Читать книгу Angels and Outlaws - Lori Wilde - Страница 6

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DON’T LOOK DOWN.

Cassandra “Cass” Richards, assistant public relations representative to the haute couture house of Isaac Vincent, stood trembling on a window ledge eight floors above Broadway in Manhattan’s garment district. One wrong move and she would plummet like a runway model’s weight two weeks before the spring collection debut.

Suddenly, shimmying after her Hermès scarf, which had caught on one of the brownstone’s grim-faced gargoyles, seemed more and more like a very bad idea. The brisk spring breeze had whisked it off her neck when she’d leaned out the open window to wave goodbye to her best friend, Marissa Suarez, who was heading off to the Caribbean with her boyfriend and had stopped by the office to leave Cass a key to her apartment just in case.

Wind whipped up her smart pink pencil skirt, sending a bone chill up her spine and causing her to realize that wearing a g-string thong today was probably not the brightest impulse she’d ever had.

And let’s face it, in her much-prized four-inch Manolo Blahnik pink patent leather Mary Janes that had set her back a full month’s salary, she was at a distinct disadvantage for navigating the eight- inch-wide cement outcropping.

How did she keep getting herself into these ridiculous fixes? She bit down on her bottom lip and eyed the traffic below.

Her head reeled dizzily.

Don’t look down.

She was pressed flush against the side of the building, arms splayed out at her sides, the coveted Hermès scarf clutched tightly in her right hand. She wrinkled her nose at the thought of what the dirty bricks were doing to her glamorous outfit.

When she’d first climbed onto the ledge it hadn’t seemed so scary because her attention had been fixed on the scarf. She had leaned out, never meaning to actually end up on the protrusion, but then she’d discovered her reach wasn’t quite long enough. She’d winnowed her hips through the window frame just to give her an extra couple of inches.

Close, but not close enough.

Don’t look down.

She’d held tightly to the frame, swung her legs around and then edged out onto the ledge. Two, three steps maximum was all it had taken to reach that first gargoyle.

Unfortunately, just as Cass had grasped for the recalcitrant scarf, the wind grabbed it again and fluttered it over to a second gargoyle a good four feet farther on down the ledge.

She hadn’t thought about anything except how many lunches she’d had to skip to afford the damned thing. Now, one wrong move and she wouldn’t have to worry about missed lunches or expensive scarves or passersby staring up her skirt ever again.

Please get me out of this alive and I promise, promise, promise I’ll be less impetuous in future, she bargained with the heavens.

She got her answer in the form of raindrops spattering on her head.

Terrific.

Apparently, there would be no divine intervention forthcoming today. Her salvation was up to her. Thank God her mascara was waterproof, but her hair was doomed to frizz.

“You can do this,” she told herself. “You got out here, you can get back. One step at a time.”

She made a tentative move toward the window she’d come out of, knees trembling with cold and fear. The heel of one stiletto hung on a crack in the cement ledge. Cass stumbled and for one horrifying moment she thought she was done for, but an updraft of wind pushed her into the brownstone instead of away from it.

Don’t look down.

Her heart pounded and her stomach roiled. She was never going to get off this precipice and all for a damned scarf.

Ah, but it wasn’t just any scarf.

She’d purchased the Hermès two days after her older sister, Morgan, had closed on a magnificent six-bedroom dream home in Connecticut that she planned on filling with children.

Cass had been happy for Morgan, who was married to the most perfect guy—the sort of down-to-earth, good-hearted man that Cass figured she’d never find for herself. Not that she was looking. Adam was a Wall Street investment banker with a flair for making money and a penchant for spending it on his wife, but Cass wasn’t jealous of her sister’s husband or their grand home or their affluent suburban lifestyle.

No, she’d maxed out her Visa on the scarf because wearing expensive, gorgeous things made her feel better about herself. With her parents bragging about Morgan and pointedly asking when Cass was going to settle down and get married and start producing grandchildren, she’d felt pressured and overshadowed.

And the Hermès had done its job, snapping her right out of her funk.

Truthfully, she liked her life exactly as it was. She wasn’t on the prowl for Mr. Right. She was having too much fun being young and single and dating in the most vibrant city in the world. She’d snagged her dream job at Isaac Vincent. She adored her fourth-floor walkup in Tribeca. Loved that she never had to cook. Treasured her freedom to come and go as she pleased and spend her money on whatever she wanted.

Including exorbitantly priced fashion accessories.

She wasn’t even sure that she ever wanted the husband, the kids and the house. Deep down inside, she doubted she could handle such an awesome responsibility as a family of her own. Best leave that to dutiful Morgan.

But still, sometimes…sometimes…she couldn’t help wondering what she was missing out on.

And when Cass got those itchy feelings, Cass went shopping.

Hence the Hermès.

Made from the purest silk twill. Paisley patterned and pleated and colored with the truest dyes. The hues in the scarf collaborated with a dozen different outfits and she wore it often. It wasn’t as if she’d bought the scarf and then shoved it in the back of her closet. That scarf made her feel rich and important and worthy.

Yet here she was, on the verge of trading her life for a scrap of fancy material.

What was wrong with this picture?

She hazarded another look down, saw that a knot of gawkers had gathered and were pointing up.

Oh, joy.

She groaned as fresh nausea rolled through her. And then she saw the television crew.

The wind gusted again, whistling around the side of the brownstone. Could people see up her skirt? Cass blushed.

Okay, it was official. Things couldn’t get any suckier. She was stuck out on a window ledge, in the rain, inches from death and after the noon news hit the air everyone in New York was going to know what kind of panties she wore.

DETECTIVE SERGEANT SAM MASON followed the collective gaze of the murmuring crowd, spied the woman clinging to the ledge of the building he’d been about to enter and his blood ran cold.

He counted the floors. Eight stories up. Bizarre. He’d been headed for the eighth floor.

“Jump,” hollered a punk kid in the crowd.

“Jump, jump.” Another snickering teen picked up the chant as if the possibility of someone’s death was just a big joke.

“Shut up,” Sam commanded, scowling then flashing his badge at the clueless teens. Had people lost all sense of common decency? “Or I’ll arrest you on the spot.”

The punks sobered and did as he said. Sam swung his gaze back to the jumper.

She’d picked a miserable day for it. The light sprinkles that had greeted him three blocks ago when he’d gotten off the subway had changed into a steady drizzle. The wind whipped wild and biting.

Honey, he thought, and mentally willed her back inside, whoever the guy is who’s driven you to this, he’s just not worth it.

She took a step sideways toward the open window several feet to her left. He prayed she was reconsidering her suicide bid. Then she stumbled and almost lost her balance.

The crowd gasped. By some hand of fate, she managed at the last moment to correct herself. Sam’s heart stilled and a flash of déjà vu fisted his gut. In his mind’s eye ten years dropped away and it was his second week on the job as an NYPD rookie beat cop.

That woman had been a jumper, too, distraught over the breakup of her marriage, perched precariously on the Brooklyn Bridge. Sam had sweet-talked, he’d cajoled, he’d made promises he couldn’t really keep and he had sweated it.

The woman seemed to calm down. To grow peaceful and quiet. Sam believed he’d won. He’d held her in his hands for a brief moment, arrogantly thinking that he had saved her. Then she’d met his gaze with her sad, soulful blue eyes that were too big for her face and she’d simply let go, taking that one fatal step backward into the black abyss.

He’d had nightmares about her for weeks afterward, waking in the middle of the night sweaty and guilty. Cringing, Sam briefly closed his eyes, blocking out the memory.

No. He could not, would not, let it happen again. This time he was older, wiser, more experienced, less full of himself. He was being given a second chance. This time he would save her.

He bound into the building, his brain speeding ahead of him, mapping out rescue strategies. One of the elevators was at the ground floor.

“Hold the door,” he shouted, but the doors bumped closed just as he reached the lift.

“Dammit,” he cursed, frantically jabbing the up button repeatedly. He swung his gaze to the lighted numbers above the remaining elevators. None of them were near the ground floor.

Swearing again, he tore around the corner in search of the stairwell.

“Sir, sir, excuse me, sir.”

The lobby receptionist he’d ignored came chasing after him, her heels striking snap-snap-snap against the cement floor. She caught him at the stairwell door.

“Sir, you must check in at the security desk before you can go up.”

“NYPD,” he growled at the woman. “You’ve got a jumper on the eighth floor.”

Startled, she raised a hand to her throat. “Oh my goodness.”

“Call the fire department and tell them what’s happening,” Sam ordered.

She stood there stunned.

“Now!” he shouted and shouldered through the door into the stairwell.

He took the steps two at a time, the vein in his forehead throbbing from exertion. Less than a minute later he burst onto the eighth floor, chest heaving, sweat on his brow. People in the hallway turned to stare, but he ignored them.

Gotta save her. Can’t let it happen again.

He had a chance for redemption. He wouldn’t let her slip through his fingers, wouldn’t be responsible for sending someone else over the edge.

Sam rushed past several offices that he knew weren’t in the right spot. He zipped through a great room thronged with ribbon-thin models in various stages of undress. Any other time and he might have been tempted to ogle, but not today.

Designers and tailors and seamstresses bustled to and fro. Bolts of lush colorful fabric littered tables, with bows and lace and sewing supplies scattered about. Sam’s eyes darted around the room. Clearly, no one realized that a young woman, quite possibly one of their coworkers, was perched on the window ledge preparing to take her own life.

This was taking too long. He had to get to her before she jumped.

He flung open the door of the next office he came to, angling straight for the window. The sign on the door identified it as Isaac Vincent’s public relations office. The person Sam had come here to interview about a string of high-end home robberies worked in this very office.

Weird coincidence.

Except Sam didn’t believe in coincidences. But he had no time to piece the puzzle together.

The office lay empty.

Sirens shrieked. Thank God the fire department was on the way.

Pulse racing, he rushed to the window and poked his head out, just as his old childhood fear blindsided him like a blow to the brain.

Sam Mason was terrified of heights.