“Only in emergencies.”
She smiled despite herself.
He eased the fabric loose.
The zipper moved.
An inch.
Then another.
“There,” he said.
Maggie exhaled.
“Oh, thank God.”
But just as he reached the top, the zipper caught again.
The elevator bell chimed.
Thirty-seventh floor.
“Please don't tell me it's stuck.”
“It's thinking about it.”
“Tell it to think faster.”
He laughed softly.
With one careful movement, he freed the last fold of silk and drew the zipper closed.
“Done.”
Maggie turned.
Her face lit up.
“You are officially my favorite person in Manhattan.”
“That seems a little premature.”
“You haven't met the people I work with.”
She smoothed the front of her dress.
Now that the immediate disaster had passed, she could examine him properly.
And examination proved rather dangerous.
He had a face that belonged on a movie poster, but there was nothing polished or self-satisfied about him. The lines around his eyes suggested he laughed more often than his expression initially implied. His mouth had a slight, almost mischievous curve.
Maggie became suddenly conscious that she had asked a very attractive man to fasten her dress without even learning his name.
“Thank you,” she said, more sincerely.
“My pleasure.”
She offered her hand.
“Maggie Bennett.”
He took it.
His handshake was firm and warm.
“Nick.”
“Nick what?”
Before he could answer, the elevator bell rang again.
The doors opened onto the thirty-eighth floor.
Beyond them stretched a glamorous reception lobby with cream marble walls, enormous brass planters, glossy black columns, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the illuminated city. Waiters in white jackets moved between arriving guests carrying silver trays of champagne.
Soft jazz drifted from a nearby ballroom.
Maggie stepped out, relieved to discover that she had reached the correct destination without suffering another wardrobe catastrophe.
The stranger followed.
She turned toward him.
“Well, Nick, you've saved my evening.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“And if I survive the next hour, I might even buy you a drink.”
He looked amused.
“Is there a reason you might not survive?”
Maggie glanced toward the reception desk.
“I'm here to speak to someone important.”
“That sounds harmless.”
“Not this particular someone.”
“Oh?”
She lowered her voice.
“Have you ever heard of Sterling Properties?”
The stranger's expression remained remarkably composed.
“I believe so.”
“Then you know the type.”
“The type?”
“Rich men in expensive suits who buy perfectly beautiful buildings, tear them down, and replace them with hideous glass boxes.”
He looked down at his charcoal jacket.
“That does sound unfortunate.”
“It's practically a disease.”
“Is it?”
“And tonight I'm supposed to convince Nicholas Sterling that an old movie theater is worth more than another skyscraper.”
The stranger said nothing.
Maggie continued, warming to her subject.
“Unfortunately, from everything I've heard, the man has the emotional range of a parking meter.”
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“A parking meter?”
“A very expensive one.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“That's quite a reputation.”
“Apparently he's brilliant at making money and completely hopeless at understanding anything beautiful.”
“I see.”