Miracle On 5th Avenue

“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.