Angels and Outlaws Page 3

  She felt his movements vibrate straight up through the concrete precipice and she tensed. He had a pragmatic way about him, the aura of a man doing his duty whether he liked it or not.

  She didn’t like being his duty.

  He came toward her as casually as if he were walking his dog in Central Park instead of traversing a ledge no wider than a shoebox. She stood in awe. Where had he acquired such utter self-confidence? He looked as if he owned the world and everything in it.

  Including her.

  Hell, it had even stopped raining.

  He wasn’t at all like the well-bred, well-dressed men she normally hung out with. Cass’s breath escaped her lungs in a sharp, inexplicable gasp. A shiver slipped down her spine and she had no idea if it was due to the danger she was in or to the man heading for her.

  His face was rugged, chiseled. His mouth determined. His eyes incisive. He was the sort of man who made a woman feel safe.

  Since when have you ever opted for safe?

  Uncontrollably, her gaze fell to the street. Since now. Her knees weakened.

  “Look at me, Cass,” Sam, the sexy detective, commanded.

  The fire trucks were a swirl of red, the crowd a muddle of melted faces. Her fingers cramped from holding on to the wall and she felt as if she was coming unraveled at the seams.

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly, she raised her chin and met his eyes.

  “Atta girl. Hold on. I’m almost there.”

  She’d never been attracted to rough-hewn, macho types before. Give her suave and debonair any day. Except right now, she was mighty glad to have him.

  To distract herself she imagined him in a tuxedo at one of Isaac Vincent’s exclusive parties, drinking champagne and making idle chitchat with supermodels and fashion designers.

  Cass was creative, but no matter how hard she tried that was one image that refused to be conjured. This guy belonged at a bar called O’Malley’s or MacDougall’s with a mug of warm beer in front of him and a knot of buddies chalking pool cues and making off-color jokes about the waitresses.

  But she could see him as a proud Scottish pirate at the bow of his sailing ship gazing out at the new land he was about to pillage. Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she was a maiden in that faraway land being captured by her conqueror and made to service him in so many shameful, pleasurable ways.

  A vision of their entwined bodies muscled out her fear. She pictured Sam’s heavy, potent hands caressing her heated skin with tender urgency…his clever gunmetal gray eyes assembling secret knowledge about her body. He noted what his touch did to her, what made her arch her back, what caused her to moan. In an intense and surreal flash of awareness Cass saw his hard-muscled body covering hers, guiding her to a fevered pitch time and time again.

  A warm tingle gripped her and her mouth filled with moisture.

  Was she perverted? Or was this a perfectly natural response to hovering on the verge of death? Perhaps it was preferable that one’s last thoughts should be centered on a marvelous sexual fantasy rather than the gruesome alternative.

  By the time Sam reached her they were both breathing hard and when his eyes met hers, she could have sworn it was the devil himself peering deep into her.

  The air around her solidified with a thick, masculine heat and Cass fought off the urge to squirm.

  “Take my hand.”

  She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to be rescued, but for a split second there, she didn’t know which was more treacherous. Touching him or staying out here on the ledge.

  His grip was hot and reassuring. She looked him in the eyes. His smile was tight, the outline of his lips white. He’d made the trip down the rain-slick ledge look easy, but it was not.

  Her legs, strained by the high heels, the cold wet wind and a big dose of fear, quivered precariously.

  “One step at a time.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  A fireman on the street hollered something up at them through a bullhorn, but Cass couldn’t hear anything except the voice inside her head telling her that it was all over, that she was going to die and she better make the best of the short time she had left.

  What would Sam do if she asked him to kiss her?

  “Ignore the guy with the bullhorn,” Sam said. “Listen to me. I’ll get you out of this.”

  She looked down and immediately swooned. Her knees crumpled and if Sam hadn’t had his fingers locked tightly around her wrist she would have been lost.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “What!”

  “Close your eyes and listen to me.”

  But she couldn’t. She was too panicked, too scared to trust a man she didn’t know. She kept looking down and down and down.

  Her vision swirled. She cried out and grabbed for Sam’s shirt.

  “Cass, no,” he shouted. “You’ll knock me off balance.”

  But his warning came too late.

  Together they tumbled off the ledge.

  HER BUTT WAS IN HIS PALM.

  Something very akin to excitement stirred his blood, accelerated his breathing, hummed his heartbeat.

  They’d fallen eight stories locked in each other’s arms and the only thing Sam could think about was Cass Richards’s butt.

  That cute butt saved him from his fear of heights, from his fear of falling, from darn near the fear of everything.

  Her skirt was hiked up and his palm was splayed across her bare bottom. Lord love her, she was wearing a thong.

  And it was the softest, sweetest bottom he’d ever held. She was a slender woman, not supermodel slim, but not fleshy either.

  Except for that glorious fanny. It was full and kneadable and splendid.

  And his body responded in a solely masculine way. Talk about unprofessional.

  They landed, with a tight controlled bounce, on the giant airbag the fire department had inflated underneath the eighth floor office. They were positioned squarely in the middle—a textbook landing—and still a good ten feet off the ground and Sam’s hand was on Cass’s delectable backside.

  It was a sensation he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life.

  “Get your hand off my ass,” she snapped, and rolled away from him.

  So much for pleasant dreams.

  “Sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t the least bit contrite.

  He deserved some small compensation for battling his dread fear of heights in order to rescue her. She had no idea how much that little trip had cost him. How hard he’d had to fake his bravery in order to force himself out onto that ledge.

  Or how much landing alive in the airbag with her meant to him. He’d faced his fear and in doing so he’d saved her life.

  Well, okay, technically the fire department had saved her, but if he hadn’t told the receptionist to call the fire department they both would have been wearing halos and playing harps by now.

  Or the way your mind is working, wearing horns and dancing with pitchforks.

  Right.

  A fireman was already at the edge of the airbag, reaching out, helping her slide off. By the time Sam worked his way to the edge, Cass was standing on the street, surrounded by reporters, looking like a princess holding court.

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  He should have known. Once upon a time he’d been married to a prima donna princess for nine, very long, miserable months. He knew far too well how the species operated.

  No one gave him a second look and he found himself pushed back with the rest of the crowd, inconsequential as froth on a mug of beer. She was the consummate PR professional, making opportunity out of a mishap—milking the media coverage for all she was worth, smiling to the bystanders, flirting with the cameramen, poised as a movie star.

  She craved attention. That much was clear. Question was, how far would she go to get it?

  It was only after she’d been whisked away in an awaiting limousine—he had no idea where that had come from, but prima donna prin
cesses did have their minions—Sam realized he’d never gotten to tell her why he’d come to see her in the first place.

  Someone had been stealing valuable jewelry from Cass Richards’s circle of affluent friends and Sam had to question if Cass really had been on the ledge after a scarf. It was a thin story. Could a guilty conscience actually have been the driving force behind her impromptu perch instead?

  3

  “CASS, DID YOU HEAR what I just said?”

  “Huh?” Cass raised her chin, looking up from the antique Christmas plates she’d been sorting in the basement of her older sister’s quaint and cozy antique shop in Fairfield, Connecticut. She wiped the dust off Ten Lords a Leaping with a damp cloth—wondering quite incidentally what all the leaping was about—and blinked at Morgan.

  “Is something the matter? You’ve been distracted all morning.”

  “Just thinking about that fall I took off the eighth-floor window ledge.”

  And about Sam’s big masculine hand on my fanny.

  Damn, the sexual drought she’d been in was wreaking havoc with her imagination. Truth was she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. That low, steady, horse-whisperer kind of voice he possessed made you feel as if you could trust every single word he said.

  Morgan shuddered. “I’d think you’d want to forget all about that. Isn’t that why you volunteered to help me out this weekend? To get away from the city and being reminded of what happened.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. So what was it that you just asked?”

  “Are you still seeing Marcos? I’m having a dinner party Friday week and…”

  “Dumped him,” Cass said quickly.

  “Really? Already? You’d only been going with him what, a month?”

  “Believe me, a month was enough.”

  “But he seemed so nice and his family is in the social registry and he’s so good-looking and so…”

  “Clingy.”

  “You think any man who wants to be exclusive is clingy.” Morgan took a box cutter, slit the tape on a large cardboard box, pushed back the flaps and began carefully taking out rare antique books.

  “He was talking the m word after less than a month of dating and we’d never even slept together. Now that’s moving way too fast for me.”

  “He asked you to marry him?” Morgan looked up in surprise.

  “No, not that m word. He asked me to move in with him.”

  “I see why you had to dump him. Can’t have a guy who’d actually want to be with you.”

  “Ha, ha. And this is going to make you feel bad for making fun of me, but after the news coverage of my unfortunate window ledge episode, Bunnie Bernaldo told me Marcos has been spreading rumors up and down Long Island that he dumped me and I was so distraught I would have thrown myself off the Isaac Vincent building over the breakup if Sam hadn’t intervened. Of course anyone who knows me knows what a crock of bull that is. But can you believe that? I would never throw myself off a building over a man. The loss of a great pair of shoes, now maybe.”

  “Sam?” Morgan arched an eyebrow.

  “The cop that helped me down from the ledge the hard way.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis?”

  Cass shrugged. “Well, that’s how he introduced himself. As Sam.”

  “You like him,” Morgan teased.

  “Come on. I saw him once and that was under duress.”

  “Still.” Morgan nodded. “You like him.”

  “Not that much. He was kind of a smart aleck when he heard about the Hermès.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Children don’t scream in horror when he walks past if that’s what you mean.”

  “Cass’s got a new boyfriend.”

  “Shut up, I do not.”

  She wanted out of this conversation. The sooner the better. Cass spied a very old, ornately carved wooden box perched on a highboy in the corner. She got up, dusted off her hands and crossed the room to pick it up.

  “What’s this?”

  Morgan swiveled her head in Cass’s direction. “Intriguing, isn’t it. I found it hidden in a secret drawer of an antique dresser I bought along with the shop.”

  The box was intricately hand-carved with various patterns. Cass traced a finger over the carvings. They may have been symbols, she wasn’t sure, though they looked as if they were some kind of ancient hieroglyphics.

  Was it a code? The idea excited her.

  From the box emanated the faint scent of some rich, exotic spice. She held the box to her ear and shook it but neither heard nor felt anything inside.

  “What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s open it.” Cass loved secrets and surprises and encrypted code games and this was just the thing that she needed to take her mind off sexy Detective Sam.

  “We can’t.”

  “Oh, Morgan, don’t be such a party-pooper. It belongs to you. Why can’t we open it?”

  “There’s no key.”

  “Let’s jimmy the lock.” She turned the box over and realized there was no keyhole at all.

  Strange. A box with no opening.

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried? In fact I’ve developed a fascination with it. Who it belonged to, what happened to them, what’s inside. Adam says I’m obsessed.”

  “Are you?”

  Morgan shrugged, didn’t admit to anything. But Cass saw how her eyes gleamed when she looked at the box. “We could jam a screwdriver into it, pop it open like a clam.”

  “The box is really old. Hundreds of years, maybe even more. I don’t dare risk doing anything that could destroy it.”

  “Bummer.” Cass sighed, put the box back on the highboy and returned to sit cross-legged in front of the knickknacks she’d been cataloging.

  They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes and then Morgan said, “You do realize that your longest relationship was with a guy who lived in London and you only saw him a few times a year.”

  Cass smiled. “Oh yes, Nigel. He was the best of the lot.”

  “Because he didn’t get in your hair. That’s the way you like them, tall, dark and absent. Admit it, Cass. You’re commitmentphobic.”

  “Why do you consider me commitmentphobic simply because I’m not lining up to get married and have babies?” Cass asked. “I’m not commitmentphobic. I just haven’t found the right guy.”

  “What was wrong with Gregory Henderson? He was really nice and smart enough to keep up with you.”

  Cass waved a hand. “He had a high-pitched voice. Come on, could you face ‘til-death-do-you-part’ with a guy who sounds like he’s constantly inhaling helium?”

  Morgan tried not to smile. “What about Ross Roosevelt?”

  “The man wore a size twenty-two shoe. And before you ask, no, the myth about men with big feet having other big parts is not true—in fact it seemed to be quite the opposite in his case.”

  “Pete Kerns?”

  “Pul-leaze, he talked with his mouth full.”

  “You’re minimizing their good points and maximizing their bad.”

  “What? I should marry the first halfway decent guy who crosses my path simply because he is halfway decent?” Cass shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. If I get married it will have to be to someone who blows my socks off with Fourth-of-July fireworks both in bed and out.”

  “You’re romanticizing marriage. It’s not like that. You have to work at it.”

  “That’s why I don’t want to commit. I don’t want to have to work at being happy. I’m plenty happy all on my own. Besides, you have to remember, not everyone is as lucky as you, Morgan,” Cass retorted. Her sister had been married for a decade. She had no idea what it was like trying to find a good man these days. “Not everyone snags the perfect guy right from the get-go.”

  Morgan pursed her lips and dropped her gaze. “Adam’s not perfect.”

  “Of course he is.”

  Cass adored Adam. He was the big brother she’d
never had. He was bright and polite and caring, made a great living and he was very good-looking. Her sister was so lucky.

  “Nobody’s perfect.” Morgan’s tone of voice surprised her.

  “Are you guys having marital problems?” Cass asked.

  The idea shocked her. Sure, Adam and Morgan had been married for ten years, but they’d always been rock solid. As far as Cass knew they’d never even really had a serious argument.

  “No, no. Nothing like that, it’s just…” Morgan let her words trail off.

  “Just what?” Cass drew her knees to her chest and leaned forward.

  “Adam’s so busy with work and I’ve been preoccupied with opening the shop and given his long commute we don’t have as much time together as I hoped when we bought this place.” Morgan sighed. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re ever going to find time to start a family.”

  Cass felt melancholy. See there. That was one of the main reasons she didn’t want a long-term relationship. The passion always fizzled. No matter how much two people loved each other. It was inevitable. But she wasn’t one to dwell on problems for long. She was an action-oriented girl. If something was broke, well then you fixed it.

  “Why are you here with me? You should be spending your Sunday with Adam.”

  Morgan sighed. “He’s golfing with an important client.”

  “So why don’t you take up golf?”

  Her sister shot her a withering glance. “Yoga is as physical as I get.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem.” Cass grinned wickedly and started humming that old Olivia Newton-John song, “Physical.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re loaded with excess energy.”

  “Sorry,” Cass apologized. “I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

  “No, it’s okay. I need to lighten up. In fact, I’m really glad you’re here. You have a knack for making me see rainbows beyond the storm clouds.”

  Cass smiled at the compliment. “Have you tried fantasy role-playing? Bedroom toys? Sexy videos? I don’t mean to brag but I could steer you in the right direction if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for sex toys and naughty movies. I thought maybe a vacation.”

  “That’s a great place to start. Got any locales in mind?”