robe at her feet and reached in the box again, this time snagging her telephone. Skirting the side of the still-naked mattress, she centered the phone atop her nightstand and frowned. The phone’s cord didn’t quite reach the outlet. Worse, the pink Cinderella casing and rotary dial looked as awkward and woefully out of place in her fancy new digs as she still felt.
Dammit, don’t. Marlena was right. She had to move on. In more ways than one. She had Brian to think about. He was her complete responsibility now, whether he wanted to be or not. Abby pushed the latest round of painful memories aside and focused on her brother’s beatific smile. His humbling joy when she’d told him she was going to move sooner and, hence, would have his room ready a whole week early. Brian might not want to move in with her, but he was definitely looking forward to resuming his weekly overnight visits. From the tight desperation in his hug when she’d left, he needed them, too. They both did.
Abby’s gaze slipped to the phone she’d used to stave off the homesickness so many times. She had half a mind to set it atop that sleek coffee table her friend had steered her toward. But she wouldn’t. Not because the old pink phone embarrassed her. She wanted it in here. She’d need it next to her in the coming months. Even if she couldn’t use it to call home anymore.
Or maybe, especially.
A yawn sneaked up on her, forcing her to return her attention to the waiting box. It was nearly midnight. She had to be at Lincoln Center first thing in the morning and she’d yet to locate a blanket, much less a fitted sheet. Her gaze strayed to the oversized window on the far side of the room. She’d just have to put up with the muted glow bleeding in from the city. She’d already decided to hold off on hanging the drapes Marlena had designed until the contractor had a chance to install security bars on the windows. Unlike her, Brian was fascinated with heights. She’d lost both their parents now, she’d never survive if something happened to him.
Well, nothing would. The bars wouldn’t be going on for two weeks. She’d just have to keep a closer eye on Brian than usual until then.
Abby retrieved the lingerie she’d dumped on the floor, wadding the outfit in her fist as she approached the window. Despite her healthy appreciation of heights, she couldn’t help but be drawn in by the glittering rainbow stretching toward Central Park. The faint wail of a siren tugged her back to the present, the chores she had to finish before she could turn in. But as she started to turn away, something caught her eye.
She had seen pigeons perched on the ledges when Mrs. Laurens had shown her the place. Did the birds roost on the concrete sills during the night? It could be a problem. Brian adored birds as much as he did heights. The temptation might prove too much while she slept. Abby stepped closer to the window, her heart sinking as she caught another faint flutter. Except this time, she could have sworn it deliberately slid into the shadows. She took another step, stiffening as the next, even more subtle flash registered. Whatever it was was black, with a sliver of crisp white peeking out.
Definitely not feathers. Fabric.
Terror lashed through her. She darted sideways and instinctively switched off the string section’s housewarming gift, knocking the floor lamp over in her haste. She had no idea if she’d cracked the stained-glass shade, but at least it hadn’t shattered. Several moments passed before she risked inching back to the window. By the time she reached the soothing stillness of night, she felt as foolish as she must look. There was nothing there but a darkened, concrete sill where her overactive imagination had been.
What had she expected? A burglar?
If she’d still been in the cramped studio she’d rented before she’d left for Milan, sure. Located ten blocks up from the wrong side of Columbia University, her former walkup had been robbed twice in the three years she’d lived there. Fortunately, she and her Stradivarius had been on stage both times. Well, she wasn’t on stage or in her old apartment now. It had taken a to-die-for offer from a symphony patron, a mountain of paperwork, a series of ignored phone calls from her ex and an unexpected stiletto to the back by a man she didn’t even know, but she was finally safely ensconced in her sinfully huge six-room flat. Eighteen stories up.
New York City or not, no robber would climb that many stories. Would they?
But as Abby’s eyes adjusted to the dark, she knew someone had. Without the light from the floor lamp interfering, she could clearly make out the fingers clinging to the far left of the shadowy ledge. Ten strong, distinctly masculine fingers. Someone was definitely out there.
Sweet heaven, what was she supposed to do? Her phone wasn’t even hooked up.
Wait. The intercom connected to the main lobby—but the call switch was located at the front door. She should check the window first, make sure it was locked. She’d need the time to unlock her trunk and grab her violin. The Stradivarius was a work of art. Though insured for a cool three million, she’d never be able to replace it.
Fortunately, from this angle all she could make out were fingers; the man’s head was completely obscured by the sill. That meant he couldn’t see her either. Still, her heart resumed its frantic pace as she forced herself to inch close enough to the window to make sure. The brass latch pointed to the right. But did that mean the window was locked?
Before she could scrape enough courage together to check, the man’s fingers shifted. Quivered.
Whoever the fool was, he was losing his grip!
Her hands shot up before she could stop them, her own fingers damp with sweat and quaking as she fumbled with the latch. She wrenched the window up and leaned out to grab the man’s wrists before she could change her mind.
“Here, let me—”
“I’m fine.” The terse growl reverberated through the air, filling her ears. “Now get back before you fall.”
She stiffened in shock. But she obeyed.
She thought better of it when one of the man’s hands slipped off the ledge—and a muffled curse followed. Before she could lunge forward, a pair of shoes sailed through the window, landing beside the fallen lamp with a thud. She caught a blur of black fabric next, straining against a set of impressive shoulders and equally powerful arms as the man levered himself up before smoothly vaulting into her bedroom. She stood there, gaping up at six-feet-plus of dark, towering muscle backlit against the glow of the city, as transfixed as she’d been the first time she’d been nudged out on stage at Avery Fisher Hall. Only she wasn’t some gawky eight-year-old kid making her knee-knocking orchestral debut. She was a twenty-four-year-old woman and she was facing the would-be robber—or worse—who’d just violated her personal space.
The thought lodged in her throat, nearly choking her. Until his clothes sank in. His tuxedo. Despite the shadows, she could make out a complete tux, right down to the matching black cummerbund and loosened bow tie. Whoever this guy was, he was either the classiest criminal in New York—or the best-man-turned-escapee from the wedding reception from hell. Or was he the groom? Had the guy been jilted at the altar only to scale the building so he could jump off?
A sobering thought.
She pushed past it and forced herself to take stock of her situation. It didn’t look good. A dead phone and an intercom that was not only on the opposite side of her apartment, but now also on the other side of that hulking form. Then again, the fallen lamp lay three feet away. The base might be slender, but it was made of solid metal.
She inched sideways.
Nothing. Her intruder either hadn’t noticed or he didn’t care. She darted the rest of the way before her courage fled, leaning down to scoop the lamp upright. Sweat slicked her fingers for the second time in as many minutes as she fumbled with the switch—and swallowed a curse. The three-way bulb had been damaged in the fall. At the lowest setting, all the lamp could muster was a feeble stream of light that did little more than highlight the man’s inky, shoulder-length hair. The rest of his features were still cloaked by shadows, leaving her with an impression of barely suppressed strength, rigid control and a disturbing, almost erotic pull.
Burglars weren’t sexy…were