After Jake and I have dinner, I’ll have something to write about. I’ll need to take out my sexual frustration on something, and it might as well be the book.

I switch over. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem. Your doorman let me up. I’m in the elevator—if I get cut off, I didn’t hang up on you.”

“It was my editor. I’m behind on my book so I needed to take a well-deserved tongue lashing.”

“Do you need to postpone our dinner?”

“No!” I nearly shout in alarm. Calming myself, I say in a more controlled tone, “No, I’ve got time.”

I wouldn’t miss this dinner for all the advances, book awards, or good reviews in the world. I’ve got all the time in the world to write, but only one night to have dinner with Jake Tanner.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JAKE

I turn my Bluetooth headset on and pocket the phone. The duffel slung crosswise over my back holds the electronic equipment. I jimmy the lock on her neighbor’s door. It’s so cheap and unsophisticated all it takes is a bump key. I don’t even have to pull out the lock-picking set.

I wasn’t kidding when I told her to move. This place is a security nightmare, with the property management offering only token protection—a doorman, a security feed in the lobby and elevators, and locks you could buy at any local hardware store.

“I’m going to need a picture,” she’s saying as I walk through the empty apartment. Per surveillance, this neighbor left to go to dinner about fifteen minutes ago.

It strikes me that she’s never seen me in person.

What I look like clearly doesn’t matter to her.

“Why do you need a picture?” I ask, not that I care. As for me, like I’d told her, I like a good visual. I’d stared a good long time at her before leaving her apartment the other day. And I am damned curious about other things I haven’t seen . . . or touched.

She hurries to explain. “Not because it’s important. But my phone has the little gray outline, and you are the only person in my contacts without a picture. It bothers me.”

The corner of my mouth twitches up. Of course that’s the reason. She likes order in her life. Her office is devoid of extra papers and paraphernalia. Her home—the two times I saw it—was clean, not a pillow out of place. Even her bedroom had no clothes on the floor or scarves draped over the chairs. Sabrina’s room is bursting with things—clothes, shoes, handbags. There seem to be a dozen lip glosses scattered over every flat surface, but then Sabrina’s not had anything traumatic happen in her life that would cause her to want to exert rigid order over everything within her reach.

“I generally don’t let people take pictures of me. But I tell you what, after dinner, I’ll send you one.”

“It’s a deal.” She sounds pleased and satisfied, as if getting a picture of me was her only goal. “Where are you right now?”

“Walking through your neighbor’s apartment. You have the better apartment of the two.” This place is a cross between ultra-modern and man-cave chic. Lots of black lacquer, black leather sofas, and mirrors. I bet if I went into the bathroom, this guy would have five bottles of shampoo along with a cologne for every day.

“It’s also a more expensive apartment.”

“Yours is decorated better. This one has too much black leather, which is saying something because I’m a man and we tend to love black leather.”

“Is it bad that I don’t know my neighbors? Oliver once told me who lived where, thinking it would help me out, but it kind of went in one ear and out the other.”

Because at the time he’d told her, she hadn’t thought about leaving her safe place, is my guess. I step out onto the balcony of her neighbor’s and eye the distance. I had brought a rappelling rope, just in case, but there should be no problem in jumping between the two. There’s less than ten feet in distance.

“What’s your place look like?” she asks.

I tighten the strap across my chest and test my left leg. I should’ve worn the blade for this, but I didn’t want to go through the hassle of changing out the prosthetic. Plus, I’ll admit to being a tiny bit vain. On the off chance she does open the door, I’d rather have her look at the straight fall of my jeans rather than the alien appendage strapped to my stump. I shake my head at my clearly wishful thinking.

Natalie isn’t opening the door, let alone letting me into her bed.

“I call it breakfast decor. Lots of oatmeal-colored things along with some egg-yolk yellow and toast brown. I’m sure there are better terms for it, but those three things go together on some sort of decorator tree. My mom and sisters did it.”

“You should send me pictures of that too.”

“Just in case my house calls you?” I tease. I swing my arms to loosen up and be ready for the jarring impact when I grab onto her balcony railing. I don’t want my real leg to crumple under the weight so it makes more sense to leap and grab for the iron railing.

“Well, you have seen my place.” Then she adds quietly, “and me.”

“You’re beautiful,” I respond. There’s a small hint of vulnerability there, which shouldn’t surprise me but does. With her bombshell curves and long, light brown hair contrasting with all the pale, ivory skin, she’d stop traffic if she was walking down the sidewalk. “In fact, you’re probably doing the men of New York a service by staying inside.”

“How’s that?” she snorts.

“Fewer accidents. They’d be staring at you and not paying attention to where they were going. Bikers would crash into fire hydrants, and cars would rear end other cars.”

“Ha, ha,” she says, but I can tell she’s smiling. I can hear the pleasure in her voice.

“Be prepared. You’re going to hear a thud.”

“Do you have safety equipment—like a harness or something? You know, the type of thing that window washers use.”

“No.” I laugh. “I don’t have anything like that.”

“But you might fall. It’s three stories up and you could really hurt yourself.” She pauses. “Or wait, do you have some super-duper type of spring action in your leg?”

She never fails to make me smile. “No, I have my regular prosthetic. My super-duper prosthetic is the one I use for running and climbing.”

“I think this qualifies.” She’s sounding slightly indignant, which I find adorable. Can’t be mad at a woman for caring about your safety. “How are you going to do this?”

“I have good balance, and your apartments are closer than you think.”

“I can’t believe you’re jumping!”

“Believe it.”

I climb onto the railing and make the leap. Surprisingly, I clear the railing and land right on Natalie’s balcony. The small space, no greater than five feet by ten feet, holds a small table and one rickety chair, which I don’t think has ever been sat on.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

There’s almost an echo and I realize she must be standing just inside the door. Even so, I keep the headset in to hold her voice in my ear.

“Perfect.”

“You’re the crazy one,” she sighs and I sense, rather than hear, her put her head against the curtain-covered glass of her French door. I wish I hadn’t told her to keep those curtains shut, but I don’t press her. Being this close is good enough for me tonight.

“I’m going to put the sensors up, which, by the way, you shouldn’t mention to anybody. That’s between you and me and the security firm.”