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

His mind, roused from its soporific state, was racing ahead so fast it took him a moment to realize he still had his fingers in her hair.

How would it happen? How would she commit murder?

Could her hair be a weapon? Or a motif? Something she left at the crime scene?

No. She’d be caught within a week.

Maybe she changed her hair each time she committed murder.

Maybe she wore a wig.

“Mr. Blade!” Huge blue eyes were fixed on his face. “What do you mean, ‘I’m the one’? I’ve never committed a crime in my life if that’s what you’re implying.”

But she would. She would. “You’re perfect.”

Her cheeks turned from whipped cream to fondant pink. “P-perfect?”

She even blushed. A woman who could blush like that wouldn’t hurt a fly. Or would she? “Can you do that at will or is it just something that happens?”

“What?”

“Blushing.” He stroked his fingers across her smooth skin, exploring the silky texture. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to deconstruct her so that he could decide which traits to give to his character.

“I tend to blush when a man I’ve only known for a few minutes tells me I’m perfect. You’re right that first impressions can be wrong. If you’d asked me ten minutes ago I wouldn’t have said you were the friendliest person I’d ever met, but now I can see you were just being defensive. And that’s understandable if women break into your apartment to meet you.”

“What?” Her words finally penetrated his subconscious and his fantasy world melted away.

He’d been thinking aloud and she’d misinterpreted his words.

She thought he was interested in her.

And why wouldn’t she? She was most men’s idea of a fantasy woman, all soft curves and blond hair with a mouth as pink and tempting as sugar icing. There had been a time when he would have been interested himself, but that time seemed like an age away.

His wife had tamed that side of him. The wild, restless side that had driven him to rip through life taking what he wanted. But now she was gone and he had no one to please but himself, and invariably he didn’t even manage that.

Denied any sort of internal peace or personal satisfaction, he channeled all his emotions into his work. His writing came first. At his lowest point, it had saved him, which had made the fear that he might have lost it forever all the more acute.

But he hadn’t lost it. His gift had simply been lying dormant, waiting to be reawakened and this woman had done that.

The relief was profound.

It was like a drowning man discovering the life preserver he’d thought he’d lost bobbing in the water right next to him. He grabbed it and hung on, determined not to sink back down beneath the murky water.

His mind wouldn’t stop racing. Was that his murderer’s motivation? Had she lost someone and was intent on revenge? Or was she a psychopath with no conscience or emotion, someone incapable of empathy who used her looks as a trap?

If there had been a notebook and pen in hand he would have started scribbling right there. For the first time in months he felt an almost overwhelming urge and impatience to open his laptop. He wanted to sit down and write. He wanted to write and write until the book was finished. He could feel the idea growing inside him. His mind was like a dry riverbed after a flood, replenished, drenched with ideas.

Finally, finally, after months of waiting for inspiration, he’d found his murderer.

* * *

He thought she was perfect? His reaction was unexpected given everything she knew about his life. Over the many slices of cake she’d shared with his grandmother, she’d discovered that Lucas Blade had shown no interest in dating since he’d lost his wife three years ago, despite the repeated attempts by various women to engage his attention. His life was a shadowy mystery, a private wasteland of grief and hard work. He wrote, he participated in whatever international book tours were required of him, he spoke, he signed books. In between the forced public appearances, he shut himself away.

He displayed all the signs of a man who was going through the motions.

He’d deflected his grandmother’s less than subtle attempts to introduce him to suitable women, all of which made it all the more surprising that he was looking at her as if she was the answer to his dreams.

She wasn’t convinced he was the answer to hers, although there was no arguing that he was outrageously good-looking, in a rough, buyer-beware type of way.