Miracle On 5th Avenue

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 to care 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

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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