Rapunzel in New York. Nikki LoganЧитать онлайн книгу.
out there at least the quarter hour it had taken him to get uptown. The chances of her lasting another twenty?
Not high.
He glanced around at the many spectators who were doing exactly nothing to rectify the situation and swallowed a groan. There was a reason he was more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. Behind the scenes had served him well his whole life. You got a lot done when you weren’t wasting time as the center of attention. He paid people to do the limelight thing.
Unfortunately, none of them were here.
He was.
Nathan looked back up at the looming building and the woman perched precariously on it. Hadn’t these old walls contained enough misery?
He muttered a curse and his legs started moving. Had nobody thought of doing this sooner? He pushed past a gaggle of onlookers and headed toward the building, counting windows as he went. It took him three minutes to get into his own building and up to the eighth floor, and he passed three residents on the stairs up to the tenth—they had no clue about the drama unfolding in their own building. If they saw it on the news tonight they’d be kicking themselves they missed it. Not that it was making the news tonight, or any night while he still breathed. His development didn’t need the bad press. He hadn’t worked on it all this time only to have it turned upside down by a woman with a blown psychiatric fuse.
Nate burst through the stairwell door and turned left, counting the windows he knew to be on the outside of the building. Nine … ten … eleven … On twelve, he paused for only a second before delivering a strategic kick right at the weak point in the door of apartment 10B. As fragile as the rest of the century old building, it exploded inwards in a shower of splinters.
Inside, the apartment was neat and carefully decorated but small enough that he was able to check all the five rooms in less than thirty seconds, even with a limp from the jar that had just about snapped his ankle. Three rooms had outside windows that were sealed tight—safety measures. But, apparently back at the turn of the twentieth century some architect had considered that only grown men needed to be saved from themselves, because every apartment had one more window—small and awkwardly positioned above the toilet cistern, but just big enough for a slight woman to wiggle through. Or a young boy.
He knew that from experience.
This one stood wide open, its tasteful lemon curtains blowing gently in the breeze, providing access onto 10B’s sheltered ledge.
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