Miracle On 5th Avenue

by Sarah Morgan

  “Why is everyone so obsessed with poultry this week? I don’t think they’re the best indoor pets.” Her nerves were strung taut and she knew it was because of that hug. She needed to pull herself together. “If you give me half an hour, I’ll make us dinner. Unless you want to work more?”

  “I need a break. I’ll work later. I’m going to take a shower, too, and then I’ll choose us a bottle of wine. We should celebrate.”

  Celebrate.

  It sounded intimate. Personal.

  She had to remind herself that this wasn’t a date, it was her job.

  * * *

  Lucas stood under the scalding spray of the shower, feeling better than he had in months. He was still a million miles behind the place he should be this close to his deadline, but at least it was a start.

  And Eva was the reason.

  He pulled on dark jeans and a fresh shirt and paused as he moved to the stairs and heard singing from the kitchen. The singing stopped momentarily and he heard the whirr of a food processor. Then it started again.

  Looking down, he saw she was wearing headphones again, but this time she wasn’t dancing.

  As soon as she saw him, she stopped. “Sorry. Was I too loud?”

  Her comment made him think about sex, and he wondered what it was about her that triggered those thoughts in him. He wished he hadn’t hugged her, because now he didn’t just know how she looked, he knew how she felt.

  “I have a love for Ella Fitzgerald. As long as you’re not singing Christmas carols, I have no problem with your soundtrack.” But he had problems with other things, like the way holding her had made him feel. As if he was missing something that up until this moment he hadn’t even realized he wanted.

  “What have you got against Christmas carols?”

  “I think we already have enough festivity around here.” He eyed the Christmas tree. Its lush branches were now trimmed with silver and interwoven with delicate lights. He wondered if its extravagant height was supposed to compensate for the lack of festive cheer in the rest of his apartment. “That is one hell of a tree. Clearly you’re a woman who doesn’t believe that less is more.”

  “Not when it comes to Christmas trees.” She smiled, and he saw that her lipstick was candy-cane pink. It reminded him of the indulgent sweet treats he’d enjoyed as a child.

  “Anything else?”

  The irrepressible dimple appeared. “That’s a personal question, Mr. Blade.”

  “You’re living in my apartment and I’ve seen you in your pajamas. I think we’ve already ventured into personal.” He didn’t mention the fact that he’d held her. He didn’t need to. He’d felt the shift in their relationship and he knew she had, too. A casual attraction had transformed into an intense awareness that electrified the air.

  And it wasn’t just physical. Each conversation with her revealed something new.

  She was a treasure trove of inspiration.

  He paused by the wall of wine. “What are we eating?”

  “Roasted vegetable and goat cheese tartlet, followed by sage-and-pumpkin ravioli. I made something you could eat by your computer if you wanted to.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to eat with you and a special meal calls for a special wine.” He walked to the chiller and picked a white. “I first tasted this on a book tour in New Zealand and had a crate of it shipped over. It’s spectacular.”

  “How the other half lives. Half a glass for me,” she said. “I’m a cheap date. And if I drink before I’ve finished cooking, I can’t vouch for the food. In fact, maybe I shouldn’t drink at all. I don’t want to lose my inhibitions.”

  “You have inhibitions?” He opened the wine. “Where are you hiding them?”

  “Very funny. Some people like the fact that I’m easy to read. But you, of course, are probably wondering about my evil side.”

  Maybe he wasn’t with her, but he certainly was with the character he was developing. She was shaping up to be the most duplicitous character he’d ever written. And he’d rather think about her than the flesh-and-blood woman standing in front of him.

  He poured, watching the wine swirl into the glass. “Try it. It’s delicious.”

  “Are you going to dazzle me with a speech about tropical notes and an undercurrent of sunshine and all that jazz? Or do you save all your flowery words for your books?”

  He thought of the gritty reality he’d been writing. “Something like that. Drink.”

  She sniffed and then sipped, slowly, cautiously, as if she wasn’t sure he wasn’t poisoning her. “Oh.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then took another sip. “Why does the wine I drink at home never taste like this? Is it expensive?”

  “It’s worth the money.”

  “In other words, it is expensive. I guess you know a lot about wine.”

  “It’s one of my hobbies.”

  She put her glass down and turned back to the food. “I’m guessing answering your mail isn’t one of your hobbies.” She put a plate in front of him. It was a work of art. The scalloped edges of the pastry were crisp and golden, the surface of the tartlet a swirl of color. “Are you planning on dealing with it?”

  He picked up his fork. “I’m not here, remember? I can’t open mail if I’m not here.”

  “But what if it’s something important?”

  “It won’t be.”

  “But it could be.” She was persistent. “Can I open it for you?”

  “Do you really want to?”

  “Yes. Someone might be waiting for an answer from you. Don’t you have an assistant?”

  “My publisher has a team who deals with all my professional communication.”

  She watched anxiously as he took a mouthful. “Well?”

  “Spectacular.” And it was. The pastry was buttery, crumbly perfection and the creamy goat cheese melded with the tang of peppers. “You’ve woken my taste buds from a coma.”

  She looked pleased. “Good. And I know you’re great at what you do, too. Not that I’ve ever read any of your books, but my friend Frankie is addicted. She only reads vile stuff.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” Her cheeks were pink. “I didn’t mean that your books were ‘vile,’ more that the subject matter is vile. They are way too scary for me. I know I wouldn’t like them.”

  “If you’ve never read one, how would you know?”

  “The cover is a clue.” She sliced into her tartlet. “The last one had blood dripping from the blade of a knife. Then there are the titles. Death Returns isn’t exactly going to make me rush to pick it up off the shelf. I’d have to sleep with the lights on and I’d wake in the night screaming. Someone would dial 911.”

  “You might be gripped.”

  “I don’t think the subject matter would thrill me. Tell me about the story you wrote when you were eight. Was that the same kind of thing?”

  “The neighbors’ cat was found dead on the side of the road. Everyone said it had been hit by a car, but I kept asking myself, what if it wasn’t? What if something more sinister had happened to that cat? I drove my family crazy with all the alternative explanations I offered.” He saw her expression change. “You would have rather gone with the car scenario?”

  “I’d rather have the scenario where the cat lived, but I’m guessing if you’re the one telling it, this story has no happy-ever-after.”

  “Afraid not.” That statement was all he needed to remind him of the differences between them. “It was summer, and I shut myself in my room and didn’t come out until I’d written the story. I figured there were at least nine different ways that cat could have died.”

  “Please don’t list them.”

  Remembering the macabre ending he’d chosen, he gave a faint smile. “I gave the story to my English teacher and she said she’d never been so spooked by anything in her life. Said she had to check the doors and windows twice before going to bed and locked her cat in her bedroom. Then she suggested I con
sider a career as a crime writer. She was joking.”

  “But you took her seriously.”

  “She told me she’d had to read my story with the lights on. I don’t think she meant it as a compliment, but to me it was the biggest compliment anyone had ever given me.”

  Eva looked unconvinced. “So you wrote your terrifying cat story, and then what?”

  “I kept doing it. I gave stories to my classmates, chapter by chapter. I discovered that I liked keeping people in suspense. It carried on when I went to college, except that by then I knew I was serious about it.”

  “What did you do at college? Creative writing? English? History of the great American novel?”

  “I studied law at Columbia, but I was more interested in why people committed crimes than I was in defending them. I finished my first novel, handed it to my roommate to read and he was up all night. I decided then that was what I wanted to do.”

  “Keep people awake all night?”

  “Yes.” He looked at the soft curve of her mouth and decided he would have no problem keeping her awake all night, and he wouldn’t be relying on words to do it.

  Maybe his grandmother was cleverer than he gave her credit for.

  “Does anyone fall in love in your books?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Really?” She looked surprised. “But do they live to enjoy a happy-ever-after?”

  “Never.”

  “That’s why I don’t pick your books from the shelf. I’m a coward. Speaking of dialing 911—” She stuck her fork into her food. “Those officers that showed up here yesterday—they knew you and you knew them.”

  “That’s right.” He took another mouthful of food. It was delicious, the flavors fresh and intense.

  “But you don’t actually have a criminal background, you just write about it. So how do you know them?”

  “They help me with research from time to time.”

  “So you plan a murder and then you call them up and say ‘hey guys, what do you think of this?’ And they tell you whether it would work or not.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Do you ever go out with them?”

  “Ride along? In the past, yes. Now, not so much. When I’m not touring, I’m writing.”

  “Were the ride-alongs scary?”

  “They were more interesting than scary. But most of what I write about is dealt with by the other departments. I write about—” he reached for the salt, buying time while he worked out how much to say “—complex cases.”

  “You mean you write about serial killers.” She put her fork down, leaving half her food untouched. “Why would you want to write about terrible people doing terrible things?”

  “The average serial killer wouldn’t think he, or she, was a terrible person. And I write about it because it fascinates me. I’ve always been drawn to scary stuff. Doesn’t make me scary, and doesn’t mean I have small children locked in my closet, waiting for me to show up and torture them, as one interviewer seemed to think.”

  “That happened?”

  “People assume because I write about crime, I must worship the devil. You should be scared to stay overnight here with me.”

  “I’m not scared.” Her gaze held his for a moment and then she picked up her wine. “But I don’t understand why people would want to be scared by choice.”

  The sexual awareness was building but she was ignoring it.

  He followed her example.

  “Books are safe. I think of what scares people and I use those fears. Some people like to be scared. They like to feel that emotion from the safety of their own lives.”

  “Don’t you scare yourself when you write this stuff?”

  “If the writing is going well, then yes.” Mostly it was the research that spooked him, but he didn’t tell her that.

  “Is that why you do martial arts? So that you can protect yourself from the demons you’ve created?”

  “I hate to shatter your illusions, but mostly it’s an interesting form of exercise and mental discipline.” He finished his food and sat back. “Enough about me. Now it’s your turn. You don’t read crime or horror, so what do you read? Classics?”

  “Yes. And I read romance, women’s fiction and cookbooks. I’m addicted to cookbooks.”

  “I thought you didn’t use cookbooks?”

  “I don’t often cook from them, but I like to read them.”

  He reached for his wine and watched while she served the ravioli. “You ever consider writing one of your own?”

  “I have my blog. And I have a YouTube channel. With the work I do for Urban Genie, that keeps me busy.”

  “You have a YouTube channel?”

  “Cooking is visual. People like to see how things are made. And it turns out I’m pretty good at demonstrating. People like to watch me. That probably surprises you.”

  It didn’t surprise him at all.

  Who wouldn’t want to watch her?

  With those blue eyes and her sweet smile, he was willing to bet even without looking that she had a big following. He wondered how many of them were men and how many were genuinely interested in cooking.

  Trying not to think about it too much, he took a mouthful of ravioli and momentarily stopped cursing his grandmother for her interfering tendencies.

  “This is delicious.”

  “Good.”

  “Sage and pumpkin.” He took another mouthful. “You don’t cook meat?”

  A hint of color appeared in her smooth cheeks. “I can cook meat for you if that’s what you’d like.”

  “But you never eat it yourself?”

  “Never. I’m a vegetarian. I don’t like to harm animals.”

  His heart thudded. He put his fork down. His food lay forgotten in front of him. “How long have you been vegetarian?”

  “Always. I was raised by my grandmother, and she had very firm views about respecting living things.”

  “So right from an early age you’ve been kind to all animals.”

  “I’m not a saint. I wouldn’t cuddle a spider, but I don’t tread on them if that’s what you mean. If they’re enormous I call for Matt and he does it.”

  “Matt is your friend’s brother?”

  “That’s right. He lives in the apartment above mine. He’s like family.”

  “Right.”

  “And speaking of family, are you going to tell your grandmother that you’re back? At some point she’s going to ask me about this job, and I don’t want to lie.”

  He realized that he was putting her in a difficult position. “I’ll tell her I’m back.” His attention was caught by the smooth surface of the table in the living room. It took him a moment to realize what was missing. “What happened to the knife that was on the table?”

  She didn’t look at him. “What knife?”

  “There was a knife on the table.”

  “Was there?” Her tone was innocent. “I probably moved it. It’s dangerous leaving knives around. Everyone who has ever worked in a kitchen knows that.”

  He gave her a long look. “Why did you think the knife was there, Eva?”

  She took a large gulp of wine. “I wasn’t sure. But it seemed safer to move it.”

  “Did you think I might harm you with the knife?”

  “What? No!” She looked horrified. “Not for a moment. Despite the blood dripping off the cover of your books, I can see you’re a really good person.”

  Lucas felt tension prick the back of his neck. “So why did you move it?”

  Her gaze returned to her plate. “Because I was afraid you might use it on yourself.”

  He stared at her in silence. “That’s why you stayed? Because you were worried about me?”

  “No. I stayed because I had a job to do and I made a promise to your grandmother. Even if she wasn’t a client, I have great respect for grandmothers.”

  “Eva—”

  “Okay, yes! Part of the reason I stayed was because I was worried about you.”
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  “The knife was there to give me inspiration for the book. Nothing more.”

  “That’s good, but when I saw it, I wasn’t sure. You had these big shadows under your eyes and you looked so alone, and no one knew you were here and—” She took a large gulp of wine. “I had a bad feeling, that’s all. You probably don’t believe me. You thought I was staying because I had designs on your body, and why wouldn’t you because you do have a great body. Crap, I told you not to pour me more than half a glass of wine.”

  The silence was heavy and loaded, cut through with rivulets of sexual tension.

  Remembering the way she’d felt against him triggered another serious attack of lust.

  He ran his hand through his hair, trying to control it. “I should probably get back to work.”

  “If you’re panicking about my last comment, then don’t. I already told you, you’re not my type.”

  He was starting to think that she might just be his type, and the thought surprised him because since the death of his wife he hadn’t met many women who had raised his interest levels.

  “I thought you didn’t have a type.”

  “I probably shouldn’t. Given how long it is since I had sex, my type should just be anyone with a penis and a pulse, right?”

  Lucas choked on his wine. “Did you seriously just say that?”

  “In any case, haven’t we established that prejudging people can be dangerous? Who knows what lies beneath the surface?”

  He’d interviewed enough serial killers to know that most people were better off not knowing what lay beneath the surface.

  “Do you ever edit your thoughts before they come out of your mouth?”

  “It’s your fault for pouring wine into me.” She poked at her food. “But it’s true that generally I’m a spontaneous type.”

  “How have you survived this long unscathed?”

  “I’m not unscathed. I’ve dated some serious losers.”

  “But that hasn’t damaged your faith in happy-everafters?”

  “No. It means there are losers in the world, but I already knew that. There are also some great guys out there. I don’t happen to have met too many of them lately, that’s all. And I do know you’re not going to meet the right person by hiding away in your apartment.”