Brooks took a breath and weighed his options, lightning fast. He knew without asking that something about the gunman was off. Over the course of his career, he’d come across his fair share of desperate people, and the man’s voice gave away that he was riding that particular line.
Not worth the risk to try and jump him, Brooks decided. Not yet, anyway.
He gave Maryse a quick touch in the small of her back, hoping it was enough to reassure her that he would come up with a plan, even if he didn’t have one right that second. Then he stepped aside, putting the requested space between them.
“Also good,” said the gunman. “Now I need both of you to follow my instructions carefully. Understand?”
Brooks glanced toward Maryse to make sure she was acknowledging the gruff speaker’s request. She was nodding shakily, but as she lifted her gaze to the man, she let out a strangled gasp.
Brooks followed her stare, and it only took him a moment to figure out why she’d made the noise.
The fake concierge.
Even though Brooks had only seen the cell phone photo, he recognized him, too. He’d cataloged the man’s features as a course of habit.
Thick brow.
Weak jaw, covered with a goatee.
Wide nose and a thin slash of a mouth.
Definitely the same man.
Now, though, he looked far worse off than he had in the picture. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow. Under his sweatshirt, his hotel uniform was rumpled, and there was even a small tear visible in its collar. The hand that held the gun shook as he spoke.
“I want you to move over there, beside the closet,” he commanded, giving his upper lip a nervous lick. “Put your palms above your head and press them flat against the wall. Legs apart, eyes forward.”
Brooks curbed his natural instinct, which was to balk, and pushed himself to obey instead. He did keep his gaze on Maryse and the gunman, though, leery of breaking complete contact.
The phony concierge waited until Brooks was in position, then nodded at the pretty brunette. “You can sit down.”
Brooks willed her to be strong, and he was glad that she seemed to be holding it together. She took a breath and stepped to the high-backed chair, then perched on the edge, her eyes fixed nervously on the weapon. Its muzzle was pointed firmly at her chest, even though the man wielding it kept flipping his attention back and forth between her and Brooks.
Need to get him to point that over here, he decided.
Keeping his voice level—and conciliatory—he directed a question to the gunman. “Is there a problem we can help you work through?”
The man immediately swung the gun toward Brooks. “What?”
“It seems like you might need some help.”
“Help?”
“That’s not what you’re here for?”
The man licked his lips again, then lifted his free hand to scratch at his chin. “No?”
Distracted. Good.
Brooks offered a small smile. “You sound a little unsure.”
The gun wavered, then steadied. “No. I don’t need help. I need my brother.”
“Okay. Is he somewhere here in the hotel? Or in the city?”
“He’s dead.”
Damn, Brooks thought, while out loud he said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr....”
The man paused, opened his mouth, then shook his head. “No names.”
Damn again.
Brooks still kept his tone agreeable. “Okay. How about if you tell me how your brother died instead.”
The phony concierge jabbed the gun back toward Maryse. “She showed up, and they killed him.”
“Ah. Was he the man in the street? The one who got shot?”
“Yes.” The man nodded, then shifted from foot to foot. “This was his idea. For the money.”
“Well. I truly am very sorry for your loss. But I’m not quite following.” Brooks dropped one arm to his side, careful to keep the change in stance casual. “For the money? What money?”
This time when the other man scratched at his chin, he used the gun. “We just wanted to make an exchange.”
Maryse burst in then, like she couldn’t help it. “An exchange? For Camille?”
“We had her,” the man confirmed.
“Had?” Maryse repeated.
“We have her,” the man amended quickly, his eyes darting from Brooks to Maryse, then back again.
“Who’s ‘we’?” Brooks brought his other arm down, too, then angled himself into the room; he sensed that things were about to take a bad turn and he wanted to be between Maryse and whatever was about to happen.
The gunman shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”
Then his face screwed up, his features crunching together. He drew in a choked breath, and for a strange second, Brooks thought he might cry. Instead, he lifted the gun again and took aim. Straight at Maryse.
Brooks didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He just dived hard across the room, his arms closing on the other man’s waist. Together, they flew backward and landed on the bed. The folder he’d hidden under his shirt came free in the tussle, and the papers inside scattered across the room.
Brooks ignored them. He needed to concentrate on the threat—the gun. He threw one elbow into the other man’s chest, while at the same time reaching for the other man’s wrist. A few seconds of flailing and he had it. He squeezed. When that didn’t work, he dragged the man’s wrist over the bed and slammed it into the nightstand. Once. Twice. On the third time, the gun finally clattered to the ground.
“Grab the weapon!” Brooks shouted.
Maryse blurred past him. Vaguely, he saw her reach for the gun.
Then the man beneath him bucked and kicked, commanding his attention again. For a moment, he retained the upper hand. He used his forearm and his lower body strength to press the man to the bed. But Brooks’s strength and skill were overtaken by brute determination and surprise. The phony concierge lifted his head, slammed it into Brooks’s own, and the world clouded over in a haze.
* * *
By the time Maryse managed to retrieve the gun from under the bed, then right herself again, it was all but over. And not in a good way. Brooks’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he toppled sideways. Then the man below him pushed the big cop over completely and jumped to his feet, wobbling a little.
Maryse fumbled with the gun. She’d never fired one before, and she cursed herself for never learning the basics. It should’ve been the first thing she’d done in the name of protecting Cami.
Too late now.
And she couldn’t get to the trigger fast enough.
The wild-eyed man was stalking toward her, his arms outstretched. With his mangled hand—courtesy of Brooks and the nightstand—and the already-purple welt bulging out on his forehead, he was a terrifying sight.
“Might as well give up now,” the thug snarled as he stepped closer. “I’m going to catch you anyway.”
He lunged forward, and Maryse ducked out of reach, then tore across the small room. She reached the opposite wall quickly, and there, she finally got a better hold of the gun. But her fingers were slippery with sweat and they refused to simply cock the hammer. She stopped trying and held it out anyway, hoping the red-eyed man would take that as enough of a threat.
“Stop,” she ordered, glad that her voice came out with some force.
The man paused. “If you shoot me, you’ll never get your kid back.”
Maryse sucked in a breath. “Where is she?”
“Safe. And hidden.”
“Tell me! Please.”
“Give me the gun first.”
She was almost sure of what would happen if she did. But that didn’t stop her from considering it.
Anything to save Camille.
But the gleam in the man’s eyes at her pause was enough to make her shake her head. “If I give you the gun, you’ll just kill me. That’s what you were going to do a second ago.”
“Maybe I’m having a change of heart.”
“Where’s my daughter? If you tell me, I’ll walk away. I’ll never say a word to anyone about this.”
“Too late for that. He already knows.”
Her heart thundered, and her mind reeled with worry. Too late? Who was “he”? Wasn’t this man the one who held her daughter captive? And how was she going to find out?
The man shook his head and, as he spoke, she realized she’d voiced at least one of the questions aloud. “He’s the kind of person who—when he finds you—will make you wish you’d given me the gun.”
At the dark threat, Maryse gasped, then inched back in an unconscious attempt to get away.
The thug smiled. “There’s nowhere to go.”
Her eyes flicked over the room, searching. But he was right. Her escape options were limited. There was the broken sliding glass door, which was too far away. There was the main exit, which the fake concierge now blocked. And there was the bathroom, which would only provide a temporary solution.
And there’s Brooks.
She couldn’t leave him. Not when he’d risked his own life on her and Cami’s behalf. She lifted her chin, preparing to issue another warning.
As if he could read her mind, the thug stopped advancing toward her and turned to Brooks instead. He moved closer to the unconscious man, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“Let’s see how brave you are when I’m strangling your boyfriend,” he said. “Think you can fire that thing with enough accuracy to hit me but not him?”
As he turned away, Maryse reacted instinctively. She sprang forward, her own safety and her need to get away forgotten. She swung out her arm as she moved, the gun suddenly a blunt force weapon. She smacked it into the side of his head. She only managed to hit his ear.
He spun back, then sideways to face her, fury dominating his features. He lifted a hand to his injured ear, and when he pulled it down, a streak of red covered his palm.
Bleeding. But conscious. Not good enough.
She drew the gun back again. This time, though, he knew she was coming, and he was better prepared to block her blow. He threw up a hand, and Maryse’s forearm slammed into it hard enough to jar her whole body. Even her teeth slammed together.
She took a step back. Then tried again. But he was moving, too. He dropped his shoulder and charged.
Maryse did her best to sidestep, but her knee cracked against the desk chair. She let out a cry, then stumbled. The gun flew from her grip, skidded across the floor, then disappeared under the bed.
Maryse didn’t waste any time. She dropped to the carpet and crawled forward, her hand outstretched. Her assailant followed, taking full advantage of the fact that she was already down. He jumped onto her back. He clamped a hand on her wrist. Then he pulled.
Thankfully, the carpet was better than the average commercial-grade. It still stung Maryse’s skin as her chin hit, but the impact was minimal. She tried to push herself up and, in reward, got a knee in the small of her back. She hit the ground again, this time harder.
Her attacker was winning, and Maryse knew it.
In a last-ditch effort to get free and get to the weapon, she threw back an elbow. It hit its mark, but not hard enough to do more than make the man who held her down grunt. Both of his hands slid to her forearms, then forced her to roll to her back. As he straddled her hips and pinned her down, tears pricked at her eyes, and as his fingers closed on her neck, an unspoken apology to her missing daughter formed in her mind. But before her lids could close in defeat, there was a dull thud.
Maryse’s eyes flew wide-open again. Above her, the man’s jaw slackened. He teetered. Then a hand appeared at his collar and yanked him away, freeing her.
And Brooks knelt down at her side, concern filling his hazel eyes.
* * *
Brooks ignored the dull ache in his head in favor of making sure Maryse was okay.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he asked, the endearment dropping from his mouth naturally.
She nodded weakly. “Where’s...?”
“Breathing noisily over there somewhere.” He reached down and cupped her cheek. “You okay for a minute if I go take care of him?”
She blinked, then swallowed, her expression suddenly nervous. “Take care of him?”
In spite of the situation, Brooks laughed. “Not like that. Secure him, in case he wakes up.”
Her cheeks went pink. “Oh. Yes. I’ll be fine.”
Still smiling, Brooks brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, then stood up. As he turned toward the unconscious man, his amusement faded.
His hands on her throat.
The sight that had greeted him as he’d dragged himself from his own bout with unwanted oblivion was enough to turn his stomach. In fact, it was impossible to tell whether the churning in his gut was from the violence or from the blow to his head.
Or maybe from the fact that you almost let him get her?
As he grabbed the bedside lamp—the one he’d used as a weapon—from the ground, then wound the cord around the hotel employee’s wrists, he had to acknowledge the self-directed question. “Maryse?”
“Yes?”
“If you want to call the local PD, now—”
“No.”
“A man just broke into our hotel room. He tried to kill you.”
“And he’s my only connection to my daughter.”
Brooks paused in what he was doing and made himself say the next, hard sentence that had formed in his mind. “It won’t matter what the connection is if I can’t keep you safe.”
She met his stare with an even look of her own. “I don’t want to be ‘kept safe.’ I don’t need to be.”
“Maryse.” He realized a second too late that he’d said her name with entirely more stern force than he needed to.
She looked down at her hands. “I can’t sit around waiting for someone else to help her. That’s my job, and I’m not going to ask permission to do it.”
Brooks fought a frustrated sigh. He could see the stubborn set of her shoulders, and he had a sudden vision of the cops showing up and Maryse taking off. Which would not only complicate the investigation. It would cast suspicion where none was due. And it would take him out of the equation completely.
“Okay,” he said, “but if you change your mind...tell me. Don’t hesitate.”
She lifted her head, relief and hope mingling in her gaze. “Thank you.”
“Yep.”
Fighting his lingering guilt, he turned his attention back to the more pressing task at hand. He bent down to yank the phony concierge farther away from Maryse, then tugged at the cord around the man’s wrists. When he was satisfied that the plastic-covered wire was pulled tight enough, he stood up again, scanning the room for something to use for the man’s feet. He wasn’t taking any chances.
His eyes landed on the open closet. Inside hung two bathrobes, and each had a loose belt.
Perfect.
He only made it a half a step, though, before a loud knock on the door interrupted him. He tossed a worried look Maryse’s way. She’d pulled herself up to the edge of the bed and sat on the corner, her expression as concerned as he knew his own must be. Another sharp rap made her jump.
A voice followed the second knock. “Sir? Ma’am?”
Brooks slipped to the door and peered through the spyhole. The concierge stood in the hall, his face tense as he shifted from side to side.
Brooks turned back to Maryse and, in a low voice, said, “It’s our friend from the front desk. He looks annoyed.”
“Should we answer it?” she whispered back.
“If we don’t want him to break it down,” Brooks replied, eyeing the bound man lying in the middle of the floor.
“Sir?” The concierge’s voice was more insistent now.
Then Maryse’s face cleared, and she sprang to her feet. “I’ve got an idea. Pull him up beside the bed. Toss the blanket over him and take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“Hurry.”
She didn’t explain further. As Brooks dropped the blanket over the unmoving man, Maryse slipped off her boots, then her already-askew jacket. She lifted off the soft, red sweater underneath, then snapped up the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her chest. Finally, she pushed down her bra straps and tucked them under the linen.
Her bare shoulders were the color of warm cream and dotted with a surprising number of freckles. If Brooks had stopped to think about it, which he hadn’t—yet—he would’ve imagined the rest of her skin to be as mark-free as her porcelain-hued face.
But I like this better, he decided, studying the pattern that dipped down past the sheet.
“Shirt?” she prompted, and Brooks realized he was standing very still, just watching as she undressed.
He lifted his hands to the buttons, but clearly didn’t do it fast enough, because she stepped toward him and reached out to help. Even though she undid them swiftly, it was impossible not to notice how her fingers moved across his chest. How the tips of them warmed his skin as they brushed against it. He even had to stifle a groan as she finished with the buttons, then pushed the shirt back.
As she stepped back to give his newly bared chest a quick once-over, Brooks stared down at her, wondering if she was aware of the effect she was having on him. Or if she felt the same lick of interest. When she lifted her face, and he spotted the lacy blush spreading across her cheeks, he was sure that she must.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice a little breathless.
“Guess I must be,” he agreed. “Even if I don’t know what it is I’m ready for.”
“This.” She dropped her pants to the floor, stepped out of them and moved toward the door.
And he finally clued in to her plan.