The zipper broke at precisely seven forty-three on a Thursday evening, which was inconvenient, because Margaret Bennett had exactly seventeen minutes to convince one of the richest men in New York not to destroy the building she loved most in the world.
“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”
She stood alone in the mirrored elevator of Sterling Tower, thirty-two floors above Manhattan, twisting one arm behind her back in a position no human shoulder had been designed to endure.
Her borrowed red silk dress was open from the middle of her spine to just below her shoulder blades.
The zipper had caught in the lining. Every attempt to pull it higher only made matters worse.
Margaret—Maggie to everyone who knew her—closed her eyes and counted to three.
Outside the elevator, New York City was preparing for another dazzling autumn night in 1988. Yellow taxis hurried through streets glittering with rain. The illuminated signs of Broadway shimmered against the darkening sky. Somewhere below, a street musician was playing a saxophone beneath a striped awning, and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the cool September air.
Inside the elevator, Maggie was losing a battle with a six-inch piece of metal.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Just another inch.”
The zipper refused.
She tried reaching over her shoulder.
Nothing.
She turned sideways toward the mirror, attempting to see the damage.
That was when the elevator stopped.
The brass doors slid open.
A man stepped inside.
He was tall, perhaps thirty-five, wearing a dark charcoal suit with a loosened tie and a white dress shirt open at the collar. His thick dark-brown hair had the slightly disordered appearance of someone who had spent the last hour running his hands through it. His face was strikingly handsome, with a strong jaw, thoughtful blue-gray eyes, and a restrained expression that suggested he was accustomed to keeping his feelings to himself.
He carried a folded newspaper and a battered leather briefcase.
He looked like a banker who had survived a terrible afternoon.
He glanced at Maggie.
She immediately stopped contorting herself.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Evening.”
The doors closed.
The elevator resumed its ascent.
For approximately four seconds, Maggie considered maintaining her dignity.
Then she looked at the illuminated floor numbers.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-four.
She had less than a minute before reaching the reception.
“Oh, to hell with dignity.”
The stranger glanced over.
“Sorry?”
Maggie turned toward him.
“I need a favor.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It's actually incredibly simple. At least, it should be.”
She turned her back toward him and gathered her thick chestnut-brown hair over one shoulder.
“My zipper's stuck.”
The man looked at the exposed portion of her back.
Then politely looked at the elevator ceiling.
“I see.”
“Would you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“Zipping me up.”
He looked back at her.
“You're asking a complete stranger to fasten your dress?”
“Unless you know another complete stranger hiding in here, yes.”
A smile touched his mouth.
“I suppose I should ask whether there's a husband somewhere who's likely to object.”
“No husband.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Suspicious fiancé?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Are you going to help me or conduct a census?”
He laughed.
It was a warm, unexpectedly appealing sound.
“All right.”
He set down his briefcase.
“May I?”
“Please.”
His fingers touched the zipper carefully, avoiding her bare skin.
Maggie held her breath.
Not because she was nervous about the dress.
At least, that was what she told herself.
The stranger smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive soap. His hands were warm, and he approached the problem with the seriousness of a surgeon performing a delicate operation.
“It's caught in the lining,” he said.
“I noticed.”
“You've pulled the fabric into the teeth.”
“Yes, well, I panicked.”
“That explains the damage.”
“Are you always this encouraging?”