The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) (12 page)

“I’m not sure the elevator’s a good idea. You can’t escape if someone recognizes you.”

“Trust me, they won’t.” He halted and let the doors close on a half-full car. “We’ll just move to the back of the next one.”

When the next elevator’s doors opened and the crowd flooded out, he headed straight for the far corner, wedging his shoulders against the wall. “You’re going to provide screening,” he said, turning her to face him, so he was looking down into her eyes, the bill of his baseball cap nearly covering his face. “Now say something really interesting.”

“What?”

“I need to have a reason to keep my eyes locked on you.” His dimple was showing. “Or I could kiss you.”

“I can do interesting.” Although she hankered to know what it would be like to have his mouth on hers, his hands roaming up and down her back, his rock-hard thighs pressing against hers. Desire coursed through her like a stream in flood. “Um, the armor we’re going to see was worn by Henry the Eighth in battle, probably in his last campaign, which was the siege of Boulogne in 1544. He was overweight and unwell, but he still led his troops. I thought you would be interested because you wear armor and lead your troops in battle, too.”

In the shadow of his cap, his eyes blazed and his smile turned hot. “I like the way you define me. Gladiator, warrior, king.”

She needed to lower the heat or she would combust. “Ballet-goer.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a full-throated, husky sound that drew fingers of delight up and down her spine. Fortunately, the elevator doors opened, because everyone in the enclosed space turned around to stare.

Somehow she guided him through the last three stops at the Met and headed for the limo. As they walked back through the staff corridor, Luke took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I enjoy touring with you,” he said. “It’s like a highlights reel.”

Two kinds of pleasure danced through her: gratification at his praise, and the sensual thrill of having his large, warm hand around hers.

They scooted onto their opposite seats in the limo, the driver shutting the door and enclosing them once again in that dim, intimate space. Miranda felt a sense of loss as she had to let go of his hand, but it was for the best.

“You are incredibly generous with your fans,” Miranda said. His unfailing courtesy and patience with his admirers, from Theo to the Chanel lady, had the effect of making her heart go soft. He curbed all the power and arrogance of his field presence in deference to his loyal followers. It was like watching a prince walk humbly among his subjects.

“They pay my salary,” he said with a shrug and a grimace.

“Is your side hurting you?”

“Only when I move wrong. Don’t worry about it.”

He clearly wanted to brush it off, so she went back to her original topic. “I work with some other famous people, and they don’t interact with their admirers the way you do. In fact, some of them are downright rude.”

Luke stared out the window. “Those fans spend money on jerseys and programs and tickets. Money they work just as hard as I do to earn. The least I can do is write my name on their memorabilia.” He looked back at her. “It’s a powerful thing to be able to make another human being happy with just your signature.”

With great daring, she leaned forward to touch his knee. “But it costs you time and privacy.”

He covered her hand and held it against the denim of his jeans. She could feel the flex of tendon over bone under her palm, and a shiver of awareness ran up her arm. “When I want those, I can have them,” he said. Picking up her hand, he tugged on it. “Come sit beside me. It’s friendlier, and you can show me what we’re seeing next on your handy tablet.”

Nervous excitement vibrated through her. They were playing a game where she was the rookie. Now he was pushing the boundaries, watching her and waiting for her to pull back or go forward. She should just hit the correct icon and hand him the tablet. “I, uh, okay,” she said.

As she transferred to the backseat, his weight compressed the springs so she slid up against his leather-covered side. He laid his arm along the back of the seat behind her shoulders so she could feel it brushing against her. He smelled of lemon, leather, and male, a potent mix.

She stared down at the screen and inhaled sharply, which merely intensified the heady aromas that enveloped her. Then she tapped the Morgan Library button.

“A library?” Surprise laced his voice. “I thought we were doing art.”

“Books can be art.” Relief muted her nerves as she returned to being a concierge. “Pierpont Morgan built it as his private library and stocked it with the most incredible treasures. The library has not one, not two, but
three
Gutenberg Bibles, the earliest books printed with movable type, and the most in any single collection. Can you imagine buying three Gutenberg Bibles for yourself?”

She glanced up at him to find that the easy smile had disappeared from his face. “You get mighty excited about books,” he said, the angle of his jaw tight.

“The technology of movable type eventually opened up reading to the masses. It transformed the western world.” She didn’t know what had changed his mood, so she tried a different tack. “Who’s your favorite author?”

The smile he gave her was humorless. “It used to be Gavin Miller, but I might rethink that.”

“The Julian Best thrillers? Those are terrific. So are the movies. Why are you changing your mind about them?”

“Because I met Miller about ten days ago. He’s a troublemaker.”

“What kind of trouble could he make for you?” She was baffled.

He huffed out a short laugh. “You have no idea.”

“Then I won’t buy his books anymore.”

He weighed her words. “I appreciate your loyalty.”

“In my line of work, you can tell a lot by how people treat those who work for them,” she said. “You’re one of the good guys.”

He turned so his pale eyes met hers. “Just remember, you’ve only seen me on my day off.”

Chapter 10

At the Morgan Library, Miranda was less concerned about Luke being mobbed, so they went in through the front door. A couple of patrons cast appraising glances at him, but no one approached.

“Let’s go to the original library first,” she said, starting across the sun-drenched glass atrium that now joined J. P. Morgan Jr.’s former residence with his father’s library. Luke reached for her hand as he looked around, letting her lead him into the magnificent Italianate palazzo. The easy familiarity of his gesture sent heat prickling through her. She could get addicted to the feel of his palm against hers.

They strolled through the beautiful rotunda with its marble surfaces, lapis lazuli columns, and gorgeous mosaic panels. “Now this is nice,” he said.

“It’s just the entrance.
This
is the library,” Miranda announced in a whisper of awe as they stepped into what might be her favorite room in the world. “Close your eyes and inhale,” she said, taking her own advice. “That’s the smell of centuries of knowledge and music and culture.”

She opened her eyes and tilted her head to see what Luke’s reaction was. His nostrils flared, so he had at least inhaled, but his gaze was angled upward at the three tiers of walnut-and-bronze bookcases. “So this is what rich men did with their money in the old days.”

“They still do it. The Robert Lehman wing at the Met was built just to house his private art collection when he bequeathed it to the museum.”

“Huh,” he said, echoing his comment in the Met. His face had gone sharp and focused as he continued to look around. “It’s impressive.” He brought his gaze back to hers, and she felt the weight of his concentration. “Let’s see those Gutenberg Bibles.”

“There’s usually only one on display at a time.” She led him to the glass case, where a large tome was opened to show neat columns of bold black Latin words. Beautifully colored and gilded leaves and vines swirled up one margin. “The decoration was done by hand,” she said.

He stared down at it before sliding her a sideways glance. “Can you read any of it?”

“No, but isn’t it amazing how clear it still is, so if I could read Latin, I would be able to?”

“For something that’s over five hundred years old, it’s in good shape.” His grip on her hand tightened for a moment, and a bleak expression crossed his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just thinking about the difference between my career and Gutenberg’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“His work is still important five hundred years later. Mine is—” He shrugged. Suddenly, the circles under his eyes were evident, and lines appeared around his mouth.

It hit her then. Here was a man who had reached the absolute top of his field. Her Internet search had led her to many discussions about who was the greatest quarterback of all time. About half a dozen names got thrown around, but Luke Archer’s was always on the list, even if someone occasionally ranked a different player higher. He had won the greatest honors in his sport. Fans adored him—he was the face of the Empire franchise.

Yet other discussions she had read were about his age and when he was going to retire. Would he go out on top, or would he keep playing until his body betrayed him? Would he stay with the Empire to the end of his career, or would they trade their longtime star to another team as he aged?

All that work and talent would fade away, leaving nothing behind but old game footage being rerun during the off-season. It must be hard for someone as driven as Luke to face the slow slide into oblivion.

“Your work has brought incredible joy to millions of football fans,” she said. “Remember what you said about making people happy? Parents and kids bond over your games.” She gestured toward the Bible. “As cool as this is, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t provide the same experience.”

The tension in his jaw eased, and his dimple appeared, as did his drawl. “I like to think you and I have bonded over this Bible, sugar.”

The potency of his dimple and his drawl left her breathless. The sudden glimpse of his vulnerability made her heart twist.

It was a dangerous combination. She pivoted on her heel and headed toward another display case, babbling, “Do you like classical music? Because there are some amazing manuscripts by composers like Mozart and Beethoven. There’s something cool about knowing their hands touched those pages.”

Luke followed her. She watched in fascination as the quarterback focused all his attention on the artifacts. His big body was angled over the display case, his gaze locked on the manuscripts. Every now and then he would straighten and glance around the room with the same laser stare he used on the football field.

She wondered if he planned to start his own library.

“Mr. Archer?” A bald man in rimless glasses and a tweed jacket approached them.

Luke nodded.

The man looked relieved. “I thought I recognized you. I’m Richard Brown, one of the curators here.” He offered his hand and Luke shook it. “Is there anything in particular you’re interested in seeing?”

“We came for the Gutenberg Bibles, so the rest is just icing on the cake.” Luke gave him one of his aw-shucks smiles.

“I wonder if I might make a request,” Richard said, his manner somewhat hesitant. “We would be honored to have an artifact of significance to your career in our collection. Perhaps a letter or a contract of some sort? I’m not very familiar with your sport, so I’m not sure what to ask for.” His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “My wife would know better. She’s the football fan.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Luke Archer appeared to be at a loss for words. It lasted no more than a second before another smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. “You want something about football for the Morgan Library’s collection?”

Richard nodded.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Luke’s smile spread wider, the sheer joy of it lighting up her own mood. “Beg your pardon on the language.”

“We value documents of cultural significance,” Richard said. “And as Justine informs me after every Empire game, you are an iconic cultural figure.”

Miranda could tell that Luke was enjoying himself, because he was laying on the Texas accent thick as he said, “I’ll go through my papers and find you the best darned document I have. Please thank your wife for her kind words.”

“We appreciate that.” Richard shook Luke’s big hand with both of his.

After the curator left them, Miranda and Luke headed to the library’s restaurant for lunch. As they sat in what had once been the private dining room in the Morgan family’s nineteenth-century brownstone, Luke still wore his dazzling smile.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Miranda said, basking in his happiness. “I may go blind from the reflection on your teeth.”

He leaned back in his chair, making it creak alarmingly. “The next time you visit the Morgan Library, you might see my first contract displayed right beside Mozart’s symphony.”

She understood now. He’d been validated in a place he didn’t expect to be. “Is that what you’re going to give them? Your first contract?”

“Maybe. Or I have a letter from Joe Namath, congratulating me on signing with the Empire, which would be a double score for the Morgan. However, I need to hold on to that a little longer. It’s a good luck charm.” She noticed his Texas twang was muted now that he was talking to her about business. “I’ll definitely send along an autographed jersey for Justine.”

“Another autograph for another adoring fan.” Miranda looked up from the menu with a teasing smile.

“Well, here’s the thing. As part of my contract, I have to sit in a hotel room and autograph jerseys, photos, posters, footballs, and other crap that the NFL then sells at jacked-up prices. It’s boring as hell and gives me writer’s cramp. Which is why I only do it in the off-season. Don’t want to damage the valuable tool.” He held up his right hand, fingers splayed.

Miranda could see the power in that big square palm and those long fingers. She remembered the heat and strength of them and felt an exquisite shiver run across her skin.

He dropped his hand. “They glue on a sticker that says whatever I signed is authentic. My opinion is that it’s more
authentic
to sign things for people I actually meet.”

A waiter bustled up and took their orders. Miranda had felt safe bringing Luke here, where the clientele was almost entirely ladies of a certain age wearing expensive designer suits and even more expensive jewelry. However, she saw the waiter walk up to one of his colleagues and say something as he cut his eyes over toward their table. She sighed inwardly. To the young man’s credit, he did not say a word until the very end of the meal, when he simply expressed his admiration for Luke’s play. Of course, Luke signed the check for him.

“It’s no wonder your hand stays so strong,” Miranda said. “You’re always using it to autograph things.”

He just laughed and draped his arm over her shoulder as they walked out to the waiting limo. It was a moment of easy camaraderie that she hadn’t expected from this intense man. She felt good about giving him time off from being Luke Archer, celebrity quarterback.

After touring the Frick and the Guggenheim, they had dinner at a quiet restaurant near Lincoln Center, discussing the art and artifacts they’d seen. Miranda had spent most of the meal mesmerized by the way the candle flame gilded the slash of Luke’s cheekbones and cast a profound shadow in his dimple as it came and went.

When they headed toward the theater, she began to have second thoughts about their destination and came to a stop on the sidewalk. Moving in front of him, she watched his expression as she said, “Tell me the truth. Do you want to go to the ballet?”

He flicked her cheek with his finger. “Sure do. Who knows? They might invite me up onstage to do a pirouette.”

“Do you know how to do a pirouette?”

She watched in amazement as he dropped her hand, braced himself a moment with his arms held out at shoulder height, and then spun into a turn on the ball of one foot. She caught only a hint of a wince as he landed. It wasn’t exactly a pirouette, but it was both athletic and graceful.

A little glow of wonder spun in her chest. “You truly can do anything.”

He gave her a roguish look. “You have no idea, sugar.”

She laughed because she’d decided to just go with the flirting. It wasn’t going to lead anywhere, after all.

At the theater, they walked in the front door like average audience members, had their tickets scanned, and headed up the steps. Luke eyed the oversize marble statues of plump women situated on the promenade. “They look like wrestlers, not ballerinas,” he said. Since Miranda had always thought the same thing, she stifled a chuckle.

“Let’s get you into your seat before anyone recognizes you,” she said.

“I don’t think this crowd will know who I am.” His tone was dry as he looked around the big open space with its gray stone floor and tiers of walkways.

“You didn’t think they’d know you at the Morgan Library and look what happened.”

As Luke settled into his red velvet orchestra seat on the aisle of the vast, modern theater, he removed his baseball cap and slid down so his knees nearly hit the seat in front of him.

“No one will bother you while you’re sitting,” Miranda whispered, “so you don’t have to slouch.”

He slanted her a smile. “I’m being considerate of the person behind me.”

She looked at the difference between his eye level and hers and muttered, “Oh, right.” It was one of those small, courteous gestures he kept surprising her with.

Opening the program, she pointed out the write-ups about the three pieces they were seeing. “Just forget about the tutus, and watch the dancers’ bodies. I think you’ll be impressed by what they can do.”

“Do you like the ballet?” he asked.

“It was one of the things I most wanted to see when I left the farm. The first live performance I came to, I kept getting distracted by this soft tapping sound. It took me a while to realize it was the hardened toe boxes of the ballerinas’ shoes hitting the stage floor as they danced. On television, they edited that out, I guess.”

“So the reality was a disappointment.”

“Oh, no! It made it so immediate. I knew I had really made it to my dream city.”

“You’re an interesting person, Miranda Tate,” he said, shaking his head.

The lights went down, and Miranda spent the whole performance sliding her gaze between the stage and Luke’s face. He watched with a slight frown, his focus absolute.

When the first piece ended, he applauded with apparent enthusiasm.

“Well?” she couldn’t help asking.

“You’re right about the dancers. They have incredible balance and flexibility.” He gave her a devilish look. “But they don’t have half a dozen three-hundred-pound men trying to knock them off their toes.”

“The famous dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov always said he admired athletes because they didn’t have choreography to follow. They had to improvise within chaos.”

“I like the man.”

The lights dimmed, and Luke once again locked his attention on the stage for one of George Balanchine’s famous leotard ballets. Miranda was glad Luke could see this because there were no sets and no costumes. He would be able to focus entirely on the dancers and their athletes’ bodies.