Rapunzel in New York

Nathan’s heart hammered from way more than the urgent sprint up two flights of stairs. He took a deep, tense breath, climbed onto the closed lid of the toilet and peered out the window, sickeningly prepared to find nothing but pigeon droppings and a swirl of air where a woman had just been.

But she was still out there, her back to him as she stretched out on the ledge on all fours, giving him a great view of her denim-clad behind …

… and the tangle of ropes and rigging that fixed her more than securely to the ledge.

Frustrated fury bubbled up deep inside. Of all the stupid-ass, time-wasting stunts. He boosted himself up and half through the window and barked to her butt, “Honey, you’d better be planning to jump, or I’m going to throw you off here myself.”

Viktoria Morfitt spun so fast she nearly lost her careful balance on the ledge. Her reflexes were dulled through lack of use, but her muscle memory was still entirely intact, and it choreographed her muscles now to brace her more securely on the narrow stone shelf. Adrenaline pulsed through her bloodstream and her lungs sucked in an ache of cold air and then expelled it on a ripe curse as she spotted the man wedged in her bathroom window glaring at her like a maniac. His voice had drawn her attention, but his words whooshed away on the relentless New York sounds coming up from Morningside’s streets.

What the—? She shuffled backward as far as the ledge allowed and knocked against the peregrine nest box she’d just been installing.

The stranger lurched farther forward, half hanging out the window, enormous hands stretched out toward her, and spoke more clearly. More slowly. “Easy, honey. Just a joke. How about you come back inside now?”

She wasn’t fooled by those treacle tones for one moment. Or the intense eyes. Bad guys never turned up at your doorstep badly scarred, carrying violin cases and talking like Robert deNiro. They turned up like this: nice shirt, open collar, careless hair and designer stubble. Big, well-manicured hands. Good-looking. Exactly the sort of guy you’d think was okay to let inside your apartment.

Except that he’d already let himself in.

For one crazy second Tori considered leaping off the ledge. Her intruder could help himself to her stuff—whatever he wanted—and she could lower herself down to Barney’s ledge. He’d be home for sure and his bathroom window was perpetually open so he could smoke out of it. Her hand slipped to the titanium fixings at her pelvis. Her rigging would hold. It always did.

A sharp pain gnawed deep and low. Almost always.

She raised her voice instead, hoping to alert a neighbour. “How about you get the heck out of my apartment!” Tension thumped out of her in waves that translated into quavers in her voice. Could he tell?

He reached forward again. “Look—”

Tori slid hard up against the corner of the building, clambering around the nest box. Dammit, any farther and she’d knock it off the ledge and have to start all over again. Well, that and possibly kill someone walking below.

She glanced easily over the ledge and met the intense stares of thirty or so passersby and a couple of NYPD officers. “Hey!” she yelled down to the cops. “Get up here! There’s a burglar in my apartment—10B!”

The stranger surged through the window and made a grab for her foot. She kicked it away, then stole a moment to glance back down. Two of the cops were running towards her building.

Heat poured off the contemptuous look he shot at her. “You know what? I have a meeting to get back to. So either go ahead and jump or get the hell back in here.” With that, he disappeared back into her apartment.

Jump? She glanced back down at the crowd below, their expectant faces all peering up. At her.

Oh … no!

Heat surged up her throat. Someone must have called her in as a jumper when she was out on the ledge. He thought she was a jumper. But while most of them stood below waiting for the aerial show, only one had had the nerve to race up here and actually try to help her.

He deserved points for that.

“Wait!”

She scrabbled toward the now-vacant window and crouched to look inside. He was taller than he looked when he was squashed through her tiny window—broader, too—and he completely filled the doorway to her bathroom. Self-preservation made her pause. Him being good-looking didn’t change the fact he was a stranger. And she wasn’t much on strangers.

Tori peered in at him. “I’ll come in when you’re not there.”

He rolled his eyes, then found hers again. “Fine. I’ll be in the hall.”

Then he was gone.

She swiveled on her bottom and slid her legs quickly through the tiny window, stretching down until her feet hit the toilet lid. Then she unclipped her brace-line with the ease of years of practice, clenched her abs, and brought her torso through in a twist that would have been right at home in Cirque du Soleil.

As good as his word, he’d moved out into the very public hallway. But between them lay a forest of timber shards.

“You kicked in my door?” She hit a pitch she usually heard only from the peregrine falcons that circled her building looking for somewhere to raise their chicks.

A frustrated breath shot from between his thin lips. “Apologies for assuming you were about to die.”

He didn’t look the slightest bit apologetic, but he did look stunningly well-dressed and gorgeous, despite the aloof arch of his eyebrows. Just then two uniformed officers exploded through the fire-escape doors and bolted toward them.

“He kicked in my door!” Tori repeated for their benefit.

Taller than either of the cops, he turned toward them easily, unconcerned. “Officers—”

They hit him like a subway car, slamming his considerable bulk up against the wall and forcing him into a frisk position. He winced at the discomfort and then squeezed his head sideways so that he could glare straight into her flared eyes.

Guilt gnawed wildly. He hadn’t actually hurt her. Or even tried to.

He simmered while they roughly frisked him up and down, relieving him of his phone and wallet and tossing them roughly to the ground. He stared at her the whole time, as though this was her fault and not his. But that molten gaze was even more unsettling close up and so she bent to retrieve his property and busied herself dusting them carefully off while the police pressed his face to the wall.

“What are you doing here?” one asked.

“Same thing you are. Checking on a jumper.”

“That’s our job, sir,” the second cop volunteered as he finished searching the stranger’s pockets.

The man looked back over his shoulder at the first officer, his hands still carefully pressed out to both sides. “Didn’t look like it was going to happen before nightfall.”

“Protocols,” the first cop muttered tightly, a flush rushing up his thick neck.

They shoved him back into the wall for good measure and Tori winced on his behalf. Okay, this had gone far enough.

“Are you responsible for this?” The taller cop spoke before she could, leaning around to have a good look at the gaping entrance to her apartment where the door hung from just one ancient, struggling hinge. “This is damage to private property.”

“Actually I think you’ll find it’s my property,” the man gritted out.

All three faces swiveled back to him. “Excuse me?” the taller cop asked.

The man slowly turned, his hands still in clear view. “My name is Nathan Archer. I own this building.” He nodded at the wallet that Tori still held. “My identification’s in there.”

All sympathy for him vanished between breaths. “You’re our landlord?” She held his property out numbly.

One of the officers pulled the man’s driver’s license from the wallet and confirmed his identification. “This confirms your name but not your ownership of this building.”

He looked at Tori. “Who do you pay rent to?”

A money-hungry, capitalist corporate shark.Tori narrowed her eyes. “Sanmore Holdings.”