She could almost feel the barriers coming up between them. “How else am I going to be able to come into your room and seduce you in the night, Mr. Blade?”
Something glimmered in his eyes. “Pick either of the rooms on the left at the top of the stairs. And if you’re spending the night here, you can’t keep calling me Mr. Blade. We should introduce ourselves properly. I’m Lucas, cynical crime writer.”
“I’m Eva. Hopeless romantic. Pleased to meet you.”
A smile tilted the corners of his mouth and the smile was so irresistible, she smiled back.
Oh holy crap, she was in trouble.
Five
One person’s dream is another person’s nightmare. It’s all a matter of perspective.
—Lucas
He felt stronger than he had in days. Maybe weeks. The dark images that had paralyzed him had faded, like clouds receding after a storm. He’d been drawn downstairs by the mouthwatering smells, but it wasn’t only the food that had replenished his energy, it was the conversation. There was something about Eva that fed his creativity. Every exchange, every conversation, unlocked another piece of the puzzle.
He had his murderer, and now he had her motivation.
She’d started her life full of hope, believing in true love and happy-ever-afters.
All that had been crushed when she’d met—
Michael?
Richard?
He frowned, trying to decide on a name for his murderer’s first victim. It was a small role, but crucial to the character motivation. Gradually life had chipped away at her relentless optimism, tarnishing her shiny vision of reality.
Her victims were the people who had disappointed her.
His mind wandered to Eva.
Most people are simply what they seem.
Did she really believe that? In his experience people were rarely as they seemed.
Take her, for example. Was she an innocent, or an opportunist who had taken advantage of his grandmother? Had she used her relationship with a vulnerable woman to extract information about him?
And what about the rest of her life?
He wondered what secrets she was hiding because if he knew one thing it was that everyone had secrets.
He sat down in front of his computer screen and the words started to flow.
He rarely based his characters on real people. Instead he preferred to use them as inspiration, taking traits and crafting his own fully formed individuals. But in his head, his main character was taking shape, and that shape was uncannily like Eva. He imagined how Eva might change if she met the wrong peopl
e, if life dealt her a different set of cards. Imagined the damage that life could do to someone like her.
She’d been eight years old when she’d discovered that not all endings were happy. At the time, she’d been standing over the body of her stepfather. She hadn’t known there could be so much blood in one person.
The words tumbled past the block that had stopped him working. This was what he’d been waiting for. This feeling that the words were unstoppable, the story pouring onto the page.
The raw burning panic eased, but still he knew he faced a herculean task if he was to get the book written by Christmas.
* * *
The tree had arrived after dinner, considerably larger than expected, and she and Albert had set it up close to the window in the living room. Instantly the place looked lived-in and festive.