Sarah Morgan - Miracle On 5th Avenue

The gleam of mockery was back. “I thought you saw good in everyone.”

“I do, but now you’ve put doubt in my mind. Thanks to you I’m going to be looking over my shoulder all the way home.”

“A healthy dose of caution is a useful thing.”

“Maybe, but you’ve scared me.”

“Scaring people is my job.”

“No, your job is to write books that scare people, not scare them in person!” She rubbed her palm over the small of her back and saw the expression in his eyes change.

“Did I hurt you?”

“I landed awkwardly and your floor is hard.” She rolled her shoulders experimentally. “I’ll live.”

“Turn around and I’ll take a look at you.”

“Are you suggesting I remove my clothes and turn my back on you? I don’t think so. You’re not the sort of man a sensible woman would turn her back on, Mr. Blade. I’m trying not to imagine what might have happened if the police hadn’t arrived when they did. You would have shattered all my bones with one of your judo throws.”

“It was jujitsu.”

“Good to know. Your grandmother told me you’re an expert at several martial arts. She’ll be thrilled to know you’re putting that expertise to good use. I’ll be sure to mention it when I call her.”

His expression froze. “You won’t be calling my grandmother.”

“But—”

“If I’d wanted my grandmother to know I was here, I would have told her.”

“Why didn’t you?” It puzzled her. “She adores you. Why would you hide from her?”

“It’s more that I’m hiding from her uncontrollable urge to interfere and fix my life.”

“She does that because she loves you.” Eva felt a pang of envy. “She cares so much.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t make it less exasperating.”

He dismissed family with the ease of someone who took it for granted. What wouldn’t she give to have someone interfere and try to fix her life? To call and check she was all right. To worry that she was working too hard and not eating properly.

She blinked rapidly.

She should probably leave. He didn’t want her here, did he? It was obvious that this wasn’t a man remotely interested in decorating for Christmas.

Now that the lights had been switched on, she was able to take a proper look around her. The apartment was beautiful, but the decor was impersonal. It felt more like an exclusive hotel than a home, as if someone had moved in and forgotten to add any personal touches.

The space was incredible but it had no soul. No character. There were no clues about the person who lived there. It was hard to believe anyone had ever sat on the sofas, or put glasses or cups down on the smooth glass table. The place seemed almost abandoned, as if Lucas had forgotten it existed.

She wanted to add flowers and cushions. She wanted to drop a few items of clothing around the place to soften it and make it seemed lived in.

Where had he been when she’d entered the apartment? Upstairs in one of the bedrooms? In his study?

For the first time since she’d been flattened underneath him, she took a serious look at his face and saw things she’d failed to notice the first time. She saw the shadows under his eyes that suggested he hadn’t slept for weeks. The lines of tension that bracketed his firm mouth.

She looked away and something else caught her eye. A sharp knife, the long blade gleaming under the lights. Had they been standing in the kitchen its presence wouldn’t have drawn a second glance, but they weren’t in the kitchen.

She stared at it uneasily.

There was something unsettling, almost menacing, about that knife.

She contemplated all the possible reasons he might have for leaving it lying on the table. Maybe he used it for opening the mail. Except that she’d already noticed a towering stack of unopened letters.

No matter how much she racked her brain, alternative suggestions eluded her.

The blade taunted her and unease turned to alarm. She wasn’t experienced at solving mysteries, but she could read clues as well as the next person. He had a knife in the living room and he was here alone, cut off from the outside world.

Christmas made some people desperate, didn’t it?

She glanced at the bare floors and walls. “Did you just move in?”

“I’ve lived here for three years.”

Three years. Had he been living here when his wife died? No. The place showed no sign of a woman’s hand, which meant he must have moved in immediately after his wife had died.

He’d been escaping. Running. And he was still running.

The place looked as if he’d jumped straight from that life into this one and brought nothing with him.

Her heart ached for him.

She tried telling herself his life was none of her business. She’d been employed to fix his apartment, not fix his life, and he’d made it clear how much he hated interference. The sensible thing was to leave right now, but if she left, he’d be alone and who knew what he might do? What if he picked up that knife? She was the only person who knew the truth. That Lucas Blade wasn’t on a writing retreat in Vermont. He was holed up here in his apartment, alone.

If he did something, she’d feel responsible. She’d always wonder if she could have stopped it. Made a difference.

Her gaze met the fierce black of his and she knew she wasn’t looking at a man who was dangerous. She was looking at a man who was desperate. Right on the edge. Holding it together by a thread.

Lucas Blade might write about horror, but she suspected that right now nothing matched the horror of his own life.

And there was no way she was leaving him alone.

Three

Look before you leap. Or carry a first aid kit.

—Lucas

Lucas had expected her to leave, but she was still standing there.

“I have work to do.” And he was desperate to get started. The characters were coming alive in his head, becoming people with flaws and qualities. He could hear dialogue and picture scenes. For the first time in far too long he couldn’t wait to sit down in front of his laptop. He wanted to escape into the fictional world that was waiting for him. It was like someone in chronic pain, contemplating a syringe full of morphine. He wanted to grab it and empty the barrel into his veins until the sweetness of oblivion numbed the agony that had been his constant companion for three years.

The only thing stopping him was the source of his inspiration who seemed stubbornly determined not to leave. He might have scared her, but apparently he hadn’t scared her enough to send her running for the door.

“Your grandmother gave me this job, so either I call her and explain, or I do the job she sent me here to do.”

If she called his grandmother, any hope of being left alone over the Christmas period would vanish. He’d be required to explain why he was in New York rather than Vermont and, most awkwardly of all, why he’d lied about it.

“Look around you.” He tried intimidation, his tone silky soft. “Do I look like a man who wants his apartment decorated for the holidays?”

“No, which is why your grandmother wanted me to do it. She doesn’t think you should be living like this. She’s worried about you. And frankly, having met you, so am I.”

“Why would you care how I’m living my life?”

“Everyone deserves a Christmas tree in their lives.”

“Only if you’re trying to punish them.”

“Punish? A Christmas tree is uplifting.”

“What is uplifting about a fake Christmas tree, which is essentially a petroleum-based product probably manufactured in a Chinese factory?”

“Fake? Who said anything about fake? I don’t do ‘fake,’ Mr. Blade. I don’t do fake Christmas trees, fake handbags, or fake orgasms.” Color streaked across her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to say that last one. It slipped out. But my point is nothing in my life is fake.” The words tumbled over each other and Lucas found himself struggling not to smile.