Ava's Prize. Cari Lynn Webb

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       CHAPTER ONE

      THREE. DISASTERS ALWAYS came in threes. Kyle Quinn had two.

      First: he was about to lose his fortune.

      Second: a woman had just collapsed on the twenty-foot-high scaffolding above him. And could be dead. Only the multiple calls to 9-1-1 disrupted the stunned silence from the photography crew and models looking on from the ground floor at the charity calendar photoshoot.

      Kyle ran toward the scaffolding.

      A redheaded model sprinted past him wearing trendy jeans and heeled boots.

      No, the third disaster wasn’t the event.

      Kyle had been warned redheads were trouble by his own ginger-haired grandmother. He grabbed the redhead’s wrist to keep her from being injured. One model down was more than enough. “The photographer’s assistant called 9-1-1. We don’t need another casualty for the paramedics when they get here.”

      She scowled, deep and intense, as if he’d insulted her, not protected her. Her mascara heavy, her eyes narrowed on him like twin rifle scopes. “Then you should stay down here.”

      With that, she yanked free of Kyle’s hold and scaled the scaffolding he’d intended to climb.

      “Trouble,” Kyle muttered. His grandmother had been right after all. He followed the headstrong model up the ladder, albeit much less gracefully. The redhead scaled the steel structure like a seasoned acrobat from a Cirque du Soleil show.

      Francesca Lang, the older model who’d collapsed, had been one of San Francisco’s favorite models for decades. Her face had adorned city billboards and commercials alike. She was to be the face of January for the charity calendar. She’d been poised on the platform to look like she’d scaled a high-rise and conquered life. Now she was powerless and barely breathing.

      Seeing her, Kyle forgot about his problems and tried to remember the basics of CPR. Compressions and breath ratios.

      He needn’t have worried.

      The redhead confidently checked the older model’s airways and felt for a pulse, making him wonder if her parents had encouraged her to have a backup plan to modeling. “Help me get her harness off.”

      “That’s on her for safety.” What if Francesca went into convulsions? She might drop to her death.

      “She needs to be able to breathe easier and deeper.” The redhead unzipped the older woman’s jumpsuit. “Help me, please.”

      “Tell me what to do.”

      And she did. For the first time in a long time, Kyle felt vital. There was progress, too. Francesca seemed to breathe easier without the suit, although she still hadn’t regained consciousness.

      The redhead greeted the arriving paramedics by their first names, calling out a pulse rate and other medical jargon as if she was the trained professional and Kyle was window dressing.

      Too many tense minutes later, Francesca finally opened her eyes and was lowered off the scaffolding to the gurney waiting below.

      The redhead had never flinched. Never panicked. Never paled like the other scared onlookers nearby. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was a hero.

      The sirens from the ambulance faded as the EMTs drove off. Beside him, the red-haired model-turned-hero kicked a slate-gray earbud device across the platform with the toe of her high-heeled boot and mumbled what sounded like a bitter curse. “I should have guessed СКАЧАТЬ