the clock on the nightstand. Eight minutes had passed. It felt like forty.
She pushed up from the bed and paced the room, trying to settle down.
Maryse wasn’t good at holding still. And she wasn’t good at letting someone else do the work, either. A big part of her hands-on nature was brought on by her six years as a single mom. If she didn’t get something done...it didn’t get done. But she knew she’d been a little like that before Cami ever came into her life. It was probably why her brother relied so heavily on her, even when they became adults. And definitely the reason he’d entrusted his daughter to her.
Maryse’s heart squeezed. Oh, Jean-Paul. What did you do? What could possibly catch up with you this far down the road?
In the year leading up to his death, she’d been sure he was turning things around. He’d been more upbeat. He hadn’t asked for a cent. He’d even secured a job at some company called People With Paper, and he’d talked about finally moving on with his life.
Over the last half a decade, Maryse had wondered if the last bit had something to do with Cami. If he’d been excited about the prospect of a whole new world.
Maybe he just couldn’t escape the old one.
The thought—as always—broke her heart. At one time—before her daughter came into the picture—her brother had been the one who mattered most. It weighed on her.
“And there’s another reason not to hold still,” she said aloud to the empty room.
Too much stillness led to too much dwelling on the past. Even on the best of days, she had a hard time dealing with thoughts of her brother. And not only was today not the best of days, it was the worst day.
Except for Brooks and the kiss.
She had to admit that in spite of her fear, he was the tiniest silver lining—a bright speck in an otherwise dismal day. Inappropriate or not, she was grateful for his presence.
The sound of a key card sliding noisily into the door cut through her scattered thoughts then, and with a slight tingle in her limbs, she stopped her pacing and fixed her gaze on the door handle.
Then she remembered.
No preceding knocks.
It’s not him.
For the briefest moment, she considered that it might be a hotel employee or someone trying for the wrong room. Just as quickly, she dismissed the idea.
The do-not-disturb sign.
Whoever was on the other side of the door had to have seen it. And the fumbling of the lock had stopped, and the handle was already turning.
She scanned the room, her eyes searching for the nearest loose, heavyish object. She needed something fast. Something she could wield easily.
The phone.
It would be no match for a gun, but it would have to do. It might, at least, provide enough of a distraction that she’d have time to slip out and go in search of Brooks.
She snatched it up, tearing it from the wall, then positioned herself to the side of the door frame. And just in time, too. As she lifted the phone over her head, the door flew open and a bulky figure—definitely not dressed in a hotel uniform—darkened the space there. Maryse swung the makeshift weapon with as much force as she could muster.
But the man entering the room was quicker than she anticipated. His wide fingers closed on her wrist and squeezed.
Maryse’s hand released, and the phone fell from her grip. It clattered to the ground, useless any longer.
No.
She closed her eyes and dropped open her mouth, prepared to let out a scream. Her attacker was still quicker. A meaty palm landed on her mouth, muffling the sound. Then he was dragging her into the room, ignoring the way she gnashed her teeth against his skin, acting like he couldn’t feel the booted foot she slammed into his shin. And he was speaking to her, too. He was saying something in a low, insistent voice that was probably supposed to be soothing.
“Maryse.”
He knows my name.
“Maryse!”
She threw back an elbow.
“Dammit, ouch. Maryse, it’s me. It’s Brooks.”
And it finally registered. It was him.
Her body sagged so hard that she was sure he was now holding her up rather than holding her back. He released her mouth, but kept the arm around her waist in place for several more seconds.
“You didn’t do the knock,” Maryse said, her voice breathless.
“I’m sorry. It went out of my head. We have a bigger problem. And I think it’s about to—” A sharp crack sounded from the other side of the room and cut him off.
Maryse’s eyes flew toward the noise. A heavy curtain covered the source, but she knew on the other side was a set of sliding glass doors. Someone was breaking in.
“C’mon,” Brooks urged.
He slid his hand to hers, then turned toward the door. But before they could make it two steps, the click of a cocking gun sounded from behind them.
“Drop her hand,” ordered a gruff voice. “Or I’ll fire.”
Immediately, Brooks’s warm fingers left hers.
“Good,” added the voice. “Now move back and step apart. Slowly.”
And Maryse didn’t dare do anything but comply.
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