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 had to be. But the breathless, sick feeling churning through her wouldn’t rest.
From behind her deliberately dark sunglasses, Maryse let herself study the man for another few seconds, while pretending 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
