“I’ve never been a character in a book before,” Eva said with a hint of trepidation in her voice.
“It’s exciting!” Frankie dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “I want that book! He’s the only author that makes me prioritize reading over sleep. You’re his inspiration. His muse. Whatever. He’s obviously made you his sweet, vulnerable victim. It’s cute. I can’t wait to read how he plans to murder you.”
“Victim?” The thought made her uncomfortable. “I was hoping to be the smart, sassy FBI agent or something. If I’m the victim I’m definitely going to fight back. I’d use that deadly move you taught me.”
Frankie sat back in her chair. “I only taught you one? A couple more might be useful.”
Eva had a vision of Lucas, his body hard on hers as he pressed her into the floor.
“You think he is going to have me murdered?”
“In his story, Eva. This is fiction. I don’t know anything about how a writer’s mind works, I just read the stuff. And whatever it takes, right? If he needs you as his muse, then go.”
“I don’t want to die horribly. Maybe this is a mistake.”
“It isn’t a mistake. Apart from the fact he’s paying you enough money to ensure that none of us has to work for the first six months of next year unless we want to, he’s taking you to the ball, Ev. You’re going to love that. Think of all the Prince Charmings you could meet.”
Nine
On the road trip of life, be the driver, not the passenger.
—Frankie
He’d been well and truly manipulated. He didn’t know whether to punch something, laugh or admire her.
She was so much tougher than she looked.
And now he was going to the ball, which was the last thing he wanted to do with his time. He’d been desperate enough to agree to anything.
His writing, which had flowed smoothly while Eva had been staying in his apartment, had stopped the moment she’d left. It was like slamming the brakes on a car.
As someone who had never required anything other than a pen and a blank sheet of paper in order to write, it exasperated him, but after struggling and wasting an entire day that he could ill afford to waste, he’d bowed to necessity.
He paced the length of his apartment, keeping his eyes averted from the snowy expanse of Central Park.
They’d agreed that he would take her to the ball, but hadn’t agreed how long he had to stay. He’d stay ten minutes and leave. And he’d send a car to bring her home when she was done.
Having found a satisfactory solution, he returned to his work.
It was hours later when he heard the tentative knock on the door.
“Lucas?” Her voice came from outside the door and he stood up suddenly, guilty that he hadn’t at least been there to welcome her when she arrived.
He opened the door to his study, his mind still in the fictional world he’d created.
She was standing there smiling at him, holding a tray.
He looked at the sweet c
urve of her mouth.
He was sorely tempted to haul her inside and do what he’d wanted to do that night she’d shown up wearing the peach silk pajamas, but that would lead to more complications than he was ready to handle. He knew enough about her to know they didn’t occupy the same fairy-tale land.
“Please tell me that isn’t herbal tea.”
“You said that my presence inspired your writing, and since we don’t know exactly which part of what I did cured your writer’s block, I thought we’d better keep doing the same thing. Last time you drank my herbal tea.”
“Last time I tipped your herbal tea down the toilet.”