Angels and Outlaws

“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.

“For 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.