” she said.

      “Okay.”

      “Why did you help me?”

      Brooks said the first thing that popped into his head. “Women in distress. Personal weakness.”

      She blinked. “That’s very honest.”

      “I’m an honest man,” he agreed. “And a bit old-fashioned, I guess.”

      “Not a bad combination.” It was a hesitant statement—almost a question.

      “I like to think it works in my favor. Most of the time.”

      “And you’re not afraid of guns?”

      “Not afraid of them? No. But I do have a healthy respect for what they’re capable of doing.” Unconsciously, he rolled his shoulder.

      She picked up on the gesture, and as she eyed his upper arm, a little gasp escaped her lips. “You got shot!”

      Brooks tipped his head down to follow her gaze. Yep. A graze only, but the blood was there, marking a thin tear across his sleeve.

      “Damn,” he muttered.

      He automatically started to unbutton his shirt. He got three undone before he realized that she was staring at him, her bottom lip sucked nervously between her teeth. Her eyes were on the bit of chest he’d already exposed. For a second, her stare was...warm. Then she tore her gaze away and fixed on a spot on the wall.

      Yeah, he said to himself as he stilled his hands. Because undressing in front of a woman you barely know isn’t normal behavior.

      “Sorry,” he muttered. “Not used to having anyone around.”

      “No. You really should...” She trailed off and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

      “For what?”

      “God, an apology isn’t enough, is it? I just have to go.”

      “You’ve barely given me five of the ten minutes you promised.”

      “It took less than five minutes of being near me for you to take a bullet for me.”

      “Exactly,” Brooks said, managing a half smile. “You owe me.”

      She didn’t smile back. “What?”

      “I took a bullet for you. So you owe me. And all I want is a five-minute explanation. And maybe you could bandage up my arm while you give it?”

      She inhaled, exhaled heavily, then nodded. “Okay. Where should I start?”

      “First things first. I’m Brooks.”

      He stuck out a hand, and she took it. Her skin was surprisingly warm and pleasantly soft.

      “Maryse,” she said.

      “Good. Now that that’s out of the way...” He guided her to the barely used couch and pushed her into a sitting position. “I’ll grab the antiseptic and the Band-Aids. And you can tell me why someone’s trying to kill you.”

      * * *

      As the big man—Brooks, he’d called himself—exited the room, Maryse watched his receding shoulders. Something about him and his calm, matter-of-fact reasoning made