down a flight of stairs. He’d ruined her lunch. He’d hurt her—and she was trying to turn it into a joke.
‘Australian Braining New Yorker with Bagel is the least of our legal worries,’ he told her. ‘How about Corporate Idiot Shoves Australian Downstairs?’
She opened one eye and looked up at him. Cautiously. ‘You mean I can sue?’
‘For at least the cost of a bagel,’ he told her, and his words produced a smile.
It was a great smile. A killer smile. Her eyes were deeply green and they twinkled, as if it was their permanent state. Maybe she wasn’t twenty, he thought. Maybe she was older. With a smile like that… Well, a smile like that took practice.
He’d never seen a smile like it.
But he couldn’t stop and think about a woman’s smile. Or he shouldn’t. He was in a rush. The reason he’d used the fire stairs was that he was in a hurry. The lift had jammed at just the wrong time. His assistant would be waiting at street level, checking her watch. He had a deal to close.
But he couldn’t just leave this kid here.
He lifted his cellphone. ‘Ruby?’ he snapped as his assistant answered.
‘Marcus.’ This was a busy day, even for the super-efficient Ruby, and his assistant sounded worried. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on the fire-escape. Can you come up, please? I have a situation.’
As he tucked his phone back into his jacket he found himself suppressing a grin. A situation on the fire-escape. That’d have Ruby having kittens all the way up. Ruby was efficient but things like…well, situations on fire-escapes were unusual, even for Ruby.
She’d cope, he thought. Ruby always coped. But until the cavalry arrived he needed to focus on the girl.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, and found she was staring straight up at him now, both her eyes fully open. She’d rolled over on to her back. There was a dollop of jelly wedged under her curls near one ear, and he had the weirdest desire to wipe it away…
Heck, cut it out, Benson, he told himself. This was getting personal. He didn’t do personal. That was what Ruby was for.
But apparently the waif didn’t want his attention just as much as he didn’t wish to offer it. ‘Thank you for asking,’ she said politely. ‘But I’m fine. You can go away now.’
He blinked. ‘I can go away?’
‘You’re in a rush. I sat in your way. You’ve squashed my bagel, you’ve spilled my milkshake and you’ve hurt my ankle, but hey, it’s my fault. I’m—’
‘You’ve hurt your ankle?’
‘It appears,’ she said with cautious dignity, ‘to be hurt.’
He checked her out. Her legs were long and tanned and smooth. Really long, in fact, and really tanned, and really smooth. They were great legs. It was incongruous that they ended up with shabby leather sandals that looked as if they came from a welfare shop.
The shoes weren’t the only jarring note. One ankle was puffing while he watched.
‘Hell.’
‘Hey! It’s me who’s supposed to swear. Why don’t you just go away so that I can?’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
‘A lady doesn’t swear in front of a gentleman,’ she told him, lifting her ankle so she could see it. Mistake. She winced and let it drop. Cautiously. But still the determination was there to move on. Ignoring pain. ‘While I might not be a lady, by the look of the suit you’re wearing, you must be a gentleman,’ she managed. ‘That’s about the most gentlemanly suit I’ve ever seen.’
Here they were again. Talking about him. He found himself glancing down at his Armani suit and thinking, Yeah, that’s all it took. Wear a suit that cost a few thou’ and bang, you’re a gentleman.
Even if he did toss kids downstairs.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he told her, and she nodded as if she’d been waiting for it.
‘I wondered when we’d get around to that.’
She took him aback. It wasn’t just her accent that was unusual, he decided. It was everything about her. She was hurting—hurting badly. He could see it behind her eyes. But she wasn’t letting on. She was sassy and smart, and she wanted him to disappear so she could swear in private. Or do whatever she had to do in private.
‘Is it only your ankle that’s hurting?’ he asked.
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘I guess it is.’ He touched her foot, lightly probing, and saw that it hurt. A lot. ‘That was quite a fall.’
‘You thumped out of there hard.’
‘I guess I did.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, and he knew that, though she was trying to keep things light, there was a load of bitterness behind the words. ‘Leave me be.’
‘That ankle might be broken.’
‘Yeah, with my luck…’ She broke off and seemed to try to haul herself together. She even managed to produce that smile again. Almost. ‘No. Don’t worry. It’d be hurting more if it was broken.’
‘Can I help you inside?’ He motioned to the door he’d just come from.
‘To the offices of Charles Higgins?’ Her eyebrows hiked up in mock incredulity. ‘Attila in there wouldn’t let me sit on her settee and eat my bagel. You think she’ll let me sit on her settee now I’m covered with banana milkshake?’
‘I guess she wouldn’t,’ he said, his voice a trifle unsteady. Attila… He knew exactly who she was talking about. Charles Higgins’s secretary.
‘You were waiting to see Charles?’
‘Yeah.’
Marcus knew Charles Higgins. The man was sleaze. A king-sized ego with the morals of a sewer rat. Because of renovations—the same renovations that were causing problems with the lifts now—Marcus had been forced to share a corporate washroom with Charles Higgins for the last few weeks. But that was as far as their relationship went. The man’s brains were in his balls. He had a reputation for dealing dishonestly with dishonest money.
Marcus owned this building. He might lease part of it to Higgins but it didn’t mean he had to like the man.
He couldn’t understand for a minute what business this girl would have with a slime-ball of a lawyer like Higgins.
‘You had an appointment?’
‘At ten this morning. Three hours ago.’ She was still lying on the landing, her fingers tentatively probing her ankle. ‘Attila keeps fobbing me off. Finally I was so hungry I dived out and got lunch and Attila told me I’d have to eat out here. Enter you.’
That made sense. Higgins’s secretary, a woman of indeterminate years and with a bosom like plate armour, had a reputation for being nastier than Higgins himself. If that was possible.
‘You know…’ It was a crazy conversation. Any minute now Ruby would arrive and rescue him, but meanwhile maybe he could give her a bit of advice. It couldn’t hurt. ‘You know, maybe if you want to talk to high-powered New York lawyers, then maybe shorts and T-shirt and scruffy sandals aren’t going to cut it.’
‘Scruffy…’ She probed her ankle and winced yet again but she was able to focus on what he was saying. ‘You’re saying my sandals are scruffy?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly, and he almost got that smile again. Not quite. She was in real pain, he thought. Where on earth was Ruby? ‘Scruffy is a polite way of describing them, really.’
‘They’re