Second: a woman had just collapsed on the twenty-foot-high scaffolding above him. And could be dead. Only the multiple calls to 9-1-1 disrupted the stunned silence from the photography crew and models looking on from the ground floor at the charity calendar photoshoot.

Kyle ran toward the scaffolding.

A redheaded model sprinted past him wearing trendy jeans and heeled boots.

No, the third disaster wasn’t the event.

Kyle had been warned redheads were trouble by his own ginger-haired grandmother. He grabbed the redhead’s wrist to keep her from being injured. One model down was more than enough. “The photographer’s assistant called 9-1-1. We don’t need another casualty for the paramedics when they get here.”

She scowled, deep and intense, as if he’d insulted her, not protected her. Her mascara heavy, her eyes narrowed on him like twin rifle scopes. “Then you should stay down here.”

With that, she yanked free of Kyle’s hold and scaled the scaffolding he’d intended to climb.

“Trouble,” Kyle muttered. His grandmother had been right after all. He followed the headstrong model up the ladder, albeit much less gracefully. The redhead scaled the steel structure like a seasoned acrobat from a Cirque du Soleil show.

Francesca Lang, the older model who’d collapsed, had been one of San Francisco’s favorite models for decades. Her face had adorned city billboards and commercials alike. She was to be the face of January for the charity calendar. She’d been poised on the platform to look like she’d scaled a high-rise and conquered life. Now she was powerless and barely breathing.

Seeing her, Kyle forgot about his problems and tried to remember the basics of CPR. Compressions and breath ratios.

He needn’t have worried.

The redhead confidently checked the older model’s airways and felt for a pulse, making him wonder if her parents had encouraged her to have a backup plan to modeling. “Help me get her harness off.”

“That’s on her for safety.” What if Francesca went into convulsions? She might drop to her death.

“She needs to be able to breathe easier and deeper.” The redhead unzipped the older woman’s jumpsuit. “Help me, please.”

“Tell me what to do.”

And she did. For the first time in a long time, Kyle felt vital. There was progress, too. Francesca seemed to breathe easier without the suit, although she still hadn’t regained consciousness.

The redhead greeted the arriving paramedics by their first names, calling out a pulse rate and other medical jargon as if she was the trained professional and Kyle was window dressing.

Too many tense minutes later, Francesca finally opened her eyes and was lowered off the scaffolding to the gurney waiting below.

The redhead had never flinched. Never panicked. Never paled like the other scared onlookers nearby. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was a hero.

The sirens from the ambulance faded as the EMTs drove off. Beside him, the red-haired model-turned-hero kicked a slate-gray earbud device across the platform with the toe of her high-heeled boot and mumbled what sounded like a bitter curse. “I should have guessed she was wearing one of these.”

Kyle eyed the all-too-familiar device with gut-sinking shame. He’d invented the medical ear bud. It was responsible for his instant celebrity. And for his flush bank accounts. It was also the one thing that could bring about his ruin in less than two months.

“Have something against medical earbuds?” He tried to press disinterest into his voice.

“Only if it’s a Medi-Spy.” She nudged the device farther away from her. “Those earbuds should be remarketed as a toy, not a medical alert device.”

He winced. “Really.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking less like a wannabe supermodel and more like a judge handing out a life sentence. “It gives faulty readings that send people to the ER unnecessarily, and it fails to recognize true emergencies in time.” Her frown deepened. “Then there’s also the totally unnecessary music feature and its sporadic connection with its own app and the dropped call rate.”

“It hasn’t exactly evolved in line with its original purpose,” Kyle allowed.

He knew the issues with his product, but he’d sold control of Medi-Spy to Tech Realized, Inc. without realizing he’d sold his soul, as well. With every royalty check he cashed, he watched the earbud become more commercialized to increase the profits. Bluetooth? Music options? He wasn’t sure he even remembered the heart of the design anymore.

“Anything else wrong with the device?” The harsh bite in his tone was self-directed. He expected her to identify him as a failure next. His reputation and Medi-Spy’s were closely linked.

“That’s only the highlights of the Medi-Spy’s faults.” She eased by him toward the ladder. “If you really want to see how often that particular earbud fails, ride along during one of my shifts. I’m a paramedic.”

“But you’re here,” he blurted out. “Don’t you mean past tense?” She was gorgeous. The green in her eyes matched

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