“I’ll let you know,” Lucas said, before proffering the season’s greetings that were expected of him and ending the call.
Lucas rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t have a first chapter. He didn’t have a first line. So far the only thing that had been murdered was his inspiration. It was lying inert, the life squeezed out of it. Could it be resurrected? He wasn’t sure.
He’d sat at his open laptop hour after hour and not a single word had emerged. The only thing in his head was Sallyanne. She filled his head, his thoughts and his heart. His bruised, damaged heart.
It was on this day, three years ago, that he’d had the phone call that had derailed his seemingly charmed life. It had been like a scene from one of his books, except this time it had been fact not fiction. He’d been the one identifying the body in the morgue, not one of his characters. He no longer had to put himself in their shoes and imagine what they were feeling because he was feeling it himself.
Since then he’d struggled through every day, dragging himself from minute to minute, while outwardly doing what was needed to make people believe that he was doing fine. He’d learned early on that people needed to see that. They didn’t want to witness his grief. They wanted to believe he’d handled it and “moved on.” Mostly, he managed to meet their expectations, except for this time of year, when the anniversary of her death came around.
Eventually he was going to have to confess to his agent and his publisher that he hadn’t written a single word of the book his fans so eagerly awaited.
This book wasn’t going to make his publisher a fortune. It didn’t exist.
He had no idea how to conjure the magic that had sent him soaring to the top of the bestseller charts in more than fifty countries.
All he could do was carry on doing what he’d been doing for the past month. He’d sit in front of the blank screen and hope that somewhere in the depths of his tortured brain an idea might emerge.
He kept hoping for a miracle.
It was the season for it, wasn’t it?
* * *
“This is it?” Eva peered out of the window of the cab. “It’s incredible. He has a view of Central Park. What I wouldn’t give to live this close to Tiffany’s.”
The cabdriver glanced in his mirror. “Do you need help with all those bags?”
“I’ll manage, thanks,” Eva said as she handed over her fare.
It was bitterly cold and the snow was falling heavily, thick swirling flakes that reduced visibility and settled on her coat. A few flakes found the small, unprotected section of her neck and slid like icy fingers under her coat. Within moments the bags were covered and so was she. Worse was the sidewalk. Her feet slithered on the deep carpet of ice and snow, and finally lost traction.
“Agh—” Her arms windmilled and the doorman stepped forward and caught her before she hit the ground.
“Steady. It’s lethal underfoot.”
“You’re not kidding.” She clutched his arm, waiting for her heart rate to slow. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas in the hospital. I hear the food is terrible.”
“We’ll help you with those bags.” He lifted a hand and two uniformed guys appeared and loaded her bags and boxes onto a luggage cart.
“Thank you. I’m taking it all to the top floor. The penthouse. You should be expecting me. I’m staying a few days to decorate an apartment for a client who is out of town. Lucas Blade.”
He was a crime writer with a dozen global bestsellers to his name.
Eva had never read a single one of them.
She hated crime, both real and fictional. She preferred to focus on the positive side of people and life. And she preferred to sleep at night.
The warmth of the apartment building wrapped itself around her as she stepped inside, comforting after the chill of the blizzard swirling on Fifth Avenue. Her cheeks stung and despite wearing gloves her fingertips were numb with cold. Even the wool hat she’d pulled over her ears had done nothing to keep out the savage bite of a New York winter.
“I’m going to need to see ID.” The doorman was brisk and businesslike. “We’ve had a spate of break-ins in this area. What’s the company name?”
“Urban Genie.” It was still new enough that saying it brought a rush of pride. It was her company. She’d set it up with her friends. She handed over her ID. “We’ve not been around long, but we’re taking New York by storm.” She shook snow off her gloves and smiled. “Well, it’s maybe more of a light wind than a storm, given what’s happening outside the window, but we’re hopeful for the future. I have Mr. Blade’s key.” She waved it as evidence and his gaze warmed as he looked first at it and then at the ID she’d handed him.
“You’re on my list. All I need is for you to sign in.”
“Could you do me a favor?” Eva signed with a flourish. “When Lucas Blade shows up, don’t tell him I was here. It’s supposed to be a surprise. He’s going to open his front door and find his apartment all ready for the holidays. It’ll be like walking in on a surprise birthday party.”
It occurred to her that not everyone liked surprise birthday parties, but who was she to argue with his family? His grandmother, who had been one of their first clients and was now a good friend, had given her a clear brief. Prepare the apartment and make it ready for Christmas. Apparently Lucas Blade was in Vermont, deep in a book and on a deadline; the world around him had ceased to exist. As well as decorating, her job was to cook and fill his freezer and she had the whole weekend to do it because he wasn’t due home until the following week.
“Sure, we can do that for you.” The doorman smiled.
“Thank you.” She peered at his name badge, and continued, “Albert. You saved my life. In some cultures that would mean you now own me. Fortunately for you, we’re in New York City. You’ll never know what a lucky escape you had.”
He laughed. “Mr. Blade’s grandmother called earlier and said she was sending over his Christmas present. I wasn’t expecting a woman.”
“I’m not the gift. Just my skills. Saying I’m his Christmas present makes it sound as if I should be standing here wrapped in silver paper and a big red bow.”
“So you’re going to be staying in the apartment for a couple of nights? Alone?”
“That’s right.” And there was nothing new in that. Apart from the occasional night Paige slept over in her apartment, she spent every night alone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been horizontal with a man, but she was determined that was going to change. Changing it was right at the top of her Christmas wish list. “Lucas isn’t back until next week, and with the weather this bad there’s no sense in traveling backward and forward.” She glanced at the snow falling thickly beyond the tinted glass. “I’m guessing no one is going to be traveling anywhere far tonight.”
“It’s a bad one. They’re saying snow accumulation could hit eighteen inches, with winds gusting fifty miles an hour. Time to stock up on food, check the batteries in the flashlight and get out those snow shovels.” Albert glanced at her bags, brimming with Christmas decorations. “Looks like you’re not going to be too worried about the weather. Plenty of Christmas cheer right there. I’m guessing you’re one of those people who loves the holidays.”
“I am.” Or she used to be. And she was determined to be that person again. Reminding herself of that, she tried to ignore the hollow ache in her chest. “How about you, Albert?”
“I’ll be working. Lost my wife of forty years two summers ago. Never had kids, so Christmas was always the two of us. And now it’s just me. Working here will be better for me than eating a