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

“Eva—”

“I’m the murderer. I thought I was a nice, kind character but I’m the murderer? You made me the murderer?”

“It’s not you. My characters are not real people.” He hesitated. “It’s true I took some of your character traits.”

“She has blond hair and a DD cup. She’s a brilliant cook! You might as well have called her Eva! Everyone is going to know it’s based on me and it’s h-horrible.” She couldn’t push the words past the tense ball of anger in her chest. “And the detail—”

“Eva, please—”

“All those questions you asked when we were together. I thought it was because you were interested in me. Because you wanted to get to know me, but you wanted more detail for your book.”

“That isn’t true.” He stepped toward her but she lifted her hand.

“Do not come any closer. Do not touch me, Lucas, because right now I’m so mad.”

“You’re overreacting. At most it’s loosely based on you, that’s all.”

“All?” She stalked forward, her finger outstretched. “I’ve got news for you, Lucas. I am a real person. A real, flesh-and-blood person with emotions and f-feelings. I am not one of your characters and we are not in one of your novels. This is real life. This is my life and you don’t get to—” She stabbed him hard in the chest, her breathing shallow and rapid. “You don’t get to turn me into a murderer.”

“If you’d listen—”

“Don’t placate me. You think I’m capable of murder? Well, I’ve got news for you—” she spat the words out “—since I met you, I just might be. Right now I can think of at least a dozen interesting ways I could kill you that you’ve probably never even thought of.” With that she turned on her heel and left his office, slamming the door behind her.

She went to her bedroom and slammed that door, too, so upset she couldn’t breathe.

He’d made her the murderer.

All this time she’d thought they had something special, that this new intimacy was genuine and deep, and all the time he’d been using what he’d learned about her in his book. He wasn’t interested in her because he cared about her, but because he cared about his story.

She’d kidded herself that she was helping him by being here, inspiring him. Instead she’d given him the inspiration to turn her into a bad person.

She paced the floor, so monumentally stressed she had no idea what to do to calm herself. A drink. She needed a drink. It worked for Lucas in times of stress, so why not her?

She stalked downstairs to the kitchen. She ignored the whiskey and instead reached for a bottle of wine from the rack.

Footsteps sounded behind her but she didn’t turn.

She didn’t want to look at him, let alone talk to him.

How much of it had been real? Those lingering glances, the almost agonizing restraint they’d both shown when they were in the same room—had she imagined all of that?

She’d told him things she hadn’t even told her closest friends, and instead of guarding those confidences like treasure, he’d stolen them for profit.

She thumped the wine down on the counter and grabbed a corkscrew.

“Whatever you do don’t drop that,” he breathed. “It’s a bottle of—never mind.”

“Great value, is that what you were going to say?”

“There are only eleven bottles left in the world. It’s the best.”

She gave him a long, hard look and then yanked the cork out of the bottle. “Now there are ten.” She poured the wine into a glass and lifted it, challenging him with her eyes. “To murder.” She took a sip and closed her eyes briefly. “Mmm. You’re right, that is good. They say crime doesn’t pay, but in your case it obviously pays extremely well. You should have bought the other ten bottles.”

He eyed the open bottle. “I did.”

She lifted the bottle and topped off her glass, temper simmering. “Where are they?”

“In storage.”