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
