Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo
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He had Cami.
And Maryse was going to take her back.
* * *
Brooks Small stretched out his long legs, leaned back and attempted to bask in the sun. For about three seconds, it worked. Then a blast of crisp air cut across his face, throwing the hood of his parka down from his head to his shoulders, reminding him a little too thoroughly that it was winter.
Except it’s not winter, growled his inner, surly self. It’s mid-April.
Stubbornly, he reached up to snap his hood back into place, and his elbow snagged on the edge of his wicker coffee-shop chair. He heard a loud tear.
Dammit.
Pulling on every ounce of patience he had, Brooks closed his eyes, counted to twelve—because ten sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it right that second—and eased the jacket away from the chair.
“You hated the coat anyway,” he muttered.
It was true. Mostly because he hated everything to do with being away from his home in the ironically named town of Rain Falls, Nevada. He preferred being minutes from the bright lights of Vegas and he enjoyed the often-scorching summer days.
If he was there, now, in the good old US of A, his neighbors would be opening their pools. Not scraping the snow off their backyard ponds so they could enjoy the supposedly unseasonably cold weather.
As if this frozen city has a season other than winter.
He exhaled noisily, his breath frosty and visible. Brooks had heard on the radio that it was minus eighteen degrees Celsius outside today. Which translated to roughly zero degrees Fahrenheit.
Two months Brooks had been in Laval, Quebec, and he had yet to see anything but snow.
Snowy streets.
Snowy parks.
Snowy everything.
Like nature had whitewashed the entire city.
Don’t forget the icicles, Brooks reminded himself. Actual damned icicles, hanging from actual damned eaves.
“Monsieur?”
Brooks’s head snapped up at the voice, and the teenage waitress attached to the soft-spoken question jumped back. He tried to smooth out his expression, at least into something passably pleasant. He failed. It was evident in the way that the waitress continued to stand a few feet away, cowering just a little. His espresso was still in her shaking hand, and it was cooling rapidly.
Brooks inclined his head toward the demitasse cup. “Mon café?”
“Oui.”
He stifled a sigh. Usually his complete bastardization of the language of love was enough to squeeze the English out of even the most French of the French-Canadian.
Not today, apparently.
“Mademoiselle?” he prodded.
When she continued to stand stock-still, Brooks decided she needed a bit of motivation in a more universal language. He dug into the zippered pocket of his parka and fished out three wide gold-and silver-colored coins. He eyed them skeptically. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the things, no matter how long his banishment to Canada lasted. The damned coins seemed like toy money to Brooks, and they sure as hell didn’t look like enough cash to pay for his coffee and leave a four-dollar tip on top of that.
When he set them down on the table, though, the waitress finally did snap out of her fear-daze. With something approximating a smile, she slipped the coins into her tiny apron and set Brooks’s coffee—without spilling a drop, he noticed—in its place.
“Merci,” she said, then scurried away quickly, back into the enveloping warmth of the café.
Brooks waited until she’d disappeared before he took a sip of coffee. He knew it didn’t make a ton of sense to sit outside in the freezing cold, but the ritual wasn’t about reason. It was about principle. Like many cops, Brooks got into a groove and stuck to it. He didn’t know if it could be classified as superstitious behavior or if it bordered on compulsive, but he did know it worked for him. He’d even argue that it made him better at his job, because sticking to a routine made it easier to spot the out-of-the-ordinary.
Every morning at home, he sat on the patio, took stock of the day, did the crossword and enjoyed an espresso. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little thing like the temperature change that.
Yep. Principles.
Brooks had them.
He suppressed a sigh and glanced down at his watch.
It was 9:33 a.m. on a Tuesday.
In a few minutes, a gray-haired man would come by, light a cigarette, smoke it quickly, then go inside to order something in the largest cup the café offered. Shortly after that, a frazzled mother with her toddler in tow would park illegally, dash inside and come out with her personalized cup steaming. The kid would have a cookie.
Most days were like that. The same people at the same time, fully predictable. Nicely so.
Brooks noted them all, and noted the discrepancies even more.
Like right that second.
A tall, slim brunette was coming up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She had her chin tucked into the collar of her tan duffle coat, hurrying, but trying to look like she wasn’t. She kept her head still and her gaze forward, but every two or three steps, her eyes would dart first one way, then the other. Maybe the average observer wouldn’t have noticed. Or maybe just assumed she was looking for a certain address. To Brooks, she looked like trouble.
Automatically, he sat up a little straighter, making more detailed mental notes.
Five foot eight, easily. Maybe five-nine.
A hundred and twenty pounds? Bulky jacket, though. Could add a few pounds to her frame.
Too thin, Brooks thought absently. Not eating? Ill, maybe?
Except her face had nothing sallow about it. Her skin was pale, but in a porcelain way rather than a sickly one. Altogether pretty, actually.
She got closer still, and Brooks fleshed out his description even more. Tight bun at the nape of her neck. Thick enough to let him know her hair would be long. A stray curl hung down over one cheek—which he could see now wasn’t quite so pale, but instead, marked with a rosy glow. Likely brought on by the cold, he thought. Her lips were full and nearly crimson, and she was makeup-free.
And not just pretty, he realized. Stand-out-in-a-crowd stunning.
Was that why she wore her hair in that severe style? Did it have something to do with her plain skin? A mask?
She’d reached the corner across from him now, and, for a second, she just stood there, her stare seemingly fixed on the café. Then she lifted a pair of sunglasses from her pocket, placed them on her face and leaped from the sidewalk to the street. Straight into the path of a brave winter cyclist.
Brooks’s heart jumped to his throat, but before he could react—and rush in like some deranged, parka-clad hero—the woman sidestepped lightly, lifted her hand in an apology and moved toward the café. Straight toward Brooks.
* * *
Maryse’s eyes rested on the man sitting in front of the café that neighbored the Maison Blanc.
He was dressed for the weather. But something about him made her think he didn’t belong. And even though he looked away quickly, his gaze had been too sharp, his interest in her too pointed. Did he know something? Or was she being paranoid?
An hour and a half in the car hadn’t done her mind any good. Try as she might to stay focused on making a plan, her brain had insisted on swirling with dark worry, playing out every one of her worst fears.
Cami is alive, she told herself firmly.
She