Angels and Outlaws Page 2

  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.

  2

  “HI, I’M SAM. What’s your name?”

  Excuse me?

  Very carefully Cass turned her head to meet the astute dark gray eyes of the obviously insane man sticking his head out of her office window and chatting her up as if they were at a singles meet-and-greet.

  “Um, Cass Richards,” she replied because she’d been raised to be polite. What she really wanted was to tell him to take a hike. Staying on the window ledge was chore enough—she didn’t need him distracting her.

  “Cass Richards?” There was a strange tone in his voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cass, listen to me, whatever is driving you out on the window ledge is fixable. Suicide is not the solution.”

  Suicide?

  What on earth was he babbling about? He thought she wanted to kill herself? Well, that was just dumb. What she wanted was to get back inside, find a blow-dryer and a hot latte.

  Cass started to reach up a hand to push her damp hair off her face, but the movement made her teeter precariously on her high heels. She glanced down again, saw firemen running around blowing up one of those big inflatable jumpy thingies stuntmen used in the movies and positioning it directly below her.

  The building seemed to sway.

  Horns honked. The crowd was shouting up at her, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying above the rumble of the fire engines and the wind whistling around the corner of the brownstone.

  “Look at me, Cass,” Sam said, his voice low and soothing.

  She snapped her gaze to his rugged face, grateful to have something, anything to look at besides the traffic below.

  He pinned her to the ledge with his eyes. They were solid and deep. How could she fall as long as he was looking at her like that?

  You won’t fall, his expression declared. I won’t let you.

  And for some unfathomable reason, she believed the promise on his face.

  “Let’s talk about it,” he gently cajoled.

  “Okay.” Why not? Anything to get her mind off the fact that she was inches away from cracking her skull into multiple pieces.

  “Is this about a man?” he asked.

  Wasn’t that just like a guy to assume she’d want to fling herself to the pavement over some man? She was half tempted to tell him it was about a woman simply to see surprise spark his eyes.

  “FYI,” she said. “I have absolutely no intention of jumping.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s very good. So this is just a plea for help. To get someone to listen. To have your pain heard.”

  “Nooo.”

  Who was this guy? And where in the heck had he come from? She hadn’t ordered a touchy-feely buttinsky psychologist to go. What she wanted was some big, strong strapping hero to throw her over his shoulder and walk her safely off this damned ledge.

  She eyed him.

  Under the circumstances she shouldn’t have noticed his short sandy brown hair, obviously styled by a discount barber, but the fashionista in her wouldn’t be stilled. A great haircut would go a long way in accenting his interesting cheekbones and some blond highlights would coax a bit of color into his desert gray eyes.

  He leaned out the window. His shoulders were broad and his chest strapping. No matter what idealistic sentiment he might have just expressed in order to keep her from jumping off the ledge, clearly he was not by nature the sort of man who got in touch with his inner feelings or indulged in hundred-dollar haircuts.

  The set of his shoulders, the nonchalant way he was dressed in rumpled khakis and an untucked button-down blue chambray shirt told her he was a working class Joe. Salt of the earth, this one.

  “What is it about, Cass?”

  She raised the hand she’d fisted around the scarf.

  “Ah,” he said. “I get it. You’re up here for a cause. Taking a stand against some political or economical or social injustice.”

  “Nooo.”

  Boy was he off base. She would have shaken her head but she was afraid the movement would make her even dizzier then she already was.

  “I’m listening, Cass. You can tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Well, gee thanks for the concern, Sam, but nothing’s bothering me.”

  “Then why are you on that ledge?”

  He looked so sincere, so worried for her safety that she felt a little silly saying it. “I came out for the Hermès.”

  “Pardon?” He appeared confused and she realized the problem.

  “I’m talking about the scarf.”

  “What about the scarf?”

  “It blew off my neck.”

  As Cass watched, his face changed from earnest to perplexed. “Let me get this straight. You climbed out on a window ledge for a scarf?”

  “Eight stories really doesn’t seem that high until you’re out here.”

  He was looking at her as if she was the most foolish woman on the planet and actually right now, that’s exactly how she felt.

  “It’s a Hermès,” she explained.

  “F
or a scarf?” he repeated.

  “A very expensive scarf.”

  “Lady,” he growled, all trace of the understanding, considerate, suicide-jumper-talker-downer vanishing, “you’re nuts.”

  “Gee, that’s not very nice.”

  “What kind of shallow, narcissistic, materialistic, egocentric…”

  “You can give it a rest. I get the picture. If I’m a jumper then you’re all sympathetic and helpful but if I’m just…”

  “Blond,” he supplied.

  She glared. “I was going to say rash.”

  “This is way past rash and well on the road to foolhardy.”

  Cass sniffed. He was right, but she didn’t have to admit it. “Apparently we don’t share the same value system.”

  “Hell,” he said. “I don’t think we even share the same solar system.”

  “Be that as it may,” she said snippily, “I did come out here and now I’m too nervous to climb back in, so if you’d be so kind as to please go find a nice fireman or policeman to come rescue me, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I am a policeman.”

  “You don’t look like a policeman.”

  “I’m a detective. I don’t wear a uniform.”

  She groaned inwardly and rolled her eyes. Just her luck. She’d drawn a cop who was a bad dresser with an attitude to match.

  He held out his hand. “Come back in.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Every time I try to move I get dizzy and start to lose my balance.”

  He eyed the ground and then cussed under his breath.

  What? Panic shot through her. Did he know something she didn’t?

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Then why are you cursing?”

  “If it weren’t for you I’d be having Starbucks and Krispy Kremes right about now.”

  “Shoo,” she said, but didn’t dare motion with her hands. She’d already moved around too much. “Go on. Go shoot your cholesterol through the roof. Sorry to ruin your day.”

  “Hang on. I’ll come get you.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “Tough. You’ve got it.” With that, he grimly thrust himself out the window and onto the ledge.