In times of crisis, keep your lipstick red and your mascara waterproof.
—Paige
“I’m sorry. Ignore me.” Eva grabbed a napkin and dabbed her eyes but it was as if she’d developed a leak, as if her emotions had swollen and grown, pressing against the outer layer of her self-control until gradually it had cracked, allowing her feelings to escape.
Through the scalding blur of tears she was vaguely aware of Lucas watching her.
She expected him to make his excuses and escape faster than a gazelle trying to outrun a lion, but he didn’t move.
“Eva—”
“It’s perfectly fine.” She blew her nose hard. “This happens sometimes. I think I’m doing great and then it hits me from nowhere like a horrible gust of wind, and it blows me off my feet. I’ll bounce back. Don’t look so alarmed. Ignore me.”
“You want me to ignore the fact you’re upset? What sort of person do you think I am?”
“You’re a horror writer. And a woman in tears is probably your own personal idea of horror.” She took a ragged breath and got herself under control. “I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re not ‘fine,’ are you? Talk to me.”
“No.”
“Because you don’t know me? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
“It isn’t that. I don’t want to be the dark cloud in anyone’s day. It’s better to be the sunshine than the rain.”
“What?” Dark brows came together in a frown. “Who the hell told you that?”
“Grams.” Tears spilled over again and he sighed and spread his hands in a gesture of apology.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you but, Eva, everyone gets upset sometimes. You shouldn’t feel you have to hide it.”
“You do. Isn’t that why you haven’t told anyone you’re here?” She scrubbed her hand over her face and he gave a faint smile.
“Good point. Since you’re now hiding here with me, why don’t we agree that we don’t have to hide how we feel, for the moment at least?”
“Sounds like a plan. Thank you. And now you should go and write. You have a deadline.” His kindness cut the last threads of her control and she turned her back on him to hide the spill of tears. She expected to hear his footsteps on the stairs as he retreated to a place of safety, but instead she felt his hand close over her shoulder.
“When did she die?”
She was torn between desperately wishing he’d leave her alone and wanting to talk about how she felt. “Last year. In the fall, when the leaves were changing color. I kept wondering how everything around me could seem so vibrant when she was gone. And I feel guilty being sad because she was ninety-three. And she didn’t linger or anything. That was great for her but hard for me because it was a shock.” She still remembered the phone call. She’d dropped the mug she’d been holding, spilling scalding coffee all over the floor and her bare legs. “She’d be furious if she could see me now—” She blew her nose again. “She’d remind me that she’d had a great life, was very loved and had all her mental faculties right up until the end. She always focused on what was right in her life, not what was wrong, and she’d want me to do the same. But that doesn’t stop me missing her. And now you’re standing there thinking ‘what am I supposed to do with this sobbing woman,’ but honestly you don’t have to do anything. Just go about your business. I’ll be fine. I’ll just be extra nice to myself for a little bit until I feel better.”
But he didn’t leave. What he did was turn her around and pull her into his arms.
It was so surprising that for a moment she didn’t move. Then the unexpected sympathy tipped her over the edge and Eva dissolved into great choking sobs. She felt the strength of his hand on her head as he stroked her hair gently, while his free arm held her close.
He held her while she cried herself out, murmuring soft indistinct words of comfort. She breathed in male warmth and felt the reassuring weight of his arm supporting her and she closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d been held like this. It shouldn’t feel this good. He was a stranger, but there was something about the strong embrace that filled the emptiness inside her.
Finally, when she was drained of emotion, he eased her away from him so that he could see her face.
“What does ‘being extra nice to yourself’ involve?” The kindness in his voice connected straight to her insides.
“Oh, you know—” She sniffed. “Not telling myself I’m fat, or beating myself up for not exercising as much as I should, or for eating that extra square of chocolate.”
“You do that?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” She rubbed at the damp patch she’d made on his shirt, embarrassed but at the same time grateful. “I feel better. Thank you. I never would have thought you’d be such a brilliant hugger. You’d better let me go or I’ll be crying all the time just to get you to hug me. Go and work.”
“Tell me you don’t seriously think you’re fat.”
“Only on a bad day, but that’s because I love food and if I’m not careful I do become a little extra curvy.”
“Extra curvy?” There was a seam of laughter in his voice. “Is that like extra strong coffee? In other words more of the part that’s already good?”
“Now I know why you’re a writer. You know exactly which words to use.” She forced herself to step back. “Thanks for making me feel better.”
“I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” The laughter was gone from his voice. “You think you’re doing fine, you think you have it all under control, and then suddenly it slams into you. It’s like sailing on a smooth ocean and suddenly a giant wave hits from nowhere and almost swamps your boat.”
No one had ever described the way she was feeling so perfectly.
“That’s how you feel?”
“Yes.” He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek gently. “It’s supposed to get easier, so hang in there.” His gaze held hers and there was a new intimacy, and a strange, unexpected heat that stole through her against her will.
Arousal.
He was comforting her, and she was aroused. She would have been embarrassed, except she saw her own feelings mirrored in the depths of his eyes.
“You should go and write.”
“Yes.” His voice was roughened at the edges and he let his hand drop and stepped back. “And you should cook.”
They were both stiff and formal, both denying the moment.
Eva went back to the kitchen, trying to forget how it had felt to be held by him.
She cooked all day, stirred, whisked, simmered and tasted while on the other side of the huge glass windows the storm blew itself to a frenzy. New York was eclipsed by swirling white, the streets and the buildings blurred by snow. Restaurants, bars and even Broadway had closed.
Eva felt a pang of concern for the emergency services and people who still had to be out in that terrible storm. She hoped no one was injured.
Occasionally she glanced up the stairs, but the door to the office remained closed. Lucas, she knew, was dealing with his own injury.
At lunchtime she took up a tray, but heard the soft thud of computer keys through the door and decided writing was more important than food. She retreated downstairs with the tray and went back to her cooking.
Paige called twice, the first time to ask questions about the engagement party they were planning for a client based in Manhattan, and the second to check Eva’s availability for New Year’s Eve.
“I’m available.” Eva turned the heat down under the pan she was using and reduced the sauce to a simmer. “I’m completely, totally available.”
“Good, because I want you to meet someone.”
“I want to meet someone, too.” She tried not to think about how it had felt to be held by Lucas. He’d been comforting her, that was all.
“How are things going there? When will you be home?”
Eva glanced out of the window. “I’d planned on staying as short a time as possible, but the storm has changed that. Can I let you know? I’ve sent over some ideas for the proposal, and I’m working on the Addison-Pope engagement dinner.”
She ended the call and with everything in the kitchen under control, she turned her attention to decorating the tree, trying not to think of the Christmas two years before when she had done the same thing with her grandmother.
It was early evening and Eva was on her way back to her room to shower and change when the door to Lucas’s office opened.
He stared at her, unfocused, as if he was in another world.
Maybe she should have knocked on his door earlier. It wasn’t healthy to work so long without a break, was it?
“How did it go? Did you make a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“I made another banquet.” His voice was hoarse and then he smiled. “You’re a genius.”
“Me? I’m just a cook who talks too much.” Her heart bumped against her chest. How could she ever have thought he wasn’t her type? It had been easier to dismiss him when she’d thought he was just an insanely handsome face, but now she knew he was kind, too. And he wasn’t one of those men who were uncomfortable with emotions.
“Your talking is the reason I’m writing.”
Her tummy did a little flip. “That’s good to know, and thank you for not yelling at me about the tree. It is a little bigger than I thought it would be. I’ve taken photos and sent them to your grandmother. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t mention you, but I wanted her to know I’m doing my job.”
“Right now you could give me a partridge in a pear tree and I wouldn’t give a damn.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair and Eva wondered how doing that made him even more handsome. If she ran her fingers through her hair she looked as if she’d made contact with an electric fence.
“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 consider 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.”
“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.”
“Are we talking about me or you?”
“Both of us. I promised myself that this Christmas I wasn’t going to spend my whole time alone in my apartment watching reruns of Hallmark movies and enjoying a threesome with Ben and Jerry.” She eyed him. “The ice cream, in case you were wondering.”
“I’m ‘hiding’ in my apartment, as you put it, because I’m working.”
“We both know that isn’t true, Lucas, but even it was you can’t work all the time.”
He thought about his deadline and how far behind he was. “I shouldn’t even be sitting here talking to you.” And yet he was. And he was in no hurry to change that.
“Go. The sooner you finish the book, the sooner you can get a life.” She stood up, careful not to look at him. “I’ll clear up. And I’ll open your mail.”
“Do what you want with it.”
His mail was the least of his problems.
* * *
Had she really told him he had a great body?
She was going to have to tape her mouth. Or clamp her jaw shut. Anything to stop herself babbling like an idiot when she was with him.
But it was partly his fault. Every time he looked at her she was scalded by the heat of sexual tension. Each smoldering glance fried her brain, burning away the last of her already inefficient filters.
It was no good telling herself he wasn’t interested, or that he was unavailable. Her body wasn’t paying attention.
Resolving to keep her lips sealed next time they were together, Eva cleared the kitchen, polished the stove until it shone, and then settled down at the island unit with the remains of her wine and a large stack of Lucas’s mail.
She dealt with the junk first, carefully tearing through the address and disposing of it in the recycling. Then she turned to the rest.
Most were invitations. Four publisher parties, another author’s book launch, nine charity balls, a night at the opera and two movie premieres. In addition there were twelve letters requesting charity donations.
She didn’t even know people wrote letters anymore. And nine charity balls?
Eva surveyed the invitations spread in front of her with more than a twinge of envy.
Here, right in front of her, was evidence of an interesting life.
If her social life looked like his, her chances of meeting someone would have been significantly increased.
“Lucas Blade,” she muttered, “for someone who isn’t a party animal, you’re invited to a large number of parties.” Parties he would, no doubt, refuse to attend.
And she knew now that the reason he wouldn’t attend wasn’t all to do with his deadline.
In his current mental state he found the company of strangers as unappealing as she did.
She grabbed her laptop and started with the letters.
Dear Caroline, she typed, thank you for your kind words about my books. I’m flattered to know that— She pulled a face, wincing slightly as she typed, wishing she could change the title—Death For Sure was your favorite read of the year.
She wrote at length and then signed off with Best wishes, Lucas Blade.
Too formal?
With a grin, she deleted Blade and added two kisses. She was willing to bet he’d never added kisses to any of his letters in his life.
Each letter was given the same treatment and then she turned to the invitations, politely declining each one until she reached the last one in the pile.
Darkness had fallen outside the windows and Central Park was bathed in the ethereal mix of moonlight and snow.
The final invitation was to the Snowflake Ball at the Plaza hotel.
The invitation was embossed in silver and shaped like a snowflake.
Eva stared at it. If she’d been sent an invitation as beautiful as this one she would have put it in a frame and hung it on the wall. He was lucky she’d sorted through his mail.
It was less than a week away. Was it too late to respond? No. Lucas was a VIP guest. They’d make room for him no matter how late his RSVP was.
She scanned the details. The proceeds were going to a charity that trained and provided therapy dogs for the elderly. Her heart melted. She knew how many elderly people were lonely.
On impulse, she picked up the phone.
“Hi, I’m calling for Lucas Blade… Yes, I work with him…” That wasn’t a lie, was it? “Mr. Blade will be attending The Snowflake Ball. Yes, and a plus one. We’ll let you know the name later. Thank you so much.” She hung up, imagining what would have happened if she hadn’t opened his mail.
He would have missed the ball, the social event of the New York calendar.
He would have been so mad at himself.
And he was going to be so grateful to her.
* * *
“You did what?”
“I called the Plaza and said you’d be attending the Snowflake Ball. Let that be a lesson to you to open your mail. You almost missed it.”
“Eva—” Anger thickened Lucas’s voice even though he knew it was wrong of him to take it out on her. “I don’t want to go to the ball.” The thought of it froze him to the bone. As always they saw things differently. She heard the word ball and thought of starlight and romance, whereas he knew it would be an evening filled with curious looks and sympathetic glances.
“I know you’re busy, but it will be amazing and it’s just one night. I turned down a ton of other invitations. This is the only one I accepted.”
“You shouldn’t have accepted that one.”
She froze. “You told me to deal with your mail as I saw fit. I saw fit to accept one ball, the proceeds of which go to a very good cause.”
“If I supported every cause I’m asked to give money to, I’d never get any work done and I’d be broke.”
“But you’re not broke, and we’re not talking about every cause, just this one. It’s an organization that provides therapy dogs, and—”
“But it isn’t just this one, is it?” To take his mind off the damn ball, he scanned the letters she’d spread in front of him. “I’m sending signed books for auction? What makes you think I even have that number of signed books?”
“You wrote them. You must have copies. And maybe it seems generous, but it’s less time-consuming than going to the auction yourself and you’ll be raising money for lots of people less fortunate than yourself. I thought it was a perfect compromise. Why do these people write letters to your home address, anyway? Why don’t they just email your publisher?”
“They do,” he said wearily. “These should have been handled by my publisher, too, but they have a new assistant in the office and she sent them directly to me. Do you have any idea how many invitations we receive? We can’t say yes to all of them, Eva.”
“Not all of them, no,” she said, “but you can manage these. I’ve checked them all out. They are really good causes.”
“Is there anything you think isn’t a good cause?”
“Of course. I’m more businesslike than you may think.” She bristled. “I took a look at the financials and checked what percentage of their donations is spent directly on the cause, and what is spent on salaries, etc. These all came out well. All you have to do is sign the letters, sign the books and I’ll do the rest.”
Deciding that in this case surrender was quicker than a fight, he reached for a pen. “Have you ever worked in charity fund-raising?”
“I would be hopeless working for a charity. I’d be in tears the whole time. I don’t have a very thick skin. Try not to scrawl,” she added as she studied his signature. “They might not think it’s you.”
He signed with an exaggerated scrawl. “Normally my publisher just sends these with a compliments slip.”
“I thought this was more personal. They’ll treasure the letter.”
He picked one of them up and read aloud. “I enjoyed writing it and it is certainly among my favorites. Anyone who knows me would know I didn’t write that sentence. I never admit to having a favorite.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it sounds as if you think the other books you wrote aren’t as good.”
“That’s ridiculous. If I tell you I’m cooking you one of my favorite dishes, you don’t automatically assume that anything else I cooked you would poison you, do you?”
He carried on reading. “I agree it was a shame that such a warm, lovely character had to die in the second chapter.” He glanced up, exasperated. “You can’t write that. I don’t agree. That character had to die.”
“Why? Couldn’t they just have been injured or something and then made a full recovery after good medical care? Why do all your characters have to die? It’s horribly depressing.”
He lowered the letter. “Do I tell you how to cook? Do I suggest that the egg needs a little longer in the oven or that the cookie you baked would be improved with chocolate chips?”
“No.”
“Then don’t tell me how to write my books.” He returned his gaze to the page. “I agree that your charity is raising money for a most excellent cause. I would never say that, either. I’m already inundated with sob stories about excellent causes.”
“Which is why it’s even more important to make your response sound personal. They’ll appreciate it.”
“And they will come back to me time and time again.” He carried on reading, “Although I am unable to attend your event on this occasion, it is my pleasure to enclose a signed book for you to include in your auction. I wish you every success with the evening and with your fund-raising. You’ve signed my name with kisses. And asked them to stay in touch.”
“The kisses were a joke. It was supposed to make you smile.” She snatched the letter back from him and he felt a stab of guilt.
“If I sign my name with kisses my social media account will be jammed with readers wanting to marry me.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You’re scary when you’re moody.”
“Because I don’t want to go to a ball that makes me moody?”
“How was I to know you wouldn’t want to go? This one is special. It’s winter-themed, with snowflakes and Christmas trees. Silver.” She stared down at the invitation and he had a feeling she’d forgotten he was in the room. “I would kill to go to this. There—that’s a whole new motivation for murder you’ve never even thought of.”
“But you’re not the one going. I am. Thanks to you.”
“You can’t spend the whole of the festive season locked in this apartment.”
“You’re starting to sound like my grandmother.”
“I happen to think she is right about certain things. Not trying to set you up with someone,” she said quickly, “that never works. But the fact that you should start getting out again.”
“Next you’ll be telling me that it’s been long enough.” The words came out as a growl and she looked at him steadily.
“We both know I’m not going to say that. You’re not the only one grieving, Lucas. You don’t have the monopoly on that type of pain. Just because people want you to occasionally step outside and breathe in fresh air doesn’t mean everyone thinks you should have ‘recovered,’ whatever that word means. Maybe you’d feel better if you went out.”
“Or maybe I’d feel a thousand times worse. One thing I know for sure is that nothing I’m feeling is going to be ‘fixed’ by going to a ball. If you want to live in a fantasy world, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to join you there.”
“I wouldn’t want you to join me. There’s no room in my fantasy world for cynics.” She picked up her bag and stuffed the last of her things into it. “You should go, Lucas.”
“Why? Because there is a strong chance I’ll meet someone, fall in love and live happily ever after? Is that what you were going to say?”
“Actually I was going to say that shit happens, and all we can do is carry on as best we can.” She snapped her bag shut. “But locking yourself away isn’t carrying on, Lucas. It’s hiding. Your grandmother is right about that. You should go to the ball. It will be a wonderful evening.”
“Call them back and tell them I’m not going.”
“I will not.”
“You are out of line.” He heard the chill in his voice but was unable to stop it. “I don’t tolerate interference from my family, so I’m certainly not going to tolerate it from strangers.”
Hurt flashed in her eyes. “Maybe I am out of line, but I’m not calling them back.” Her voice tight, she put the invitations carefully back on the table. “If you don’t want to go, then you’ll have to call them yourself.” With that she walked away and up the stairs.
Lucas swore under his breath and dragged his hand over the back of his neck. He felt as if he’d kicked a puppy.
What was wrong with him?
He was deliberately goading her, seeing how far he could push her, and he didn’t even know why. All he knew was that having her here unsettled him, and thinking about snowflake balls and happy-ever-afters unsettled him even more.
He heard the sound of her feet on the stairs and glanced up to see her standing in front of him with her backpack in her hands.
Shock rippled through him. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ve left all the instructions for the food on the pad by the refrigerator.” Her tone was formal and she didn’t look him in the eye. “If you have any questions, you can call the Urban Genie offices. The number is on the pad, too.”
He wondered how it was that someone so small and fragile could cause so much disruption to his life in such a short time.
“I’m not going to the ball, Eva, and you walking out isn’t going to change that.”
“You already made that clear. You also made it clear that you don’t want my help so yes, I’m leaving. It’s bad for my emotional well-being to be around people who are angry, especially when they’re angry with me. I don’t want to get stomach ulcers or hardened arteries, so I’m leaving while I’m still healthy.”
Her words intensified the guilt and made him feel like an idiot. “Put your bag down. You can’t leave. It’s still snowing.”
“I like snow a whole lot more than I like being yelled at. And if I don’t have the right to be concerned about what happens to you, then you don’t have the right to be concerned about what happens to me. They’ve lifted the travel ban and I’ve done everything I came here to do.”
The truth was she’d done more. It was because of her that he was writing again. That he had a plot, a character and an idea strong enough to drive the story through to its conclusion.
The corkscrew of guilt gouged a little deeper.
He knew he should be thanking her, or at least apologizing, but the words jammed in his throat. This whole situation was like walking on emotional quicksand. It would be so easy for both of them to be sucked in deep.
“Eva—”
“Good luck with the book and try not to let all that dark stuff you write about color the way you look at the world. You seem to think that all interaction is manipulation or interference, but sometimes it’s just because people care. Have a good Christmas, Lucas.” She tugged her hat onto her head, hoisted her backpack onto her narrow shoulders and walked toward the door.
He reached out a hand to stop her and then pulled it back again. What was he going to say? Don’t leave.
It would be better for both of them if she did leave.
He’d be able to get on with his book in peace and quiet. He’d be able to forget her soft curves and her sweet smile, her infuriating optimism and the way she sang while she cooked.
He’d be able to focus on his book, one hundred percent of the time.
Which was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it?