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Miracle On 5th Avenue
Sarah Morgan
Sometimes love needs a Christmas Miracle…‘Morgan excels in balancing the sweet and sexy to create the perfect blend.’-BooklistHopeless romantic Eva Jordan loves everything about Christmas. Even if she is spending it alone housesitting a spectacular Fifth Avenue apartment. What she didn’t expect was to find the penthouse still occupied by its gorgeous–and mysterious–owner.Bestselling crime writer Lucas Blade is having the nightmare before Christmas. With a deadline and the anniversary of his wife’s death looming, he’s isolated himself in his penthouse with only his grief for company. But when the blizzard of the century leaves Eva snowbound in his apartment, Lucas starts to open up to the magic she brings…This Christmas, is Lucas finally ready to trust that happily-ever-afters do exist?


Praise for Sarah Morgan
‘A gorgeously sparkly romance’
– Julia Williams
‘The perfect book to curl up with’
– Heat
‘Full of romance and sparkle’
– Lovereading
‘I’ve found an author I adore – must hunt down everything she’s published’
– Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
‘Morgan is a magician with words’
– RT Book Reviews
‘Dear Ms Morgan, I’m always on the lookout for a new book by you. . .’
– Dear Author blog
SARAH MORGAN is the bestselling author of Sleigh Bells in the Snow. As a child Sarah dreamed of being a writer, and although she took a few interesting detours on the way she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure, and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic, and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.
Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies, and any activity that takes her outdoors.
Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com (http://www.sarahmorgan.com) She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.


Dear Reader (#ulink_916f2acf-ac56-5fa3-9cc2-b8f479e1863b)
If you’ve picked up one of my books before it will come as no surprise to you to learn that I love happy endings. I’m a pretty optimistic person and generally like my cup to be half full (preferably with strong coffee). I read widely, but rarely what might be classed as ‘horror’ fiction. I’m not good with scary suspense, serial killers or things that go bump in the night, which makes me similar in some ways to the heroine of this book.
Eva is a romantic who always looks on the bright side, so when a work assignment requires her to spend some time with Lucas, a crime writer who explores the darkest side of human nature, she is going to do her best to make it work, even though it’s clear to her right away that they are opposites. She might be looking for romance, but Lucas is definitely not her type. Or is he?
Lucas doesn’t just write about other people’s demons, he has a few of his own, but kind-hearted Eva is determined to shine a light into the dark corners of his life.
This is a book about second chances, but it’s also about hope and the power of love. I hope you enjoy Miracle on 5th Avenue! If you haven’t already done so, don’t forget to look out for Paige and Frankie’s stories, Sleepless in Manhattan and Sunset in Central Park and I hope you’ll join me on Facebook to chat www.facebook.com/AuthorSarahMorgan (http://www.facebook.com/AuthorSarahMorgan)
Love Sarah
Xxx
www.sarahmorgan.com (http://www.sarahmorgan.com)
For Sue. I write about fictional friendships, but ours is real.
Lucky me.
Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.
—Marilyn Monroe

Contents
Cover (#u2582fad7-93c6-50cf-ad6b-3e8e85d7c7fc)
Praise (#ulink_6ac3d04a-4d9f-594c-8a60-ed4d1335f0b6)
About the Author (#u88364e36-88cf-54d4-afd3-3bc9836fdac8)
Title (#uac2dd8ef-7eaa-5204-94a5-3d1e1b144edc)
Dear Reader (#ulink_925a0077-8252-52bc-8d72-d8af77aceb95)
Dedication (#u091f52ae-1622-50f6-8cdd-9413cb99bdbd)
Epigraph (#u9664cc0c-6dde-5aa8-b5a3-4de9d7b42f59)
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Thank you (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for an extract of New York, Actually (#litres_trial_promo)
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Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_240b2275-7a9b-5770-ba8d-80bea7ea84df)
There are plenty of fish in the sea, but that’s no use if you live in New York City.
—Eva
“We cannot send two turtledoves! I know he’s proposing at Christmas and he thinks it’s romantic, but it won’t be romantic when the room is covered in bird droppings. The venue will blacklist us and the love of his life will say no to his question, which will not give us the happy-ever-after we’re all hoping for.” Moving her phone to a more comfortable position against her ear, Eva Jordan snuggled deeper into her coat. Beyond the windows of the cab the snow was still falling steadily, defying attempts of those who tried to clear it. The more they shoveled the more fell, or so it seemed. In a contest between man and the elements, man was most definitely losing. The snowstorm almost obliterated her view of Fifth Avenue, the glittering shop windows muted and veiled by the falling flakes. “I’ll help him reframe his idea of ‘romantic,’ and it won’t include calling birds, hens of any nationality, nor geese, laying or otherwise. And while we’re on the subject, one gold ring is more than enough. Who needs five? He wants exceptional, not excessive, and the two are not the same.”
As always, Paige was practical. “Laura has been dreaming about this moment since she was a little girl. He’s under pressure to make this perfect.”
“I’m pretty sure her dream didn’t include a menagerie of wildlife. I’ll come up with a plan, and it will be spectacular. No one does romance better than I do.”
“Except when it’s for yourself.”
“Thanks for reminding me my love life is extinct.”
“You’re welcome. And having agreed on the facts, perhaps you’d like to tell me what you intend to do about it.”
“Nothing at all. And we are not having this conversation again.” Eva delved into her bag and pulled out her notebook. “Can we get back to business? We have a month until Christmas.”
“We don’t have enough time to create anything elaborate.”
“It doesn’t need to be elaborate. It needs to be emotional. She needs to be overwhelmed by his words and the meaning behind them. Wait—” Eva tapped her pen on the page. “They met in Central Park, didn’t they? Dog-walking?”
“Yes but, Ev, the park is buried under two feet of snow and it’s still falling. A proposal there could end in a trip to the emergency room. That could be memorable for all the wrong reasons.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll have plenty of time to think about it over the next two days because I’ll be on my own in this guy’s apartment decorating and filling his freezer ready for his return from the wilds.” She made a note to herself and then slid the notebook back into her bag.
“You’re working too hard, Ev.”
“I cannot believe I’m hearing that from you.”
“Even I take time off to chill occasionally.”
“I must have missed that. And in case you hadn’t noticed, our business is growing fast.”
“You taking an evening off to go on a hot date isn’t going to stop it growing.”
“Thank you, but there is one teeny tiny drawback to your plan. I don’t have a hot date. I don’t even have a lukewarm date.”
“Do you think you should try online dating again?”
“I hate online dating. I prefer meeting people in other ways.”
“But you’re not meeting people at all! You work. You go to bed with your teddy bear.”
“It’s a stuffed kangaroo. Grams gave it to me when I was four.”
“That explains why it looks exhausted. It’s time you replaced it with a flesh-and-blood man, Eva.”
“I love that kangaroo. He never lets me down.”
“Honey, you need to get out. How about that banker guy? You liked him.”
“He never called when he said he was going to call. Life is stressful enough without waiting around wondering if a guy you’re not even sure you like is going to call you and invite you on a date you’re not even sure you want to go on.”
“You could have called him.”
“I did. He screened my calls.” Eva stared out of the window. “I don’t mind chasing after a dream when it’s about building our business and our future, but I’m not chasing after a man. And anyway, everyone knows you never find love when you go looking for it. You have to wait for it to find you.”
“What if it can’t find you because you never leave your apartment?”
“I’ve left my apartment! I’m here, on Fifth Avenue.”
“Alone. To stay in another apartment. Alone. Think of all the great sex you’re missing. At this rate you’ll meet Mr. Right when you’re eighty and have no teeth and dodgy hips.”
“Plenty of people have good sex when they’re eighty. You just have to be creative.” Ignoring the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, Eva leaned forward to talk to the cabdriver. “Can you make a stop at Dean & DeLuca? If this storm is as bad as they’re predicting, I need to pick up a few extra things.”
Paige was still talking. “I’ve barely seen you over the past two weeks. It’s been crazy busy. I know this is a tough time of year for you. I know you miss your grandmother.” Her voice softened. “Do you want me to come by after work and keep you company?”
She was so tempted to say yes.
They’d open a bottle of wine, curl up in their pajamas and talk. She’d confess how bad she felt a lot of the time, and then—
And then what?
Eva looked down at her lap. She didn’t want to be that friend. The one who constantly whined and moaned. The burden. And anyway, telling her friends how bad she felt wasn’t going to change anything, was it?
Her grandmother would be ashamed.
“You have meetings downtown and then that dinner thing with Jake.”
“I know, but I could easily—”
“You’re not canceling.” She said it quickly, before she could be tempted to change her mind. “I’ll be fine.”
“If the weather wasn’t so bad you could come home and stay here tonight and then go back tomorrow, but they’re saying the storm is going to be a big one. Much as I hate to think of you all alone there, I think it’s better that you don’t travel.”
Eva chewed her lip. It didn’t matter where she was, her feelings stayed the same. She had no idea if it was normal to feel this way. She’d never lost anyone close to her before, and she and her grandmother had been more than close. She’d been gone a little over a year and the wound was as fresh and painful as if the loss had happened only the day before.
It was because of her that Eva had grown up feeling safe and secure. She owed her grandmother everything, although she knew that there was no way of attaching a value to something so priceless. Her payment, although she knew none had ever been asked for, wanted or expected, was to get out of bed every day and live the life her grandmother had wanted her to live. Make her proud.
If she was here right now, her grandmother wouldn’t be proud.
She’d tell her that she was spending far too many nights alone in her apartment with only Netflix and hot chocolate for company.
Her grandmother had loved hearing about Eva’s romantic adventures. She would have wanted her to go out and meet people even if she felt sad. To begin with she’d tried to do just that, but lately her social life revolved round her friends and business partners, Paige and Frankie. It was easy and comfortable, even though both of them were now crazily in love.
It was ironic that she, the romantic one, led the least romantic life.
She stared out of the window through the white swirl of flakes to the darkening sky. She felt disconnected. Lost. She wished she didn’t feel everything so deeply.
Still, at least she was busy. This was their first holiday season since the three of them had set up Urban Genie, their event and concierge business, and they were busy.
Her grandmother would have been proud of what she’d achieved in her work.
Celebrate every small thing, Eva, and live in the moment.
Eva blinked to clear her misted vision.
She hadn’t been doing that, had she? She lived her life looking forward, planning, juggling. She rarely paused for breath or to appreciate the moment. She’d been running for a year, through a freezing winter, a balmy spring, a sweltering summer and, here now, full circle, to another winter. She’d muscled through, pushing the seasons behind her, moving forward step by step. She hadn’t lived in the moment because she hadn’t liked the moment she was living in.
She’d done her best to be strong and keep smiling, but it had been the toughest year of her life.
Grief, she thought, was a horrible companion.
“Ev?” Paige’s voice echoed down the phone. “Are you still there? I’m worried about you.”
Eva closed her eyes and pulled herself together. She didn’t want her friends to worry about her. What had her grandmother taught her?
Be the sunshine, Eva, not the rain.
She never, ever, wanted to be the black cloud in anyone’s day.
Opening her eyes, she smiled. “Why are you worried about me? It’s snowing. If this blizzard eases I’ll go across to the park and build a snowman. If I can’t find a guy in real life, at least I can build a decent one out of snow.”
“You are going to build yourself a sexy guy?”
“I am. With broad shoulders and great abs.”
“And no doubt you won’t be using the carrot for his nose.”
Eva grinned. “I was thinking maybe a cucumber for that part of his anatomy.”
Paige was laughing, too. “You’re so demanding it’s no wonder you’re single. And, by the way, you have the sense of humor of a five-year-old.”
“It’s the reason we’ve been friends forever.”
“It’s good to hear you laugh. Christmas used to be your favorite time of year.”
It was true. She’d always loved it. Every smiling Santa, every happy note of music that played in the stores and every sparkly snowflake. She especially loved the snowflakes. They made her think of sleigh rides and snowmen.
To Eva, snow had always seemed magical.
Enough, she thought. Enough.
“It still is my favorite time of year.” She didn’t need to wait until New Year’s Eve to make a resolution.
She was going to get out there and live every day the way her grandmother would have wanted her to live it. Starting right now.
* * *
Christmas.
He hated it. Every smiling Santa, every discordant note of music that blared in the stores and every freezing snowflake. He especially hated the snowflakes. They swirled with deceptive innocence, coating trees and cars and landing on the palms of enchanted children who saw falling snow and thought of sleigh rides and snowmen.
Lucas thought of something different.
He sat in darkness in his Fifth Avenue apartment, staring out across the wintry expanse of Central Park. It had been snowing steadily for days, and more was on the way. It was predicted to be the worst blizzard in New York’s recent history. As a result, the streets far below him were unusually empty. Everyone who wasn’t already home was hurrying there as fast as possible, taking advantage of public transportation while it was still running. No one looked up. No one knew he was there. Not even his well-meaning but interfering family, who thought he was on a writing retreat in Vermont.
If they’d known he was home they would have been fussing over him, checking on him, forcing him to participate in plans for Christmas celebrations.
It was time, they said. It had been long enough.
How long was long enough? The answer to that eluded him. All he knew was that he hadn’t reached that point.
He had no intention of celebrating the festive season. The best he could hope for was to get through it, as he did every year, and he saw no point in inflicting his misery on others. He hurt. Outside and inside, he hurt. He’d been crushed and mangled in the wreckage of his loss, and crawled away with his life but very little else.
He could have traveled to Vermont, buried himself in a cabin in a snowy forest like he’d told his family, or he could have gone somewhere hot, somewhere untouched by a single flake of snow, but he knew there was no point because he would still be hurting. It didn’t matter what he did, the pain traveled with him. It infected him like a virus that nothing could cure.
And so he stayed home while the temperature swooped low and the world around him turned white, transforming his building into a frozen fortress.
It suited him perfectly.
The only sound that intruded was his phone. It had rung fourteen times in the past few days and he’d ignored each and every one of the calls. Some of those calls had been his grandmother, some had been his brother, most his agent.
Reflecting on what his life would look like if he didn’t have his career, Lucas reached for the phone and finally returned the call to his agent.
“Lucas!” Jason’s voice came down the phone, jovial and energetic. There were sounds of revelry in the background, laughter and Christmas music. “I was starting to think you were buried under a snowdrift. How are the snowy wastelands of Vermont?”
Lucas stared out across the Manhattan skyline, the sharp edges of the city muted by falling snow. “Vermont is beautiful.”
It was the truth. Assuming it hadn’t altered since his last visit, which had been a year ago.
“TIME magazine has just named you the most exciting crime writer of the decade. Did you see the piece?”
Lucas glanced at the towering pile of unopened mail. “Haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.”
“That’s why you’re at the top of your game. No distractions. With you, it’s all about the book. Your fans are excited about this one, Lucas.”
The book.
Dread stirred inside him. Dark thoughts were eclipsed by sweaty panic. He hadn’t written a word. His mind was empty, but that was something he hadn’t confessed to his agent or his publisher. He was still hoping for a miracle, some spark of inspiration that would allow him to wriggle free from the poisonous tentacles of Christmas and lose himself in a fictional world. It was ironic that the twisted, sick minds of his complex characters provided a preferable alternative to the dark reality of his own.
He eyed the knife that lay on the table close by. The blade glinted, taunting him.
He’d been staring at it for the best part of a week, even though he knew it wasn’t the answer. He was better than that.
“That’s why you’ve been calling? To ask about the book?”
“I know you hate to be disturbed when you’re writing, but production is hounding me. Sales of your last book exceeded even our expectations,” Jason said gleefully. “Your publisher is tripling the print run for the next. Are you going to give me any clues about the story?”
“I can’t.” If he knew what the book was about, he’d be writing it.
Instead, his mind was terrifyingly blank.
He didn’t have a crime. Worse, he didn’t have a murderer.
For him, every book started with the character. He was known for his unpredictable twists, for being able to deliver a shock that even the most perceptive reader failed to anticipate.
Right now the shock would be the blank page.
It was worse this year than it had been the year before. Then, the process had been long and painful, but he’d managed to somehow drag each word from inside him by November, before memories had paralyzed him. It was like trying to get to the top of Everest before the winds hit. Timing was everything. This year he hadn’t managed it and he was beginning to think he’d left it too late. He was going to need an extension on his deadline, something he’d never had to ask for before. That was bad enough, but worse were the questions that would follow. The sympathetic looks and the nods of understanding.
“I’d love to see a few pages. First chapter?”
“I’ll let you know,” Lucas said, before proffering the season’s greetings that were expected of him and ending the call.
Lucas rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t have a first chapter. He didn’t have a first line. So far the only thing that had been murdered was his inspiration. It was lying inert, the life squeezed out of it. Could it be resurrected? He wasn’t sure.
He’d sat at his open laptop hour after hour and not a single word had emerged. The only thing in his head was Sallyanne. She filled his head, his thoughts and his heart. His bruised, damaged heart.
It was on this day, three years ago, that he’d had the phone call that had derailed his seemingly charmed life. It had been like a scene from one of his books, except this time it had been fact not fiction. He’d been the one identifying the body in the morgue, not one of his characters. He no longer had to put himself in their shoes and imagine what they were feeling because he was feeling it himself.
Since then he’d struggled through every day, dragging himself from minute to minute, while outwardly doing what was needed to make people believe that he was doing fine. He’d learned early on that people needed to see that. They didn’t want to witness his grief. They wanted to believe he’d handled it and “moved on.” Mostly, he managed to meet their expectations, except for this time of year, when the anniversary of her death came around.
Eventually he was going to have to confess to his agent and his publisher that he hadn’t written a single word of the book his fans so eagerly awaited.
This book wasn’t going to make his publisher a fortune. It didn’t exist.
He had no idea how to conjure the magic that had sent him soaring to the top of the bestseller charts in more than fifty countries.
All he could do was carry on doing what he’d been doing for the past month. He’d sit in front of the blank screen and hope that somewhere in the depths of his tortured brain an idea might emerge.
He kept hoping for a miracle.
It was the season for it, wasn’t it?
* * *
“This is it?” Eva peered out of the window of the cab. “It’s incredible. He has a view of Central Park. What I wouldn’t give to live this close to Tiffany’s.”
The cabdriver glanced in his mirror. “Do you need help with all those bags?”
“I’ll manage, thanks,” Eva said as she handed over her fare.
It was bitterly cold and the snow was falling heavily, thick swirling flakes that reduced visibility and settled on her coat. A few flakes found the small, unprotected section of her neck and slid like icy fingers under her coat. Within moments the bags were covered and so was she. Worse was the sidewalk. Her feet slithered on the deep carpet of ice and snow, and finally lost traction.
“Agh—” Her arms windmilled and the doorman stepped forward and caught her before she hit the ground.
“Steady. It’s lethal underfoot.”
“You’re not kidding.” She clutched his arm, waiting for her heart rate to slow. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas in the hospital. I hear the food is terrible.”
“We’ll help you with those bags.” He lifted a hand and two uniformed guys appeared and loaded her bags and boxes onto a luggage cart.
“Thank you. I’m taking it all to the top floor. The penthouse. You should be expecting me. I’m staying a few days to decorate an apartment for a client who is out of town. Lucas Blade.”
He was a crime writer with a dozen global bestsellers to his name.
Eva had never read a single one of them.
She hated crime, both real and fictional. She preferred to focus on the positive side of people and life. And she preferred to sleep at night.
The warmth of the apartment building wrapped itself around her as she stepped inside, comforting after the chill of the blizzard swirling on Fifth Avenue. Her cheeks stung and despite wearing gloves her fingertips were numb with cold. Even the wool hat she’d pulled over her ears had done nothing to keep out the savage bite of a New York winter.
“I’m going to need to see ID.” The doorman was brisk and businesslike. “We’ve had a spate of break-ins in this area. What’s the company name?”
“Urban Genie.” It was still new enough that saying it brought a rush of pride. It was her company. She’d set it up with her friends. She handed over her ID. “We’ve not been around long, but we’re taking New York by storm.” She shook snow off her gloves and smiled. “Well, it’s maybe more of a light wind than a storm, given what’s happening outside the window, but we’re hopeful for the future. I have Mr. Blade’s key.” She waved it as evidence and his gaze warmed as he looked first at it and then at the ID she’d handed him.
“You’re on my list. All I need is for you to sign in.”
“Could you do me a favor?” Eva signed with a flourish. “When Lucas Blade shows up, don’t tell him I was here. It’s supposed to be a surprise. He’s going to open his front door and find his apartment all ready for the holidays. It’ll be like walking in on a surprise birthday party.”
It occurred to her that not everyone liked surprise birthday parties, but who was she to argue with his family? His grandmother, who had been one of their first clients and was now a good friend, had given her a clear brief. Prepare the apartment and make it ready for Christmas. Apparently Lucas Blade was in Vermont, deep in a book and on a deadline; the world around him had ceased to exist. As well as decorating, her job was to cook and fill his freezer and she had the whole weekend to do it because he wasn’t due home until the following week.
“Sure, we can do that for you.” The doorman smiled.
“Thank you.” She peered at his name badge, and continued, “Albert. You saved my life. In some cultures that would mean you now own me. Fortunately for you, we’re in New York City. You’ll never know what a lucky escape you had.”
He laughed. “Mr. Blade’s grandmother called earlier and said she was sending over his Christmas present. I wasn’t expecting a woman.”
“I’m not the gift. Just my skills. Saying I’m his Christmas present makes it sound as if I should be standing here wrapped in silver paper and a big red bow.”
“So you’re going to be staying in the apartment for a couple of nights? Alone?”
“That’s right.” And there was nothing new in that. Apart from the occasional night Paige slept over in her apartment, she spent every night alone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been horizontal with a man, but she was determined that was going to change. Changing it was right at the top of her Christmas wish list. “Lucas isn’t back until next week, and with the weather this bad there’s no sense in traveling backward and forward.” She glanced at the snow falling thickly beyond the tinted glass. “I’m guessing no one is going to be traveling anywhere far tonight.”
“It’s a bad one. They’re saying snow accumulation could hit eighteen inches, with winds gusting fifty miles an hour. Time to stock up on food, check the batteries in the flashlight and get out those snow shovels.” Albert glanced at her bags, brimming with Christmas decorations. “Looks like you’re not going to be too worried about the weather. Plenty of Christmas cheer right there. I’m guessing you’re one of those people who loves the holidays.”
“I am.” Or she used to be. And she was determined to be that person again. Reminding herself of that, she tried to ignore the hollow ache in her chest. “How about you, Albert?”
“I’ll be working. Lost my wife of forty years two summers ago. Never had kids, so Christmas was always the two of us. And now it’s just me. Working here will be better for me than eating a frozen dinner for one on my own in my apartment. I like being around people.”
Eva felt a rush of empathy. She understood needing to be around people. She was the same. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be on her own. She could. But given the choice she would always rather be with other people.
On impulse, she dug her hand into her pocket and gave him a card. “Take this—”
“Romano’s Sicilian Restaurant, Brooklyn?”
“Best pizza anywhere in New York City. It’s owned by my friend’s mother and on Christmas Day Maria cooks for everyone who shows up. I help her in the kitchen. I’m a cook, although most of the time now we’re running big events and I’m outsourcing to external companies and vendors.” Too much information, she thought, and gestured toward the card. “If you’re free on Christmas Day, you should join us, Albert.”
He stared at the card in his hand. “You just met me five minutes ago. Why would you invite me?”
“Because you saved me from landing on my butt, and because it’s Christmas. No one should be alone at Christmas.” Alone. There it was again. That word. It seemed to creep in everywhere. “I’m not going to hole myself away totally either. As soon as the snow eases enough for me to see my hand in front of my face, I’m going to pop across to Central Park and build a snowman the size of the Empire State Building. The Empire State Snowman. And speaking of giant structures, I have a tree being delivered later. Hopefully it will arrive before the blizzard stops everything. You’re going to think I stole the one from outside Rockefeller Center, but I assure you I didn’t.”
“It’s big?”
“The guy lives in the penthouse. The penthouse needs a big tree. I just hope we’ll be able to get it up there.”
“Leave it to me.” He frowned. “You’re sure you shouldn’t be getting home to your family while you can?”
His words poked at the bruise she’d been trying to ignore.
“I’ll be fine right here, safe and warm. Thanks, Albert. You’re my hero.”
She walked toward the elevator, trying not to think about everyone in New York going home to their families. Home to warmth, laughter, conversation, hugs…
Everyone except her.
She had no one.
Not a single living relative. She had friends, of course, great friends, but for some reason that didn’t ease the ache.
Alone.
Why was the feeling always magnified at Christmas?
The elevator rose through the building in smooth silence and the doors slid open.
Lucas Blade’s apartment was straight ahead and she let herself in, thanked the two men who’d delivered all her bags and packages and carefully locked the door behind her.
She turned, and was instantly mesmerized by the spectacular view visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass that made up one entire wall of the apartment.
She didn’t bother putting on lights. Instead, she toed off her boots to avoid trailing snow through the apartment and walked in her socks to the window.
Whatever else he had, Lucas Blade had taste and style.
He also had underfloor heating, and she felt the luxurious warmth steal through the thick wool of her socks and slowly thaw her numbed feet.
She stared at the soaring skyline, letting the cold and the last of the snowflakes melt away.
Far beneath her she could see the trail of lights on Fifth Avenue as a few bold cabs made what was probably their final journey through Manhattan. Soon the roads would be closed. Travel would be impossible, or at least unwise. New York, the city that never slept, would finally be forced to take a rest.
The snow fell past the window, big fat flakes that drifted and swirled, before settling lazily on the already deep layer that blanketed the city.
Eva hugged herself, staring out across the silvery-white expanse of Central Park.
It was New York at its dreamy, wintry best. Why Lucas Blade felt the need to go on retreat to write, she had no idea. If she owned this place she’d never leave it.
But maybe he needed to leave it.
He was grieving, wasn’t he? He’d lost his beloved wife three years ago at Christmas. His grandmother had told her how much it had changed him. And why wouldn’t it? He’d lost the love of his life. His soul mate.
Eva leaned her head against the glass. Her chest ached for him.
Her friends told her she was too sensitive, but she’d come to accept that it was just the way she was. Other people watched the news and managed to stay detached. Eva felt everything deeply, and she felt Lucas’s pain even though she’d never even met him.
How cruel was it to meet the love of your life and then lose her?
How did you pick up the pieces and move on?
She had no idea how long she stood there or when, exactly, she sensed she wasn’t alone. It started with a faint warning prickle at the back of her neck, which rapidly turned to the cold chill of fear when she heard a nearby clunk.
She was imagining things, surely? Of course she was alone. This apartment block had some of the best security in the city and she’d been careful to lock the door behind her.
No one could have followed her in so there couldn’t be anyone else in there, unless—
She swallowed as a different explanation occurred to her.
—unless someone had already been in the apartment.
She turned her head slowly, wishing now that she’d taken the time to find the lights and switch them on. The storm had darkened the sky and the apartment was full of cavernous shadows and mysterious corners. Her imagination burst to life and she tried to reason with herself. The sound could have been anything. Maybe it had come from outside the building.
She held her breath, and then heard another noise, this one definitely inside the apartment. It sounded like a footstep. A stealthy footstep, as if the owner didn’t want to reveal himself.
She glanced up and saw something move in the shadows up above her.
Fear was sharp and paralyzing.
She’d interrupted a break-in. The hows and whys didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting out of here.
The door seemed a long way in the distance.
Could she make it?
Her heart was racing and her palms turned sweaty.
She wished now that she hadn’t removed her shoes.
She made for the door and at the same time grabbed her phone from her pocket. Her hand was shaking so much she almost dropped it.
She hit the emergency button, heard a woman say “911 Emergency—” and tried to whisper into the phone.
“Help. There’s someone in the apartment.”
“You’ll have to speak up, ma’am.”
The door was there. Right there.
“There’s someone in the apartment.” She needed to get downstairs to Albert. He’d—
A hand clamped over her mouth and before Eva could utter a squeak she’d landed on her back on the floor, crushed by the hard weight of a powerful male body.
The man pinned her. One of his hands was across her mouth and the other gripped her wrists with brutal strength.
Holy crap.
If she could have screamed, she would have, but she couldn’t open her mouth.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe, although bizarrely her senses were still sufficiently alert for her to realize her attacker smelled really good.
It was an irony that finally, after almost two years of dreaming and hoping, she was finally horizontal with a man. It was a shame he was trying to kill her.
A shame and a tragic waste.
Here lies Eva, whose Christmas wish was to find herself up close and personal with a man, but didn’t specify the circumstances.
Was that really going to be her last thought? Clearly the mind was capable of strange thoughts in the last moment before it was robbed of oxygen. And having written her eulogy, she was going to die, right here in the dark in this empty apartment mere weeks before Christmas, flattened by this gloriously smelling hunk of solid muscle. If Lucas Blade decided to postpone his return, her body might not be found for weeks. They were in the middle of a snowstorm, or a “winter weather emergency” as it was officially called.
The thought rallied her.
No! She didn’t want to die without saying goodbye to her friends. She’d found Paige and Frankie perfect Christmas gifts and she hadn’t told anyone where they were hidden. And her apartment was a total mess. She’d been meaning to tidy up for ages, but hadn’t quite found the time. What if the police wanted to look through her things for clues? Most of her possessions were strewed across the floor. It would be horribly embarrassing. But most of all she didn’t want to miss enjoying New York City at Christmas, and she didn’t want to die without having amazing, mind-blowing sex at least once in her life.
She didn’t want this to be her last experience of having a man on top of her.
She wanted to live.
With a huge effort she tried to head-butt him, but he took evasive action. She heard the rasp of his breath, caught a glimpse of jet-black hair and fierce, smoldering eyes, and then there was a hammering on the door, and shouts from the police.
Relief weakened her limbs.
They must have traced the call.
She sent silent thanks and heard her attacker curse softly moments before the police burst into the apartment, followed by Albert.
There were no words for how much Eva loved Albert at that moment.
“NYPD, freeze!”
The apartment was flooded with lights and the man crushing her finally relieved her of his weight.
Sucking air into her starving lungs, Eva screwed up her eyes against the lights and felt the man wrench the hat off her head. Her hair, released from the confines of wool and warmth, unraveled itself and tumbled over her shoulders.
For a brief moment her gaze collided with his and she saw shock and disbelief.
“You’re a woman.”
He had a deep, sexy voice. Sexy voice, sexy body— shame about his criminal lifestyle.
“I am. Or at least, I was. Right now I’m not sure I’m alive.” Eva lay there, stunned, gingerly testing the various parts of her body to check they were still attached. The man sprang to his feet in a lithe, fluid movement and she saw the expression on the police officer’s face change.
“Lucas?” There was shock on his face. “We had no idea you were here. We had a call from an unknown female, reporting an intruder.”
Lucas? Her attacker was Lucas Blade? He wasn’t a criminal, he was the owner of the apartment!
She took her first good look at him and realized that he did look familiar. She’d seen his face on book covers. And it was a memorable face. She studied the slash of his cheekbones and the bold sweep of his nose. His hair and his eyes were dark. He looked as good as he smelled, and as for his body—she didn’t need to study the width of his shoulders or the power of those muscles to know how strong he was. She’d been pinned to the ground under the solid weight of him, so she already knew all there was to know about that. Remembering triggered a fluttery feeling in her tummy.
What was wrong with her?
This man had half killed her and she was having sexy thoughts.
Which was yet more evidence that she’d gone far too long without sex. She was definitely going to fix that this Christmas.
In the meantime, she dragged her gaze away from the magnetic pull of his and tried to be practical.
What was he doing in the apartment? He wasn’t supposed to be home.
“She’s the intruder.” Lucas’s expression was grim and Eva realized that everyone was glaring at her. Everyone except Albert, who looked as confused as she felt.
“I’m not an intruder. I was told the apartment was empty.” The injustice of it stung. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“And how would you know that? You research which apartments are empty at Christmas?” He might be sexy, but he didn’t give away smiles lightly.
Eva wondered how she’d suddenly turned into the bad guy. “Of course not. I was asked to do this.”
“You had an accomplice?”
“If I was an intruder, would I have dialed 911?”
“Why not? Once you realized there was someone home, it would have been the perfect way of appearing innocent.”
“I am innocent.” Eva looked at him in disbelief. “Your mind is a strange, twisted thing.” She glanced at the police officer for support, but found none.
“On your feet.” The officer’s tone was cold and brusque and Eva eased her bruised, crushed body into a sitting position.
“That’s easier said than done. I have at least four hundred broken bones.”
Lucas reached down and hauled her upright. “The human body does not have four hundred bones.”
“It does when most of them have snapped in half.” His strength shouldn’t have surprised her given that he’d already crushed her to the ground under his body. “Why is everyone glaring at me? Instead of interrogating me about breaking and entering, they should be arresting you for assault. What are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be in Vermont, not skulking here.”
“I own the apartment. A person can’t ‘skulk’ in their own apartment.” His brows came together in a fierce frown. “How did you know I was supposed to be in Vermont?”
“Your grandmother told me.” Eva tested her ankle gingerly. “And you were definitely skulking. Creeping around in the dark.”
“You were the one creeping around in the dark.”
“I was admiring the snow. I’m a romantic. As far as I know, that isn’t a crime.”
“We’ll be the judge of that.” The officer stepped forward. “We’ll take her down to the precinct, Lucas.”
“Wait—” Lucas barely moved his hand but it was enough to stop the man in his tracks. “Did you say my grandmother told you I was in Vermont?”
“That’s right, Mr. Blade,” Albert intervened. “This is Eva, and she’s here at the request of your grandmother. I verified it myself. None of us knew you were in residence.” There was a faint hint of reproach in his voice. Lucas ignored it.
“You know my grandmother?” he asked Eva.
“I do. She employed me.”
“To do what, exactly?” His eyes darkened. It was like looking at a threatening sky before a very, very bad storm.
His grandmother had told her many things about her grandson Lucas. She’d mentioned that he was an expert skier, that he had once spent a year living in a cabin in the Arctic, that he was fluent in French, Italian and Russian, was skilled in at least four different forms of martial arts and that he never showed anyone his books until they were finished.
She’d failed to mention that he could be intimidating.
“She employed me to prepare your apartment for Christmas.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s it. What other reason could there have been?” She saw the sardonic gleam in his eyes. “Are you suggesting I broke in here so that I could meet you?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Women do that?” Outrage mingled with fascination. Even she couldn’t imagine ever going to those lengths to find a man. “How exactly does that work? Once they get inside they leap on you and pin you down?”
“You tell me.” He folded his arms and looked at her expectantly. “What plan did you cook up with my grandmother?”
She laughed and then realized he wasn’t joking.
“I’m good in the kitchen, but even I’ve never managed to ‘cook up’ a romance. I wonder what the recipe would be? One cup of hope mixed with a pinch of delusion?” She tilted her head to one side. “Not that I’m not one of those women who thinks a guy has to make the first move or anything, but I’ve never gone as far as breaking into a man’s apartment to get their attention. Do I look desperate, Mr. Blade?” In fact she was pretty desperate, but he had no way of knowing that unless he searched her purse and found her single lonely condom. She had hoped to give it a spectacular end to its so far uneventful life, but that was looking increasingly unlikely.
“Desperate wears many faces.”
“If I were to break into a man’s apartment with the intention of seducing him, do you really think I’d do it while wearing snow boots and a chunky sweater? I’m starting to understand why you need such a large apartment even though there’s only one of you. Your ego must take up a lot of space and need its own bathroom, but I forgive you for your arrogance because you’re rich and good-looking so you’re probably telling the truth about your past experience. However, the flaw in your reasoning is that you were supposed to be in Vermont.”
His gaze held hers. “I’m not in Vermont.”
“I know that now. I have bruises to prove it.”
The police officer didn’t smile. “Do you believe that story, Lucas?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It sounds exactly the sort of thing my grandmother would arrange.” He swore softly, his fluency earning him a look of respect from the hardened New York cop.
“How do you want us to handle this?”
“I don’t. I’m grateful for your speedy response, but I’ll take it from here. And if you could forget you ever saw me here, I’d be grateful for that, too.” He spoke with the quiet authority of someone who was rarely questioned and Eva watched in fascination as they all melted away.
All except Albert, who stood as solid as a tree trunk in the doorway.
Lucas looked at him expectantly. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ve got this.”
“My concern is for Miss Eva.” Albert stood his ground and looked at Eva. “Perhaps you’d better come with me.”
She was touched. “I’ll be fine, Albert, but thank you. I may be a little vertically challenged, but I’m deadly when I’m cornered. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“If you change your mind, I’m on until midnight.” He glared at Lucas, his expression suggesting that he’d be keeping an eye on the situation. “I’ll check in with you before I leave.”
“You’re really kind.”
The door to the apartment closed.
“You’re deadly when you’re cornered?” His dark drawl held a hint of humor. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Blade. When I attack, you won’t see it coming. One minute you’ll be minding your own business, the next you’ll be on your back, helpless.”
“Like I was a few moments ago?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “That was different. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I wasn’t ready. Next time I’ll be ready.”
“Next time?”
“Next time you leap on me and try to imprint me into your floor. It was like the Hollywood Walk of Fame only you were using my whole body, not just my hand. Your floor probably looks like a crime scene with the outline of my body right there.”
Lucas studied her for a moment. “You seem to have a close relationship with the doorman of my building. Have you known him long?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes and the guy is willing to defend you to the death? Do you have that effect on all men?”
“Never the right men. Never the young, hot, eligible ones.” She changed the subject. “Why did the police not make an arrest?”
“According to you, you weren’t committing a crime.”
“I was talking about you. They should have cautioned you. You flattened me and scared the life out of me.” She remembered the way his body had felt against hers. She could still feel the hard pressure of his thigh, the warmth of his breath on her cheek and the heaviness.
Her gaze met his. The way he was looking at her made her think he was remembering that moment, too.
“You were creeping around my apartment. And if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”
“Is that supposed to be a comfort?” She rubbed her bruised ribs, reminding herself that however her imagination played with the facts, it hadn’t been a romantic encounter. Lucas Blade was looking at her with a hint of steel in his gaze. There was something about him that didn’t seem quite safe. “Do you assault everyone who enters you’re apartment?”
“Only those who enter uninvited.”
“I was invited! As you would have found out if you’d bothered to ask. And I would have thought a man with your expertise in crime would have been able to tell the difference between an innocent woman and a criminal.”
He gave her a speculative look. “Criminals aren’t always so easy to identify. They don’t come with a twirling moustache and a label. You think you can recognize a bad guy just by looking at them?”
“I’m pretty good at identifying ‘loser guy,’ and I definitely know ‘hot guy,’ so I’m confident ‘bad guy’ wouldn’t slide under my radar.”
“No?” He stepped closer to her. “The ‘bad guys’ live among us, blending in. Often it’s the person you’d least suspect. The cabdriver, the lawyer,” he paused before saying, “the doorman.”
Was he intentionally trying to scare her? “Your doorman, Albert, happens to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met so if you’re trying to persuade me he has a criminal past I’m not going to believe you. In my experience most people are pretty decent.”
“You don’t watch the news?”
“The news presents only the bad side of humanity, Mr. Blade, and it does it on a global scale. It doesn’t report the millions of small, unreported acts of kindness that take place on a daily basis in communities. People help old ladies across the street, they bring their neighbors tea when they’re sick. You don’t hear about it because good news isn’t entertainment, even though it’s those deeds that hold society together. Bad news is a commodity and the media trade in that.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes, and I don’t intend to apologize for preferring to focus on the positive. I’m a glass half-full sort of person. That’s not a crime. You see the bad in people, but I see the good. And I do believe there is good in most people.”
“We only ever see what a person chooses to show. You don’t know what they might be hiding under the surface.” His voice was deep, his dark eyes mesmerizing. “Maybe when that kind man has helped the little old lady across the street he goes home and searches indecent images on a laptop he keeps hidden under his bed. And the kind person who takes their neighbor tea might be an arsonist or a dangerous psychopath and his, or her, intention is to get a closer look at how and where their neighbor lives to assess access points and vulnerabilities. You never know, just by looking, what a person is hiding.”
Eva stared at him, unsettled by the image of the world he’d painted. It was as if someone had sprayed ugly graffiti over her clean vision of life. “You may look good on the outside, Mr. Blade, but inside you need a makeover. You have a dark, cynical, twisted mind.”
“Thank you.” The faintest of smiles touched the corners of his mouth. “The New York Times said the same thing when they reviewed my last book.”
“I didn’t intend it as a compliment, but I can see that maybe you need to be like that to be successful. Your job is to explore the dark side of humanity and that has twisted your thinking. Most people are simply what they seem,” she said firmly. “Take me as an example. Take a good, hard look at me. And now tell me, do I look like a murderer?”
Two (#ulink_6a7ba7be-c462-52f8-9afd-3d03fa218977)
A frog is always a frog, never a prince in disguise.
—Frankie
Do I look like a murderer?
Lucas scanned her sweet, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a dark blue and with those bouncing golden curls and the dimple in her cheek, she looked as harmless as a fluffy kitten.
Nothing like a murderer.
She’d be the warm, kindly nurse no one would ever imagine to be capable of killing her patients, or the sweet-natured kindergarten teacher whom people assumed would nurture the children in her care. She looked like the poster girl for health and vitality—she could advertise the juiciest orange juice, or the crunchiest salad.
A woman with a face and body like hers could evade suspicion for months or years.
His heart pounded and he felt the spark of creative energy that had eluded him for months flicker to life.
She eyed him cautiously. “Why are you staring? What have I said? I can assure you I’m not a murderer and frankly I can’t imagine why you’d think it for a moment. I don’t even kill spiders. I carry them to the nearest safe place, although if I’m honest I do usually use a glass and a piece of cardboard because I don’t like the way their legs feel on my skin.”
I don’t even kill spiders.
And neither would his murderer.
Just humans.
“That’s it.” He didn’t even realize he’d spoken. Without thinking, he walked up to her and slid his fingers into her hair. Blond, silky, it flowed through his fingers and framed her face with lustrous gold. Her hair alone would be enough to dazzle any man. Dazzle and distract him. He’d be dead before he knew what had happened.
“That’s what?” She sounded exasperated. “Mr. Blade?”
“You’re the one.”
His mind, roused from its soporific state, was racing ahead so fast it took him a moment to realize he still had his fingers in her hair.
How would it happen? How would she commit murder?
Could her hair be a weapon? Or a motif? Something she left at the crime scene?
No. She’d be caught within a week.
Maybe she changed her hair each time she committed murder.
Maybe she wore a wig.
“Mr. Blade!” Huge blue eyes were fixed on his face. “What do you mean, ‘I’m the one’? I’ve never committed a crime in my life if that’s what you’re implying.”
But she would. She would. “You’re perfect.”
Her cheeks turned from whipped cream to fondant pink. “P-perfect?”
She even blushed. A woman who could blush like that wouldn’t hurt a fly. Or would she? “Can you do that at will or is it just something that happens?”
“What?”
“Blushing.” He stroked his fingers across her smooth skin, exploring the silky texture. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to deconstruct her so that he could decide which traits to give to his character.
“I tend to blush when a man I’ve only known for a few minutes tells me I’m perfect. You’re right that first impressions can be wrong. If you’d asked me ten minutes ago I wouldn’t have said you were the friendliest person I’d ever met, but now I can see you were just being defensive. And that’s understandable if women break into your apartment to meet you.”
“What?” Her words finally penetrated his subconscious and his fantasy world melted away.
He’d been thinking aloud and she’d misinterpreted his words.
She thought he was interested in her.
And why wouldn’t she? She was most men’s idea of a fantasy woman, all soft curves and blond hair with a mouth as pink and tempting as sugar icing. There had been a time when he would have been interested himself, but that time seemed like an age away.
His wife had tamed that side of him. The wild, restless side that had driven him to rip through life taking what he wanted. But now she was gone and he had no one to please but himself, and invariably he didn’t even manage that.
Denied any sort of internal peace or personal satisfaction, he channeled all his emotions into his work. His writing came first. At his lowest point, it had saved him, which had made the fear that he might have lost it forever all the more acute.
But he hadn’t lost it. His gift had simply been lying dormant, waiting to be reawakened and this woman had done that.
The relief was profound.
It was like a drowning man discovering the life preserver he’d thought he’d lost bobbing in the water right next to him. He grabbed it and hung on, determined not to sink back down beneath the murky water.
His mind wouldn’t stop racing. Was that his murderer’s motivation? Had she lost someone and was intent on revenge? Or was she a psychopath with no conscience or emotion, someone incapable of empathy who used her looks as a trap?
If there had been a notebook and pen in hand he would have started scribbling right there. For the first time in months he felt an almost overwhelming urge and impatience to open his laptop. He wanted to sit down and write. He wanted to write and write until the book was finished. He could feel the idea growing inside him. His mind was like a dry riverbed after a flood, replenished, drenched with ideas.
Finally, finally, after months of waiting for inspiration, he’d found his murderer.
* * *
He thought she was perfect? His reaction was unexpected given everything she knew about his life. Over the many slices of cake she’d shared with his grandmother, she’d discovered that Lucas Blade had shown no interest in dating since he’d lost his wife three years ago, despite the repeated attempts by various women to engage his attention. His life was a shadowy mystery, a private wasteland of grief and hard work. He wrote, he participated in whatever international book tours were required of him, he spoke, he signed books. In between the forced public appearances, he shut himself away.
He displayed all the signs of a man who was going through the motions.
He’d deflected his grandmother’s less than subtle attempts to introduce him to suitable women, all of which made it all the more surprising that he was looking at her as if she was the answer to his dreams.
She wasn’t convinced he was the answer to hers, although there was no arguing that he was outrageously good-looking, in a rough, buyer-beware type of way.
Was it insane to be attracted to someone who had just proved he could crush her like a bug? Having already discovered his strength, it surprised her that he was capable of the gentleness he was showing now as he slowly stroked her face with skilled fingers. But it wasn’t his touch that turned her knees to water, it was the raw hunger she saw in his eyes.
“You really think I’m perfect?”
The hunger was replaced by caution. “You have perfect bone structure.”
Perfect bone structure?
She’d been told she had nice hair. She knew her figure was good. She would have added a few inches to her height if she’d had a choice, but apart from that there wasn’t much about herself she’d change. No one had ever mentioned her bones before.
He stared at her from every angle until Eva grew more and more uncomfortable.
Lucas Blade was a mega successful writer with an international reputation and a global audience of fans, but that didn’t change the fact that he was basically a stranger. A stranger surrounded by an aura of dangerous tension. He prowled, rather than walked. Glowered, rather than smiled. And right now he was studying her as if he was a predator and she was his next victim.
His words rang in her head. You never know, just by looking, what a person is hiding.
Despite her tendency to trust most people, if she’d seen him coming toward her on the street at night she would have leaped straight into a cab.
“Do you always stare at people?” She glanced toward the door, judging the distance, and he followed her gaze with a frown.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable. I apologize.” He stepped back, giving her space, and she forced herself to breathe deeply, reminding herself that he wasn’t really a stranger. She knew his grandmother well.
“This is the most unusual first meeting I’ve ever had. First you try to kill me—”
“I did not try to kill you. I was trying to incapacitate you.”
“Given the differences in our height and weight, that pretty much amounted to the same thing.”
She couldn’t stop thinking about the way his body had felt pressed against hers. When was the last time she’d been held like that? Felt the delicious hardness, the masculine strength, the feeling of safety—safety? He’d been attacking her! Holy crap, her mind was warped. It hadn’t been romantic. It had been self-defense. “I think you might have damaged me mentally. All that talk about people’s hidden dark sides has freaked me out a little. You’ve made me nervous. I’m going to be passing people in the street wondering what secrets they’re hiding.” And she wondered what secrets he was hiding behind that wickedly handsome face.
The gleam of mockery was back. “I thought you saw good in everyone.”
“I do, but now you’ve put doubt in my mind. Thanks to you I’m going to be looking over my shoulder all the way home.”
“A healthy dose of caution is a useful thing.”
“Maybe, but you’ve scared me.”
“Scaring people is my job.”
“No, your job is to write books that scare people, not scare them in person!” She rubbed her palm over the small of her back and saw the expression in his eyes change.
“Did I hurt you?”
“I landed awkwardly and your floor is hard.” She rolled her shoulders experimentally. “I’ll live.”
“Turn around and I’ll take a look at you.”
“Are you suggesting I remove my clothes and turn my back on you? I don’t think so. You’re not the sort of man a sensible woman would turn her back on, Mr. Blade. I’m trying not to imagine what might have happened if the police hadn’t arrived when they did. You would have shattered all my bones with one of your judo throws.”
“It was jujitsu.”
“Good to know. Your grandmother told me you’re an expert at several martial arts. She’ll be thrilled to know you’re putting that expertise to good use. I’ll be sure to mention it when I call her.”
His expression froze. “You won’t be calling my grandmother.”
“But—”
“If I’d wanted my grandmother to know I was here, I would have told her.”
“Why didn’t you?” It puzzled her. “She adores you. Why would you hide from her?”
“It’s more that I’m hiding from her uncontrollable urge to interfere and fix my life.”
“She does that because she loves you.” Eva felt a pang of envy. “She cares so much.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t make it less exasperating.”
He dismissed family with the ease of someone who took it for granted. What wouldn’t she give to have someone interfere and try to fix her life? To call and check she was all right. To worry that she was working too hard and not eating properly.
She blinked rapidly.
She should probably leave. He didn’t want her here, did he? It was obvious that this wasn’t a man remotely interested in decorating for Christmas.
Now that the lights had been switched on, she was able to take a proper look around her. The apartment was beautiful, but the decor was impersonal. It felt more like an exclusive hotel than a home, as if someone had moved in and forgotten to add any personal touches.
The space was incredible but it had no soul. No character. There were no clues about the person who lived there. It was hard to believe anyone had ever sat on the sofas, or put glasses or cups down on the smooth glass table. The place seemed almost abandoned, as if Lucas had forgotten it existed.
She wanted to add flowers and cushions. She wanted to drop a few items of clothing around the place to soften it and make it seemed lived in.
Where had he been when she’d entered the apartment? Upstairs in one of the bedrooms? In his study?
For the first time since she’d been flattened underneath him, she took a serious look at his face and saw things she’d failed to notice the first time. She saw the shadows under his eyes that suggested he hadn’t slept for weeks. The lines of tension that bracketed his firm mouth.
She looked away and something else caught her eye. A sharp knife, the long blade gleaming under the lights. Had they been standing in the kitchen its presence wouldn’t have drawn a second glance, but they weren’t in the kitchen.
She stared at it uneasily.
There was something unsettling, almost menacing, about that knife.
She contemplated all the possible reasons he might have for leaving it lying on the table. Maybe he used it for opening the mail. Except that she’d already noticed a towering stack of unopened letters.
No matter how much she racked her brain, alternative suggestions eluded her.
The blade taunted her and unease turned to alarm. She wasn’t experienced at solving mysteries, but she could read clues as well as the next person. He had a knife in the living room and he was here alone, cut off from the outside world.
Christmas made some people desperate, didn’t it?
She glanced at the bare floors and walls. “Did you just move in?”
“I’ve lived here for three years.”
Three years. Had he been living here when his wife died? No. The place showed no sign of a woman’s hand, which meant he must have moved in immediately after his wife had died.
He’d been escaping. Running. And he was still running.
The place looked as if he’d jumped straight from that life into this one and brought nothing with him.
Her heart ached for him.
She tried telling herself his life was none of her business. She’d been employed to fix his apartment, not fix his life, and he’d made it clear how much he hated interference. The sensible thing was to leave right now, but if she left, he’d be alone and who knew what he might do? What if he picked up that knife? She was the only person who knew the truth. That Lucas Blade wasn’t on a writing retreat in Vermont. He was holed up here in his apartment, alone.
If he did something, she’d feel responsible. She’d always wonder if she could have stopped it. Made a difference.
Her gaze met the fierce black of his and she knew she wasn’t looking at a man who was dangerous. She was looking at a man who was desperate. Right on the edge. Holding it together by a thread.
Lucas Blade might write about horror, but she suspected that right now nothing matched the horror of his own life.
And there was no way she was leaving him alone.
Three (#ulink_e89fc4ef-acc5-5ff5-bad9-ab00c2f829b3)
Look before you leap. Or carry a first aid kit.
—Lucas
Lucas had expected her to leave, but she was still standing there.
“I have work to do.” And he was desperate to get started. The characters were coming alive in his head, becoming people with flaws and qualities. He could hear dialogue and picture scenes. For the first time in far too long he couldn’t wait to sit down in front of his laptop. He wanted to escape into the fictional world that was waiting for him. It was like someone in chronic pain, contemplating a syringe full of morphine. He wanted to grab it and empty the barrel into his veins until the sweetness of oblivion numbed the agony that had been his constant companion for three years.
The only thing stopping him was the source of his inspiration who seemed stubbornly determined not to leave. He might have scared her, but apparently he hadn’t scared her enough to send her running for the door.
“Your grandmother gave me this job, so either I call her and explain, or I do the job she sent me here to do.”
If she called his grandmother, any hope of being left alone over the Christmas period would vanish. He’d be required to explain why he was in New York rather than Vermont and, most awkwardly of all, why he’d lied about it.
“Look around you.” He tried intimidation, his tone silky soft. “Do I look like a man who wants his apartment decorated for the holidays?”
“No, which is why your grandmother wanted me to do it. She doesn’t think you should be living like this. She’s worried about you. And frankly, having met you, so am I.”
“Why would you care how I’m living my life?”
“Everyone deserves a Christmas tree in their lives.”
“Only if you’re trying to punish them.”
“Punish? A Christmas tree is uplifting.”
“What is uplifting about a fake Christmas tree, which is essentially a petroleum-based product probably manufactured in a Chinese factory?”
“Fake? Who said anything about fake? I don’t do ‘fake,’ Mr. Blade. I don’t do fake Christmas trees, fake handbags, or fake orgasms.” Color streaked across her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to say that last one. It slipped out. But my point is nothing in my life is fake.” The words tumbled over each other and Lucas found himself struggling not to smile.
He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone so deliciously indiscreet.
“You’ve never faked an orgasm?”
“Could you forget I said that?”
He imagined her in bed, naked and uninhibited. Heat raced over his skin and his thoughts were explicit enough to make him uncomfortable. Since his wife’s death he’d had no shortage of offers, from sex to marriage, but had never once been tempted. It wasn’t just that he’d left his bad boy days in his past. It was more that he no longer had the taste for it. Every time he looked at a woman he saw the expression on Sallyanne’s face the last time he’d seen her alive.
But he was definitely attracted to Eva.
To take his mind off sex, he pondered on how someone of her build could murder a man twice her size.
“I’m a writer. Human behavior interests me.”
She interested him.
He told himself that his interest was professional, but part of him recognized that as a lie.
She let her hands drop. “We were talking about Christmas trees. Real Christmas trees, which smell and look beautiful.”
“And drop needles all over my floor.” He remembered the way she’d felt underneath him.
“If needles drop you clean them up.” She unbuttoned her coat. “It’s not hard.”
“I don’t have time. I have a book to finish and I need to be left in peace to do that. If you decorate my apartment, you’ll disturb me.” It wasn’t the noise that worried him, or the intrusion of having someone else in the apartment, it was her.
She made him feel something he didn’t want to feel.
Maybe it was because she was nothing like his wife. Sallyanne had been tall and willowy. In heels, she’d matched his height. Physically, Eva was as different from Sallyanne as it was possible for a woman to be. He knew instinctively that losing himself in Eva’s soft curves would be a whole new experience, with no flashbacks or reminders, but he knew that for a man like him to get involved with a woman like her would definitely be a crime, just not the sort he wrote about.
“You won’t even know I’m here.”
“You’re not the type of woman who blends into the background.”
“You don’t need to worry about me disturbing you,” she said quickly. “I understand that creative genius needs space to work. Also there’s the fact that I don’t find your company that thrilling, Mr. Blade.”
The kitten had claws. “Tell my grandmother you changed your mind about the job.”
“No. I’m being paid to decorate your apartment and stock your freezer in your absence. That’s what I intend to do.”
“I’m not absent.”
“Which is inconvenient for both of us, particularly as you’re not allowing me to disclose that fact to the person who gave me this job. I don’t like lying.”
He discovered that those soft blue eyes and mermaid-like hair concealed a woman with a stubborn streak a mile wide.
The thought that his grandmother might finally have met her match almost compensated for the irritation of failing to shift her from his apartment.
Almost, but not quite.
“Leave, and I’ll match whatever she’s paying you.”
“It’s not about the money, Mr. Blade. It’s about my professional reputation. I take pride in my work.”
“And what is your work, exactly? You’re a Christmas elf? You decorate the apartments of unsuspecting Scrooge-like individuals, thus intensifying their loathing of this time of year?” His sarcasm seemed to slide right off her.
“I’m part of Urban Genie. We’re an events and concierge company.”
“Decorating my apartment is an event?”
“Your grandmother is one of our clients and this request came through her. We can do pretty much anything that’s requested of us.”
He bit back the obvious comment. He told himself that he didn’t want to make cheap jokes at her expense, but the truth was he was trying hard not to think of her that way. “Anything, it seems, except leave when you’re asked to.”
“I’d leave if requested to do so by my client. You’re not my client.”
“Give me the name of your boss, and I’ll call and explain that I no longer need your services.”
“I am the boss. I run the business with two of my friends.”
“How do you know my grandmother?”
“I met Mitzy earlier in the year when she requested a birthday cake. She was one of our first clients. We got talking, and since then she’s used us a few times. When the weather is cold I walk her little dog, and sometimes we just talk.”
No one but his grandfather had ever called his grandmother Mitzy. To everyone else she was Mary, or Gran. Clearly this girl was more to his grandmother than the face of an efficient concierge service. “What do you talk about?”
“Everything. She’s an interesting woman.”
“She pays you to chat? You charge an old lady for company?”
“No. I chat because I like her.” She was patient. “She reminds me of my grandmother. She’s a little lonely, I think.”
Even though there was no accusation in her eyes or in her voice, he felt another stab of guilt.
“She calls you?”
“Occasionally. More often she uses our Urban Genie app.”
“You’re confusing her with someone else. My grandmother doesn’t own a cell phone. She has always refused to have one.” He thought of the number of arguments they’d had on that topic. He didn’t understand how she was allowed to worry about him, but he wasn’t allowed to worry about her.
“She didn’t refuse me. And she regularly uses our app.”
“She hates technology.”
“She hates the idea of it, but she was fine once we’d given her basic training. She’s very smart.”
“You trained her?” How did he not know this? He thought back to the last time he’d seen his grandmother. The summer had been busy with an international book tour. He’d spent less than two days at home in July and August. Since then he’d been busy trying to find a way to start his book.
They were excuses and he knew it.
He could have found the time. He could have made the time.
The truth was he found it hard to be with his grandmother. Her intentions were good, but whenever she tried to soothe his pain she simply made it worse. No one could heal the wound that festered inside him, not his grandmother, and not this woman with eyes the color of a summer sky and hair the color of buttermilk.
He held out his hand. “Do you have the app on your phone? Show me.” He took her phone from her and opened the app. “Your wish is our command?” He raised an eyebrow. “My wish is that you leave and tell no one you saw me. How do we make that happen?”
She snatched the phone from him. “We don’t. Here’s the deal, Mr. Blade. I don’t know why you’re not in Vermont, and I don’t need to know. That’s not my business. My business is doing the job your grandmother paid me to do. I will decorate your apartment, fill your freezer and then I will leave.”
He would have been impressed if he hadn’t been so exasperated.
Finally, after months of struggling, he was ready to write and he couldn’t because this woman refused to leave him alone.
“I could have you removed.”
“You could. But then I’d call your grandmother and tell her where you are. I’m sensing you don’t want me to do that, so I’m sure we can reach a compromise we can both live with.”
“You’re blackmailing me?” After a decade spent exploring the darker side of human nature nothing ever surprised him, but this did.
Her eyes were kind, her mouth lush and perfectly curved. On the outside she was gentle and sweet. Inside she was solid steel. The contrast might have intrigued him, but right now all it did was aggravate.
He was about to find a way of forcibly ejecting her when he noticed the volume of snow falling past the windows of his apartment.
The sight chilled him.
He walked to the window in silence and stared at the world outside, transformed and remodeled by layer upon layer of snow. The thick curtain of flakes veiled his view of Central Park.
Memories rose in dark, menacing clouds, their presence blackening everything. He was yanked back in time to a night exactly like this one.
The same deceptively harmless swirl of snow had proved as deadly a killer as any he’d written into his stories. The unexpected twist had made it all the more brutal.
Time was supposed to heal, but he knew he hadn’t healed. He didn’t know how to heal. His emotions were as raw and real as they’d been three years earlier. All he could do was cling on and survive. Get up, get dressed, get through another day. He wouldn’t have thought there was anything that could make it harder, but one thing did and that was the pressure he felt from other people to “move on.” The knowledge that he’d been unable to meet their expectations when it came to recovery added to his sense of failure.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, blocking out the images and the memory of the last time he’d seen Sallyanne alive. He wanted to be able to go back and think about the good times, but so far that hadn’t happened. Like a misbehaving computer, his mind had crashed and frozen on that one single moment he would have chosen to forget.
“I love snow, don’t you? It’s like being wrapped in a great big hug.” Her soft, dreamy voice cut through the nightmare playing out in his head and he opened his eyes, knowing that whatever his grandmother might have shared with this woman over cake and tea, she hadn’t shared all the details of his wife’s death.
Her innocent, optimistic comment grated on him, like sandpaper rubbed over raw skin.
“I hate snow.”
She stood by his side, gazing out of the window, and he turned to look at her, aware of the false intimacy created by their circumstances.
He wasn’t sure what he saw in her face. Wistfulness? Contentment? Either way it was obvious that she was as trusting of the weather as she was of people.
I’m a cup half-full sort of person.
Exasperation turned to resignation. He knew there was no decision to be made.
No matter how much he wanted to send her away, he couldn’t do it. Not with the blizzard currently engulfing Manhattan. No one else was going to die because of him.
“Decorate the apartment if you must. Tie bows on the stairs, hang mistletoe from the light fixtures. I don’t care.” He knew he was being ungracious, but he couldn’t help it. He felt trapped, cornered, even though she could hardly be held responsible for the weather. She probably thought he made Scrooge look like a man full of Christmas spirit. “I’m going to work. Do what the hell you like, but don’t disturb me.”
* * *
Eva felt about as welcome as a rat in a restaurant.
She stripped off her coat and carried her bags through to the kitchen. Everything shone and she stood for a moment admiring the blend of gleaming metal and smooth polished countertops. She’d been in enough kitchens to know that this one was custom-built and expensive.
“I may feel like a rat in a restaurant,” she muttered, “but at least it’s a beautiful restaurant.”
Keeping one eye on the door upstairs through which Lucas had vanished, she started to unload the food.
The refrigerator was huge. It was also mostly empty. He hadn’t prepared for the blizzard?
She stared at the empty shelves, comparing it with the fridge in her own apartment. That one was half the size and twice as full, brimming with vegetables and the result of her creative experiments in the kitchen. This one looked as if the person who owned the apartment hadn’t yet moved in.
Maybe he couldn’t be bothered to buy furnishings, but what had he been eating?
She pulled open the cabinets and found a few jars, a few tins and some pasta. And six unopened bottles of whiskey.
On the far side of the kitchen one entire wall had been given over to wine storage, row upon row of bottles with only the tops visible. The only time she’d ever seen so many bottles of wine in one place had been in a restaurant. It was eye-catching and decorative, but she had a feeling its purpose wasn’t to provide aesthetic appeal. Lucas Blade was either a collector or he was a big drinker.
No wonder his grandmother was concerned.
She was starting to have her own concerns, but mingled in with those concerns were other feelings. She paused and pressed her palm against her stomach, trying to subdue the butterflies. He was troubled and complicated. Not a man she should be looking twice at. Not that she was saving herself for Mr. Right, but at the very least she had to like someone and had to believe they liked her back.
She wasn’t sure what she thought about Lucas Blade. She felt sympathy for his situation, and she was certainly attracted to him, but as for whether she liked him—she needed more time before she could answer that. And he certainly didn’t seem to like her.
Reaching for more bags, she carried on unloading the food.
Why didn’t he just tell his family he was at home and didn’t want to be disturbed? Why concoct an elaborate story that he was in Vermont?
She stowed a box of eggs and glanced up the stairs where Lucas had vanished. In the brief moment before he’d turned his back on her, his face had been like thunder. She’d been sure he was about to forcibly eject her from the building, or at least find some legitimate way to get rid of her and reclaim his territory but something, and she had no idea what, had caused him to reverse his decision.
She’d expected to be on her own here for a couple of nights. A few hours ago she would have rejoiced in the prospect of company, but now she wasn’t so sure. There was something inexplicably lonely about being trapped in an apartment with someone who didn’t want you there.
Maybe she should have done as he’d ordered and left, but how could she possibly leave a person who was suffering as he was? She couldn’t, especially knowing that no one else was going to check on him. There was no way she could ever abandon another human being who was feeling that bad.
If something had happened to him she wouldn’t have been able to live with herself.
And then there was the matter of the job itself.
Paige was the one who had so far won most of the new business for their fledgling company. She was a dynamo who had worked tirelessly to get Urban Genie off the ground.
This was the first significant piece of business Eva had brought in and she didn’t want to lose it. Nor did she want to let her client down. And Mitzy had become more than a client. She was a friend.
Eva unpacked the rest of the bags, leaving only the ones that contained decorations for the tree.
Those could wait until the tree was delivered.
Trying to forget about Lucas, she pulled on her headphones and selected her favorite festive soundtrack from her playlist, reminding herself not to sing. She didn’t want to disturb him while he was writing.
Two minutes into the song, Paige called.
“How are you doing? Is it weird being in an empty apartment?”
Eva glanced upward to the silent space above her. “It’s not empty. He’s here.”
“Who is ‘he’? And I’m putting you on speaker. Frankie is gesturing to me.”
“Lucas Blade.” She explained the situation, leaving out mention of the police.
There was no point in worrying her friends.
“Why would he pretend to be away?”
Eva remembered the look in his eyes. She glanced at the knife on the table. “I don’t think he wants company.” She suspected he didn’t want his own company either, but that wasn’t something he could easily escape.
“So you’ve seen him then? Hey, is he smoking hot or did they use a body double in that photo on the book jacket?” It was Frankie who spoke and Eva thought about those strikingly masculine features and those eyes. Those eyes…
“He’s smoking hot.”
“There you go.” Frankie sounded triumphant. “You wanted to use up that condom before Christmas—this is your opportunity.”
Eva thought about how his body had felt crushing hers and her stomach did a succession of flips. “He’s not my type.”
“Sexy as hell? He’s every woman’s type.”
“I’m not denying he’s sexy, but he’s not friendly.”
“So? You don’t have to have a conversation. Just use him for great sex.”
Her words must have set off alarm bells because Paige came back on the phone.
“What do you mean he’s not friendly?”
“Nothing. Forget it. He doesn’t want me here, that’s all.”
“But you’re staying anyway? You are one of a kind.” Frankie muttered something indistinct. “If a man didn’t want me around, I’d be out of there so fast you wouldn’t see me for dust.”
“But you’re an introvert. And you’re weird around men.”
“Do I need to remind you I’m in love and engaged?”
“You’re weird around all men except Matt.”
“In this case I agree with Frankie. If he makes you feel uncomfortable, you should leave.” Paige was emphatic. “We have a rule, remember? If a situation feels wrong then we get the hell out, especially when we’re working alone.”
“I don’t feel threatened. And I can’t leave him.” She lowered her voice. “There was almost no food in the place until I showed up. And it’s not only food that’s missing. There’s hardly any furniture. No mess. It’s as if he just moved in.”
“Having you there will soon change that,” Frankie said, but Paige didn’t laugh.
“The more I hear, the less I like. How did he persuade you to stay?”
“He didn’t. He wanted me to leave, until—” Until he’d noticed the weather. She turned and glanced toward the windows. That was it. He’d been pushing her to leave right up until the moment he’d looked out of the window and seen that New York was virtually shut down. “He didn’t want me to travel in a blizzard. Don’t worry, if he was planning to do away with me, he would have booted me out into the street and let the weather do the job for him.” She strolled toward the windows and peered through the swirling wall of white. The streets and the park had vanished behind the ferocious fury of the storm. “I couldn’t leave now even if I wanted to.” The knowledge made her nerve endings tingle. It was just the two of them. Alone. Only this time the word alone conjured up different feelings. Her stomach felt jittery.
“Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes. I came equipped to turn his house into a winter wonderland with gourmet extras.” But she hadn’t expected the place to be quite so stark. She could decorate, but she wasn’t a magician.
“Stay in touch,” Paige said. “If we don’t hear from you, we’re coming down there, blizzard or no blizzard. Jake’s here and he’s staying over. And Matt’s here with Frankie. We miss you!”
Eva felt a pang. Both her friends were in committed relationships. They’d found love and she was happy for them. But there was no denying it made her feel even more alone.
“Remember that self-defense move I taught you?” Frankie’s voice came down the phone and Eva smiled.
“This guy is a black belt in you-name-it-I-do-it martial arts, so my single self-defense move isn’t going to get me far.” She remembered the skill with which he’d brought her to the floor. “I’m going to trust my natural instinct about people. I know he writes about bad guys, but he isn’t a bad guy himself.”
She tried to forget what he’d said about the man in the street hiding who he really was.
He was wrong about that. Perhaps some people hid who they were, but most people were kind. She’d seen it time and time again.
Damn the man for planting that nasty seed in her usually optimistic mind.
“So you’re staying the night with a guy you never met before tonight?” Paige sounded worried. “I don’t like the sound of it, Ev.”
“I can assure you he has no interest in me.” Eva glanced up the stairway again, but upstairs was still and silent. “What does it mean when a guy says you have good bones?”
“When a crime writer says it, it means you need to get out of there,” Frankie muttered. “Lucas Blade writes scary stuff. The last guy he wrote about used to strip his victims.”
“Of their clothes?”
“Of their skin.”
“Ew.” Eva wished she hadn’t asked. “Why would you read that?”
“Because I can’t not read it. Everything he writes is gripping. He gets into the minds of people. Exploits your fears. He is hugely successful and his books are getting better and better. Everyone is waiting for his next book, including me. Hey, if you get a glimpse, send me a couple of chapters. What’s he like, anyway?”
Intimidating. “He wasn’t expecting to see me here, so I don’t think I’ve seen him at his best.”
“If you can’t find anything good to say about him then he must be truly bad,” Paige said. “You always see the good in people.”
“He isn’t bad. He bought his grandmother a puppy.”
“So? Psychopaths can be pet owners. Come home, Ev. He’s not your responsibility.”
“I’m the only one who knows he’s here,” Eva said simply. “And he’s in trouble. Whether he wants me here or not, I’m not leaving.”
* * *
Lucas stared at the glow of the screen.
Do I look like a murderer to you?
Those words had triggered a flow of ideas in his head, but none of them had made it from his head to his fingers. There were still too many unanswered questions.
It was like looking at a tangled ball of wool. The threads were there, but so far he hadn’t managed to untangle them and weave them into a pattern that would keep his readers turning the pages.
But he had something. He knew he had something.
He rose to his feet and paced to the window of his study.
It was his superpower, the ability to delve deep into the psyche of the average person and expose, and exploit, their deepest fears. If he hadn’t been a writer, he would have been a profiler for the FBI. He had contacts, had developed a few close relationships over the years. If he’d thought about it for too long he might have been disturbed by the directions his mind took. Right now though it was going nowhere.
His agent would be calling again soon. And his editor.
Soon they wouldn’t just want a few chapters, they’d want the whole damn book.
He was running out of time. The book was due on Christmas Eve. He had less than a month. He’d never written a book that fast. He was approaching the point that he was going to have to tell them the truth. He’d have to tell them that the book wasn’t finished. It wasn’t even started. He didn’t have a single word on the page.
A scent rose up through the apartment and he turned his head to the door, trying to place it.
Cinnamon.
The moment he identified it coincided with a soft tap on the door.
He dragged it open and saw Eva standing there, holding a tray.
“I thought you might be hungry. I’ll make supper later, but for now I made a batch of my special Christmas spice cookies. I was going to freeze them for you, but as you’re here you might as well eat one now.”
He stared down at the plate. The cookies were shaped like Christmas trees and specs of sugar dusted the golden brown surface.
“Aren’t cookies usually round?”
“They can be any shape you choose.”
“And you chose Christmas trees?”
“It’s a cookie, Mr. Blade. Eat it or don’t.”
He eyed the tray in her hands. Next to the plate of cookies was a mug full of—
“What the hell is that?” A slice of lemon floated on the top of straw-colored liquid.
“It’s herbal tea.”
“Herbal—?” He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t find that in my cupboards.”
“I didn’t find anything much in your cupboards.”
“I drink coffee. Strong. Black.”
“You can’t drink strong black coffee in the afternoon. It will stop you sleeping. Herbal tea is refreshing and calming.”
He rarely slept, but he didn’t tell her that. He’d seen enough of his life plastered across the press over the past decade to make him miserly with the personal details he shared.
Herbal tea. As if that was going to solve his problems.
“Take it away.” If it had been neat whiskey he would have downed it in one, but he wasn’t swallowing herbal tea for anyone. “Do I look like a guy who drinks herbal tea and eats cookies shaped like Christmas trees?” His tone was infused with a harshness a thousand times more unpalatable than the brew in the cup in front of him and she studied him for a long moment.
“No, but you can’t tell much about a person by looking at them, can you? You were the one who taught me that. Has it occurred to you that maybe I’m not trying to sweeten you up, Mr. Blade. Maybe I’m trying to poison you.” She pushed the tray into his hands and walked away, dismissing him with a swish of her golden hair.
He stared after her, reeling from the contrast between her sweet face and the sharp rebuke.
Poison him?
That was it.
Finally he was ready to type something, and he had his hands full.
He took the tray into his study and set it down on his desk.
It was already dark and the only light in the room came from the glow of his laptop and the strange, luminescent light reflecting off the snow beyond the windows.
He returned to the screen. So far there were only two words on the page.
Chapter One.
He sat down and started to write.
Four (#ulink_4e0389fb-cab2-5daf-9a57-28790537c33e)
You are what you eat, so keep it sweet.
—Eva
Of all the rude, moody, irritable—
Eva stomped around the kitchen, hurt and upset. She’d been raised to consider what might lie beneath the surface of a person’s behavior. You didn’t have to be a psychologist to understand what was going on with Lucas, but still his words had stung.
She told herself that he was grieving. He was in pain. He was—
Cold. Distant. Intimidating. Formidable.
And obviously not a lover of herbal tea.
Her brief glimpse inside his study had shown her that the room was nothing like the rest of the apartment. It smelled of wood smoke and leather, and had both personality and warmth. A warmth that came from more than the flickering fire. Unlike the rest of his apartment, his office space had been furnished with loving care and attention. Two worn, deep leather sofas faced each other across a low table piled high with books. Not coffee-table books chosen as a design accent, but real books, thumbed at the corners and stacked haphazardly as if they’d only recently been read.
There had been a desk, she remembered, dominated by what appeared to be a very expensive computer, and there was also a laptop. The room was graced with the same soaring glass windows that enveloped the rest of the apartment, but the image that remained with her was of the bookshelves. They’d stretched from floor to ceiling and were packed with more books than she’d ever seen in her life outside a library. The covers didn’t match and leather-bound volumes were interspersed with the less durable paperbacks, the lines on their spines suggesting that they were well-read and well loved.
She was curious to know what Lucas Blade read when he wanted to escape from his own work and his own world. Did he read crime fiction or something different?
She’d had no opportunity to take a closer look. With a single glance and a few carefully chosen words, he’d made it clear that she was intruding on his space.
He didn’t want her here. She wasn’t welcome.
But before she’d turned away, she’d learned one other thing. Perhaps the most important thing of all. Whatever Lucas was doing in his office, it wasn’t writing.
The computer screen had been blank. Had it been smaller, she might not have noticed but as it was she’d managed to read two words—Chapter One.
There had been nothing else.
What had he been doing up there in the weeks he’d supposedly been hiding away and writing? What had he been doing while she’d been familiarizing herself with his kitchen?
Not working, that she was sure about.
In the few awkward moments before she’d plucked up the courage to knock on his door, she’d heard silence. There had been no sound. Nothing. No rhythmic rattle of fingers on a keyboard. No tap of the space bar. No soft whirr of a printer.
If she hadn’t seen him disappear inside, she would have assumed the room was empty.
She felt a pang of empathy.
After her grandmother had died she’d struggled to drag herself out of bed. If it hadn’t been for her friends, she probably wouldn’t have bothered.
Where were Lucas’s friends?
Why weren’t they banging on his door and bringing him hot meals? Why weren’t they insisting he left the apartment?
Because they thought he was in Vermont. Everyone thought he was in Vermont.
Only she knew differently.
She glanced up the elegant curve of the stairs to the closed door, wondering how to handle the situation. She wasn’t exactly in a position to criticize him for his lack of social life. She couldn’t even get herself a date. She was hardly qualified to rekindle his flagging inspiration, or whatever it was that was preventing him from writing. All she could do was make sure he was well fed. That, at least, was within the scope of her experience.
What would tempt him? It had to smell good, be quick and easy to eat and not too heavy.
She opened the fridge, now fully stocked, and pulled out cheese, eggs and milk.
She’d whip up a soufflé, light and fluffy, serve it with some of the fresh salad leaves she’d purchased earlier. And she’d make bread.
Who could resist the smell of freshly baked bread?
For the next few hours she whisked, poured and kneaded. She rarely consulted a recipe and never weighed anything. Instead she relied on instinct and experience. Neither had failed her yet. She added rosemary and sea salt to the dough and made a few notes in the small book she always carried so she could add the recipe to her blog later.
She’d started her blog, Eat with Eva, as a way of recording and remembering all that her grandmother had taught her. To begin with she’d only had a few loyal followers, but they were growing rapidly and what had started out as an interest and a hobby had turned into a passion and a job. She’d been as surprised by the discovery that she could earn her living doing what she loved as she was by the surge in her own ambition.
She wanted this to be big. Not because she wanted fame and fortune, but because she wanted to spread the word about good, simple cooking to everyone. With that objective in mind, she tried only to use simple ingredients that could be easily sourced. She wanted people to use her recipes after a hard day at work, not just for the occasional dinner party.
She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t cooked. One of her earliest memories was of standing on a chair next to the stove, concentrating as her grandmother taught her how to make the perfect omelet.
At Urban Genie, she rarely did the cooking herself. Her job was to outsource catering, and she spent her days discussing menus, meeting with new suppliers, managing budgets.
It was a pleasure to be back in the kitchen, especially a kitchen as well equipped as this one. And part of that pleasure was the feeling of being close to her grandmother, as if this memory and the happy feelings were something that couldn’t be erased by her absence. It was a way of keeping her alive, of remembering the touch, the smells, the smiles that had been exchanged during activities exactly like this one.
She’d discovered that a legacy wasn’t money, it was memories. And inside her was a treasure trove of a thousand special moments.
She shaped the dough into rolls, scored the tops and placed them on a baking tray.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied the knife that Lucas had left on the table.
Having witnessed plenty of accidents in the kitchens where she’d worked, she was obsessively careful with knives.
After a moment, she picked it up and slid it into the back of one of the drawers so that it was hidden from view.
It occurred to her that if he tried to harm himself with that knife it would now be covered in her fingerprints and she paused, horrified by her thought process.
She pushed the drawer closed, exasperated with herself and also with him because she knew exactly who had put that thought in her head. He had, with his comments about never really knowing a person. Even though she disagreed with him, his words had seeped into her mind and contaminated her usually sunny thoughts, like poison dropped into a clear mountain stream.
Unsettled, she slid the softly curved rolls into the oven. Hopefully Lucas would give them a more positive response than he had the herbal tea.
While she waited for them to cook, she tidied up. At home her untidy nature had been a source of argument between herself and Paige, who had shared an apartment with her for years. The only exception to her tendency to drop things where she stood was in the kitchen. Her kitchen was always spotless.
Timing it perfectly, she removed the rolls from the oven, leaned in to inhale the delicious fragrance and transferred them to a wire cooling rack. The magic of baking never failed to charm her.
While she waited for the soufflé to rise, she pulled out her phone and took a photo of the rolls, focusing in on the domed, crusty surfaces. She posted it to her Instagram account and noted that the number of her followers had rocketed since the day before. She’d been experimenting, working out what time of day attracted most traffic.
Frankie loathed social media. Paige, the business brain behind their company, understood the importance of building a connection with customers but had no time, so it had fallen to Eva to manage all Urban Genie’s accounts as well as her own. The interaction suited her social personality, and she loved seeing increased interest in the company as a result of her endeavors. Encouraged by Paige, she’d started her own YouTube channel demonstrating recipes and it was gaining popularity.
Maybe she’d film herself making bread rolls while she was here. The kitchen would be a fabulous backdrop.
Finally the meal was ready, but there was still no sign of Lucas.
She was about to risk life and limb by taking up another tray when she heard the sound of the door opening and footsteps on the stairs.
Lucas had pushed the sleeves of his black sweater back to his elbows, revealing forearms that were strong, the muscles contoured. He didn’t look like a guy who spent his day glued to a computer. He looked like a sexy construction worker. His hair was rumpled, his jaw dusky with shadow and he seemed distracted.
Was his mind on his book or his dead wife?
He glanced around the kitchen. “What are you doing?”
“Cooking. You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry. I came down for whiskey.”
She told herself his drinking habits were none of her business. “You should eat something. Good nutrition is important, and you are hungry.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Because you’re moody and irritable. I’m the same when I’m hungry.” She hoped she sounded kind rather than judgmental. “Of course it could be that you’re moody because your work isn’t going well, but you never know. Eat. If nothing else, it will make you nicer to be around.”
“What makes you think my work isn’t going well?”
“I saw the computer screen—there were no words on it.”
“The process of writing isn’t all about putting words on the page. Sometimes it’s about thinking, and staring out of the window.” But there was an edge to his tone that told her she’d touched a nerve.
“I have a friend who’s a writer and she tells me that when the words are flowing it feels like magic.”
“And when they’re not, is that a curse?”
She served the meal. “I don’t know. I’m not a writer, but I’m guessing it could feel that way. Is that how it feels?”
“Maybe I’m moody and irritable because I have an overnight guest I wasn’t expecting and didn’t want.”
“Maybe, but why don’t you eat something and we’ll find out. Being hungry isn’t going to help your mood or your brainpower.” Eva pushed the plate in front of him and saw his expression change.
“What is that?”
“It’s a perfect soufflé. Try a mouthful.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not—”
“Here’s a fork.” She handed it to him and dressed the salad leaves with organic olive oil and balsamic vinegar she’d bought on her trip to Dean & DeLuca.
“Who goes to the trouble of making a complicated soufflé for supper at home?”
“Who goes to the trouble of buying an oven as beautiful as that one and not using it?” She pushed the salad toward him. “It’s like buying a Ferrari and keeping it in the garage.”
In some ways he reminded her of a Ferrari. Sleek. Beautiful. Out of her league.
“The oven came with the apartment. I don’t cook.”
And she had a feeling that everything in the apartment was the best. “If you don’t cook, what do you eat?”
“When I’m working? Not much. Sometimes I order takeout.”
“That’s shockingly unhealthy.”
“Most of the time I’m too busy to care what I’m eating.”
She watched as he slid his fork through the light, airy soufflé. Try it, she thought, and discover what it’s like tocare about what you’re eating.
He took a mouthful and nodded. “It’s good.” He took another mouthful and paused. “No, I’m wrong about that.”
She was offended. “You don’t think it’s good?”
He took a third mouthful and a fourth and then lowered his fork down slowly. “First she drugs her victims—”
“Excuse me?”
He stared down at his plate. He didn’t seem to have heard her. “She invites them to dinner. A romantic evening. Soft music. Wine. It’s all going well. He thinks he’s going to get lucky—”
“And then she breaks the bottle over his head?”
He glanced up and blinked. “She would never do anything so unsubtle.”
“But I would,” Eva said sweetly, “if you insult my cooking.”
“When did I insult your cooking?”
“You said it wasn’t good.”
“It’s not good. It’s better than good.” He slid the fork into the fluffy soufflé, examining it closely. “It’s perfect. Like eating a cloud.”
His compliment thawed the frosty atmosphere and Eva watched as he cleared his plate. “In that case I forgive you.” Although she wouldn’t have admitted it, she was relieved to see him eating. The vast, empty fridge had worried her. Not eating was a bad sign. She knew. She’d lost fifteen pounds after her grandmother had died. Getting through each hour had been hard and every day had felt like a month. Sympathy swelled inside her.
He stared at his plate. “If you were going to poison someone, how would you do it?”
Sympathy evaporated. “Keep being obnoxious and you might find out.”
He put his fork down slowly. “Was I being obnoxious?”
“You were questioning whether my food was poisonous.”
“Are you always this sensitive?”
“Is it sensitive to be hurt when someone criticizes your professional abilities? If someone asked you how you choose to bore your readers, you’d be similarly offended.”
“I never bore my readers.”
“And I never poison the people I cook for.”
“My question was abstract, not personal. I was speaking hypothetically.”
“Then your timing was bad. Abstract is when you don’t have a plate of freshly cooked food in front of you.”
His gaze locked on hers and she noticed that his eyes weren’t black, but a velvety dark brown. A slow dangerous heat spread through her body until her limbs had the liquid consistency of warm honey.
He was the first to lower his gaze. “You’re right. I was hungry.” He helped himself to another roll, his voice level. “And, for the record, I do own a Ferrari I keep in the garage.”
Her heart was pounding. What just happened? What was that look? “You own a Ferrari in New York City?”
“Hence the reason it stays in the garage for most of the winter. Apparently it doesn’t like idling in traffic or the bitter cold.” He glanced across at her plate. “You’re not eating?”
“I want to make sure you don’t die before I take a mouthful.”
He laughed, and in that instant she understood exactly why he had to fight off women. That smile held an indecent amount of seductive charm. She hastily started eating to take her mind off the direction her thoughts were taking.
“So tell me,” he said, breaking off a piece of roll, “what hell do you intend to inflict on my apartment?”
“Excuse me?”
“At least spare me pine needles.”
“I have a Nordmann fir arriving any minute.”
“Cancel the order.”
“You can’t have Christmas without a tree.”
“I’ve managed it for the past three years.”
“All the more reason to have an extra big one this year.”
“There is no logic behind that statement.”
“I don’t tell you how to write your book. Don’t tell me how to decorate your apartment.”
“The difference is that readers are waiting for my book. I’m not waiting for you to decorate my apartment.” The smile was gone. “In fact, the last thing I want is for you to decorate my apartment, so why would I let you go ahead and do it?”
“Because it will please your grandmother.”
“How,” he asked, “does me treading on a carpet of pine needles while surrounded by pointless decorations please my grandmother?”
“You need to allow her to show you she cares. You are going to let me do what she’s asked and then you are going to tell her it was a great idea that made you feel a thousand times better.”
“She’ll know I’m lying.”
“Then you’ll have to work harder to be convincing.”
“Or I could be honest and tell her I don’t want the apartment decorated.”
“That would hurt her feelings and you wouldn’t want to do that. You’re a kind person.” She said it firmly and saw his eyebrows lift.
“Since I almost knocked you unconscious you’ve accused me of being obnoxious, moody and irritable. And now you think I’m kind.”
“I didn’t say you were kind to me, but I know you’re kind to your grandmother. And the reason I know that is because you bought her a puppy.” Eva played her trump card. “She was lonely and spending far too much time in her apartment, so you bought her a dog. And she adores that dog and she gets out to walk it every day. Well, almost every day. Sometimes her arthritis is bad and she has to call for help.”
“And then she calls you.”
“Yes. Or she puts in a request through the app and we arrange dog-walking. We use a fantastic company on the Upper East Side. Not far from here in fact. They’re called The Bark Rangers.”
“You know I was the one who bought her the dog. What else has she told you about me?”
“Not much.” Eva was intentionally vague. “She only mentioned you once or twice.”
“Let me guess. While you were sitting there sipping tea and eating cake, she told you about her widowed grandson and how her greatest wish is to see him settled again.” He leaned forward, his gaze penetrating and intense. “She sent you. And you expect me to believe that this is about my apartment?”
“It is.” It was a good job she had nothing to hide because she would have confessed everything under the steady burn of his gaze. “Newsflash, Mr. Blade. I’m not a complicated person. Men think women are a mystery, but I’m straightforward. What you see is what you get. I’ve never been much good at hiding things. But that doesn’t make me naive.”
“If you believe my grandmother sent you here to cook and decorate my apartment, then you are naive.” He returned his gaze to his plate and finished his food. “Is that why you’re preparing delicious meals? Because you think the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”
“I’m a cook, not a cardiologist. I can’t think of a single reason why I’d be interested in your heart. And given that your grandmother doesn’t even know you’re here, I don’t see how someone with your supposed powers of deduction can believe this is some sort of blind date.” Flustered because she’d been having thoughts she knew she shouldn’t be having, Eva stood up and cleared the plates, crashing the crockery as she loaded the dishwasher. “I can assure you I’m not part of your grandmother’s plan.”
Far from it. She and Mitzy had talked about it several times and Eva had always said the same thing. That she didn’t think Mitzy should be pushing women toward him. If he was going to meet someone, then he had to do it in his own time at his own pace. “You can relax, Mr. Blade. You’re not my type. You’re a cynical crime writer who believes everyone is hiding a secret. Have you ever watched the movie While You Were Sleeping?”
“No.”
“That’s what I thought. It’s my favorite movie so, as I said—” she waved her hand, finishing “—you’re not my type.”
“Now I’m intrigued.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her. “What is your type?”
She thought of the few desperately unsatisfactory dates she’d had over the past year. “I don’t date much and I don’t have a type, although I do have a general wish list.”
“Go on.”
It was a standing joke between her and her friends. “Broad shoulders, abs, sense of humor, ability to tolerate my ancient soft toy and in possession of enough stamina to give my condom a decent workout before it expires like the last one I carried in my purse.” She grinned and then saw the incredulous expression on his face. “It’s a joke. Kind of. Never mind. Too much information. Let’s move on.”
“I’m starting to understand why you don’t date much. You’re a hopeless romantic and you’re waiting for Prince Charming?” The faint hint of humor needled her, even though she was used to being teased for her rose-tinted view on life.
“No, but even you have to agree Prince Charming is a more appealing character than Jack the Ripper.”
“But less interesting. And I’m sure even Prince Charming had a hidden side.”
“I don’t want to think about it.” She finished clearing the kitchen. “It’s late and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to go to sleep. Which is your bedroom?”
“Why would you need to know that?”
She could almost feel the barriers coming up between them. “How else am I going to be able to come into your room and seduce you in the night, Mr. Blade?”
Something glimmered in his eyes. “Pick either of the rooms on the left at the top of the stairs. And if you’re spending the night here, you can’t keep calling me Mr. Blade. We should introduce ourselves properly. I’m Lucas, cynical crime writer.”
“I’m Eva. Hopeless romantic. Pleased to meet you.”
A smile tilted the corners of his mouth and the smile was so irresistible, she smiled back.
Oh holy crap, she was in trouble.
Five (#ulink_8efef701-fed6-56c0-a2ae-18b7578ce393)
One person’s dream is another person’s nightmare. It’s all a matter of perspective.
—Lucas
He felt stronger than he had in days. Maybe weeks. The dark images that had paralyzed him had faded, like clouds receding after a storm. He’d been drawn downstairs by the mouthwatering smells, but it wasn’t only the food that had replenished his energy, it was the conversation. There was something about Eva that fed his creativity. Every exchange, every conversation, unlocked another piece of the puzzle.
He had his murderer, and now he had her motivation.
She’d started her life full of hope, believing in true love and happy-ever-afters.
All that had been crushed when she’d met—
Michael?
Richard?
He frowned, trying to decide on a name for his murderer’s first victim. It was a small role, but crucial to the character motivation. Gradually life had chipped away at her relentless optimism, tarnishing her shiny vision of reality.
Her victims were the people who had disappointed her.
His mind wandered to Eva.
Most people are simply what they seem.
Did she really believe that? In his experience people were rarely as they seemed.
Take her, for example. Was she an innocent, or an opportunist who had taken advantage of his grandmother? Had she used her relationship with a vulnerable woman to extract information about him?
And what about the rest of her life?
He wondered what secrets she was hiding because if he knew one thing it was that everyone had secrets.
He sat down in front of his computer screen and the words started to flow.
He rarely based his characters on real people. Instead he preferred to use them as inspiration, taking traits and crafting his own fully formed individuals. But in his head, his main character was taking shape, and that shape was uncannily like Eva. He imagined how Eva might change if she met the wrong people, if life dealt her a different set of cards. Imagined the damage that life could do to someone like her.

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