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

“That, too.” He gave a soft laugh and she laughed, too.

She realized she felt better than she had in ages. “Thank you for listening. It’s easy to talk to you, perhaps because you’ve lost someone, too. You know how it feels. You understand.”

It was something else that connected them, another layer of intimacy deepening what they already had.

She’d given up trying not to want him. She wanted him desperately. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her the way he had the night of the ball, but no matter how late they talked into the night, no matter how personal the conversation got, he didn’t touch her again. And she tried desperately not to touch him.

Once, she’d touched him by accident while handing him a plate and she’d pulled back so sharply the plate had almost landed on the floor. He’d caught it one-handed and the brief flame in his eyes had told her he was not only aware of her struggle, but he was experiencing it, too. But even though the sexual tension simmered hotter than anything she cooked up in his kitchen, he did nothing about it.

And neither did she.

She told herself that he was being sensible, but still there was a dull ache of disappointment that things couldn’t be different and a sharp edge of longing. Her nights were disturbed by sweaty, erotic dreams, the images from which she found it h

ard to erase in the light of day.

She tried to lure her mind away from thoughts of sex. “How is the book going?”

“It’s going well, thanks.” He poured more wine. “I wrote another ten thousand words today. Enough to make me think this book might actually be finished on time.”

“As I’m in it, are you going to let me read it?”

He reached for his glass. “You don’t read crime fiction.”

“I’ve never played a starring role before.”

“I never let anyone read my work until it’s finished.”

She felt a stab of disappointment. “All right. But I expect a signed copy.”

“Even if there’s blood on the cover?”

“I’ll wrap it in flowery pink paper.”

She served a light tarte au citron inspired by the summer she’d spent in Paris, and afterward Lucas returned to his study.

Eva caught up on her emails, updated her social media accounts and made two calls to clients.

On her way up to bed she made herself an herbal tea, and took Lucas one, too.

The door to his study was open, but there was no sign of him.

She put the tea down on his desk, and noticed the words on the screen. He’d obviously stopped in the middle of a chapter.

Curiosity tugged her toward the screen.

She felt a flash of guilt that she was peeping without asking him, and then shrugged it off. She was his inspiration. Surely that entitled her to at least take a look at the character he’d created?

She stared at the screen, intending only to read a few lines.

But then she kept reading. She kept reading even though her mouth was dry and her hands were shaking.

She was so absorbed, she didn’t hear Lucas come back into the room.

“Eva?”

His voice cut through her shock and she backed away, stumbling over a stack of books he’d left on the floor.

“It’s me.” The words jammed in her throat. “You said I was your inspiration—”