Miracle On 5th Avenue (From Manhattan with Love 3)

Until now, when he barely recognized his own apartment.

A huge Christmas tree dominated the space by the window and several magazines lay open and abandoned on the sofa, alongside a sweater in a bright shade of green. A half-drunk mug of tea was growing cold on the low table and a pair of shoes lay strewed on the floor where they’d been kicked off.

The place looked…lived-in.

But the biggest change was Eva. She filled the place with her summery scent and with her voice. He could see the cascade of honey hair and the roll and bump of her hips as she danced to the music. There was no doubt that she knew how to move, and oh God how she did move. As if she was seducing the hell out of his kitchen as she confessed to Santa in a surprisingly tuneful voice that she’d been an awfully good girl.

She was chopping, dicing, crushing, all while putting on a one-woman show worthy of Broadway.

Turned out she could sing and dance as well as she could cook.

Lucas felt sweat prick the back of his neck.

If it was left up to him, she wouldn’t be a good girl for long. He’d take her from good to bad faster than it took for Santa to drop a parcel down the chimney. Last night he’d come so close to kissing her, but fortunately for both of them something had stopped him.

He stared at those hips, feeling like a voyeur.

One word from him and she’d stop dancing. She’d stop swinging those hips like a pole dancer and singing in that throaty voice.

He opened his mouth but no sound emerged.

A man could be pretty much blinded by those hips, imagining what all that subtle movement could do. It was performing art. He remembered her in those peach silk pajamas, the peep of curves and the hint of cream. The pajamas had been replaced by the shortest skirt he’d ever seen, although to be fair she wore it with black tights that made it mouthwatering but perfectly decent. Her black sweater hugged her waist and hips, the color a dramatic contrast to the gold of her hair.

She turned to pick up a knife and saw him.

She froze, the knife in her hand, and for a moment he wondered if he’d picked the wrong murder weapon.

Maybe she didn’t poison her victims. Maybe, as a skilled chef, she filleted them expertly.

Jill the Ripper.

He would have turned back to his study and carried on writing, but she was smiling at him and he decided that he could spare some time to talk to her, particularly as talking to her seemed to spark ideas in his head.

“Er—good morning.” She put the knife down and tugged the headphones away from her ears. A smile dimpled at the corner of her mouth. “Did my singing disturb you?”

“No.” She disturbed him. He almost wished she hadn’t noticed him. Then she would have kept swinging those hips for a little longer and he could have stayed suspended in a world driven by nothing but elemental instincts. He gestured to the living area. “Were we burgled?”

“I made myself at home. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll clear it up later.”

“I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Last night. I was rude.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. This is your home and you weren’t expecting visitors.”

“Are you always this understanding?”

“Would you rather I was upset?”

It would have been the natural response. Years of experience and close study enabled him to predict with almost faultless accuracy how a person would react in any given situation. Eva seemed to defy all his expectations.

“Does anything upset you?”

“Plenty of things. Animal cruelty, cabdrivers who lean on their horns, men who talk to my chest and call me ‘honey’ when we’ve never been introduced, people who cough without covering their mouth—” She paused. “Do you want me to go on?”

“Good to know you’re human. By the way, I owe you a thank-you. I took your advice and made a grilled cheese sandwich. Thanks to you, I’ve