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 Hermรจs 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 Hermรจs 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 Hermรจs 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 โ 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 Hermรจs 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, sometimesโฆsometimesโฆshe couldn't help wondering
what she was missing out on.
And when Cass got those itchy feelings, Cass went shopping.
Hence the Hermรจs.
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 suck-ier.
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 dรฉjร
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 num-
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Article 02: Untitled
bers 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.
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