by Sarah Morgan
“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
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 peopl
e, if life dealt her a different set of cards. Imagined the damage that life could do to someone like her.
She’d been eight years old when she’d discovered that not all endings were happy. At the time, she’d been standing over the body of her stepfather. She hadn’t known there could be so much blood in one person.
The words tumbled past the block that had stopped him working. This was what he’d been waiting for. This feeling that the words were unstoppable, the story pouring onto the page.
The raw burning panic eased, but still he knew he faced a herculean task if he was to get the book written by Christmas.
* * *
The tree had arrived after dinner, considerably larger than expected, and she and Albert had set it up close to the window in the living room. Instantly the place looked lived-in and festive.
Eva hoped Lucas wasn’t going to throw it down the elevator shaft.
Tiredness descended on her. It had been a long day. She’d get up early and decorate the tree, but right now she was going to take a shower, write her blog and update the Urban Genie social media accounts.
She chose the larger of the two spare rooms, and took a moment to admire the view. No matter where you were standing, this apartment was all about the view. It rendered paintings, or any other type of wall hanging, obsolete, because nothing could compete with the magical cityscape that lay beyond the expanse of glass.
She’d expected the bedrooms to have the same impersonal feel as the rest of his apartment, but that wasn’t the case.
Two large lamps drenched the room in muted golden light and a soft, velvety throw flowed over the oversize bed and pooled on the hardwood floor. It invited the occupier to snuggle down and admire the winter white of New York City while cocooned in comfort.
Eva sank onto the edge of the bed.
She’d told herself that she was staying because it was her job and because she didn’t want to leave Lucas alone, but she knew she wasn’t being entirely honest. She was at least partly staying because she didn’t want to be alone. What did it say about her that she’d rather spend the night in a stranger’s apartment than back home in her own?
It said that she needed to do something about her life. She needed to make an effort to get out and meet people.
She sighed and sprawled on the bed, drawn to the comfort of the soft, velvety cover. It was a dark moss green, the same color as the forest floor.
When she and her grandmother had first moved to New York they’d lived in an apartment with no outdoor space and every weekend they’d worked side by side in the tiny kitchen and made a picnic. They’d packed it up and taken it to Central Park, always to the same spot. Not Sheep Meadow or the Great Lawn, but to the Great Hill in the northern part of the park where they’d eat at one of the picnic tables, surrounded by majestic elms. They’d watched people playing lawn games, dodged Frisbees and occasionally listened to jazz concerts while the sun faded.
Eva pulled the throw closer, snuggling deep into its comforting folds.
She felt as if she’d lost her anchor. Her security. Even having wonderful friends didn’t stop her feeling empty inside and horribly alone.
Sliding off the bed, she unpacked her clothes from her bag, took a shower in the luxurious en suite bathroom and changed into pajamas. They were a soft peach silk, an extravagant treat bought a few months before to celebrate the first six months of Urban Genie. She’d been with Paige, on one of their trips to Bloomingdale’s. Paige had bought two dresses and a smart jacket, all suitable for business meetings. Eva had chosen pajamas.
It hadn’t mattered that no one was going to see them except her; wearing them made her feel good.
She updated her blog, answered messages on Facebook and Twitter and then tried to sleep.
It was just over three weeks until Christmas, and this would be her second Christmas without her grandmother.
In the last few years of her life her grandmother had lived in an assisted living community in Brooklyn, not far from the brownstone Eva shared with her friends. Eva had visited regularly, sometimes cooking with her grandmother as they’d done when she was young.
If her grandmother had still been alive they would have been baking Christmas treats for the other residents and the staff about now, including her grandmother’s favorite nurse Annie Cooper.
Every year Eva had helped decorate her grandmother’s small apartment, and also the communal areas including the light-filled Garden Room that had views over the water. She’d gotten to know the staff well, and many of the other residents. There was Betty, whose only daughter lived in California. Betty had been a dancer, and she still liked to dance as long as her arthritis allowed. And then there was Tom who had grown up in Maine, not far from her grandmother, and spent his time painting watercolors, several of which had hung in her grandmother’s living room.
Every Christmas, Eva had joined them for their Christmas party. It was something her grandmother used to talk about for months.
Restless, Eva glanced at her phone. It was three in the morning. The loneliest time. It was a time she’d seen almost every day since her grandmother had died. She hated the nights, when her mind raced wildly down paths that were banned during daylight hours.
Giving up on sleep, she wandered out of her bedroom, pausing as darkness engulfed her.
Retrieving her phone from the bedroom, she used the flashlight and made her way along the darkened corridor that led to the staircase.
Noticing that Lucas’s office door was open a crack, she paused.
“You shouldn’t creep around,” a deep voice said, “or I might think you’re a housebreaker and use you as an excuse to practice my jujitsu again.”
Eva jumped. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“I was giving you a warning that I was here.”
“Putting a light on might have been a better option. Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Why aren’t you asleep?” He flicked on a lamp and the room was illuminated by a soft light.
He was sprawled on the sofa. There was a bottle of whiskey next to him and his laptop was open on the table. His gaze moved over her slowly, and she wished she’d grabbed a robe. Knowing the way his mind worked, he’d probably think her silk pajamas were part of a master plan cooked up by her and his grandmother.
“You’re not asleep, either.” She pushed the door open. “How’s your book going?”
“Better, thanks to you.”
“I didn’t do anything except feed you.”
“Your words—helped. I made a start with the book.”
She was ridiculously pleased. “Has this happened to you before?”
“If you’re asking me if strange women often break into my apartment to cook and decorate, then the answer is no.” He caught her eye and sighed. “You’re talking about writer’s block? Only at this time of year.”
“But you wrote a book last year and the year before so you must have found a way to deal with it.”
He leaned forward and sloshed more whiskey into the glass. “The way I deal with it is to make sure I’ve finished the book before now.”
“But this year you didn’t.”
“I was touring. Six European countries and twelve US states.” He set the bottle down. “I ran out of time.”
“And now the book is due and you’re feeling the pressure, which makes things worse. It’s like trying to get to the top of Everest in a day when you’re still at base camp.”
“That’s uncannily accurate.” He downed the whiskey in one mouthful. “And now you can go and sell that story to the press. Call it a Christmas bonus.”
“Oh please, do I look like someone who sells stories to the press?” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry—I keep forgetting you think everyone has a hidden side. Why do you write?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you write?”
“I have a contract, a deadline, readers—you need me to go on?”
“But before that—you di
dn’t always have all that. What made you start writing in the first place?”
“I can’t even remember back that far.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Eva sat down on the sofa next to him and curled her legs under her. “My grandmother taught me to cook, and it was something we shared. Something we loved to do together. A hobby. I never for one moment thought that one day I’d earn a living cooking. It was pleasure, that was all.”
He lowered the glass slowly. “What are you saying?”
“I know the world is waiting for your next book, but presumably it hasn’t always been that way. There must have been a time before you were published when you wrote for yourself, because it was something you loved to do.”
“There was.”
“How old were you?”
“When I wrote my first story? Eight. It all seemed a hell of a lot easier then.” He stared into his glass and put it down on the table. “Ignore me. Go back to bed, Eva.”
“And leave you with your friend Mr. Whiskey Bottle? No. If you want company, you can talk to me.” Her gaze met his. His eyes were velvet dark and so sinfully sexy they might as well have been designed to tempt a woman to abandon self-control and live in the moment. There was no way the human race would ever die out while there were men like him on the planet.
The flames flickered in the hearth, but she knew the fire wasn’t responsible for the sudden flash of heat that washed over her skin. She saw the same heat flare in his eyes and felt the sharp savage burn of sexual tension.
His gaze slid to her mouth and for a wild, crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her.
She stopped breathing, paralyzed by the moment, and then Lucas looked away, dragging his attention back to the whiskey bottle.
“Hemingway said, ‘A man does not exist until he is drunk.’”
Released from that gaze, Eva let out her breath, feeling as if she’d just come out of hypnosis. What had just happened? Had she imagined it? Was she so desperate she couldn’t look at a man without thinking about sex?
She reached for a spare glass and helped herself to a slosh of whiskey. It burned her throat and cleared her head.