Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo
gutturally unintelligible. For a second, she thought he’d switched to speaking in French. Puzzled, Maryse spun to face him.
Then stepped back as he flew toward her.
What the—
Her thought cut off as her mind worked, trying to make sense of what she saw.
His eyes were wide, his mouth open. A crimson drop fell from one corner of his lips. Then his body hit the ground, and she figured it out.
Not French, she realized. And not English, either.
The sound he’d made hadn’t been words at all. Just a last utterance.
As if to confirm it, his coat flapped open, revealing an increasing pool of red, with a narrow hole in the center.
A gunshot wound.
Maryse’s gut twisted, and she doubled over. The motion saved her. A bullet whizzed by, then slammed into the ground just a few feet in front of her.
With her heart in her throat, Maryse righted herself, turned and fled toward the buildings on the other side of the road. She pushed her back flat against the icy structure just as another bullet hit the cement, this time mere inches from her boots.
Sure it had come from above, her gaze flew up, searching. Was that a pinprick of red light, up in the window of the low-rise up the road? Did the curtains just flash? But everything was still now.
She hazarded a quick glance toward the fallen man. His head had rolled to one side, and his chest no longer rose up and down at all.
Cami.
Oh, God. What did this mean for her daughter? The man on the ground had been her one link to whoever had her.
The wall Maryse had been holding around her heart for the last few hours teetered. A dull ache formed in her chest as the anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. It made her sway a little on her feet. And she stumbled.
But surprisingly, she didn’t fall.
Instead, a warm, strong hand closed on her elbow, steadying her. Then the hand pulled her back into the building. Out of sight. Out of the potential line of fire. It gripped her tightly. And for a paralyzing instant, Maryse’s instinct wasn’t fight, and it wasn’t flight. It was simply to sink into the reassuringly solid touch. And the strange sensation worsened when she looked up and met a man’s gaze. Hazel, flecked with gold, and full of genuine concern.
She had to force herself to pull away enough to take in a little more of his appearance. Whoever he was, he had a frame as bulky as it was tall, and if his height topped less than six foot three, Maryse would eat her wool hat. But as he pulled back a bit more and opened his mouth, it wasn’t his impressive size that made her gasp. It wasn’t even the fact that she finally recognized him as the man who’d been sitting outside the café near the hotel. It was the slight flash of metal at his hip.
Oh, God. This man is the shooter.
And Maryse was off as fast as her legs could take her. Three steps to the edge of the street. Another five to put her past the body lying there. Two more and—
The stranger’s body slammed into hers, then twisted. The motion sent them to the ground together, and for a second, Maryse was on top. But the momentum kept them going, and they rolled. Once. Twice. And on the third time, his powerful forearms locked to her elbows and his thick thighs locked hard against her hips, pinning her to the icy concrete.
He stared down at her, his hazel eyes dark. Like it was she who’d done something wrong. And it made Maryse mad. All the stress of the last few hours funneled through her, found purchase in her knee, then jerked up full force. The man must’ve seen something in her gaze, though, because he swung sideways at the last second, and she just barely managed to graze his hip.
“Stop,” he ordered, his voice full of authority.
Yeah, right.
“I’m trying to help you,” he growled.
Equally unlikely. She struggled harder to free herself, flailing wildly.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked in badly accented French. “I want to let you go so we can get the hell out of here.”
As if to prove his point, he released her arms. She reached up to throw a fist at him, but before she could follow through, three more bullets—not quite rapid-fire, but successive enough to be thoroughly jarring—hit the building behind them.
It really wasn’t him, Maryse realized.
He glared down at her, an I-told-you-so look on his face. The smugness didn’t last longer than a second, though. Another shot made him jerk backward in surprise.
He let out a groan, then rolled off her and pushed to his feet. “C’mon.”
Maryse only hesitated for a heartbeat. Long enough to glance down and realize the flash she’d seen at his waist hadn’t been a gun—just a belt buckle. She took his outstretched hand and let him guide her away from the gruesome scene, and away from whoever was still firing on them.
And just in time. The wail of sirens cut through the air, warning them that authorities were on their way.
Brooks was careful to keep their flight as casual as possible. Not just because he had a sharp, dangerous burn in his shoulder, but because he knew what the cops would be looking for. He knew what he would be looking for himself, if he was in their shoes: a couple on the run. So he hugged the buildings to stay out of sight and moved at an unsuspicious pace. He could tell that the woman—who was now gripping his hand tightly, and who still hadn’t said a word—wanted to move faster. Her feet kept trying to pick up the pace, and Brooks was the one holding them back.
Why had the sound of the siren spooked her even more?
She was visibly shaken up by the impending arrival of the police, and in Brooks’s experience, that usually meant trouble. And running from the scene of a crime... He shook his head. Never mind the legality of it, he knew how bad it looked.
Deal with it later, he said to himself. When she feels safe and is calm enough to explain.
If she ever did. She kept glancing over her shoulder, then jerking her head forward.
“If you can understand me,” Brooks said softly. “Try to focus on something ahead of you instead of thinking about what’s behind you. Look at the fire hydrant. Then, when we get there, pick something else. A sign or a landmark. Anything.”
He had no idea if she knew what he meant, or if it was just his tone, but she took a breath, and her frantic movements eased. Her pace slowed, too.
Good, Brooks thought. Just a couple out for a leisurely stroll. In arctic temperatures.
Which he was really starting to feel now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The only thing keeping him from being completely frozen was the closeness of the woman beside him. In his hurry to keep her safe, he’d almost forgotten what had drawn his attention to her in the first place. Her classic, China-doll beauty. Walking beside her, hands clasped, hips bumping...it was impossible not to think about it. Definitely enough to warm him far more than the parka he hated. Which he was never going to get back now. Because even though they had come nearer to the hotel and the café—just a few streets away, in fact—he didn’t want to risk returning. If someone had seen his sudden departure, they might put two and two together and want to ask questions he didn’t have the answers for. Yet.
He gave the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze, then directed her up a street he knew well. His own.
He let go of her hand and stopped in front of the familiar brick building he’d called home for the last two months, then pointed up before asking again, “Parlez-vous anglais?”
She stared at him for a long moment, her pretty mouth set in a line but her