The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) (17 page)

Miranda managed a shaky laugh. “I was giving him a tour of some museums at his request. The whole hand-holding thing was to keep people from bothering him for autographs.”

“The media is so irresponsible,” Erik said.

“At least they didn’t say I was pregnant with Luke’s baby.”

“Just let them get their hands on another picture of the two of you together and that will be the next headline.”

She rubbed her forehead in an attempt to ease the tension headache forming there. “I don’t understand why Orin’s so bent out of shape over this. Luke Archer just wanted a private tour guide.”

“I’ll get a little countercampaign going for you,” Erik said. “If I categorically deny his accusations, the opinion of the concierge community is going to come down on your side.”

Unshed tears clogged Miranda’s throat. Erik’s offer of support warmed her heart. But it also brought a stab of guilt. She couldn’t allow him to deny her involvement with Luke because she
was
involved, no matter how briefly. “You are the best, but I can’t ask you to do that for me.”

“You’re not asking, sweetie. I’m offering.”

“That makes it all the more special, but I need to fight this on my own.”

“I hate to let that nasty little worm Spindle get away with smearing your reputation.”

“He won’t.” Miranda tried to inject a confidence she didn’t feel into her voice. “I’ll make sure of that.”

“By the way, I have two tickets to
Hamilton
for Friday night, if you could use them.”

“I know exactly who would want those. Send them over.” She paused. “I just wish I knew why Orin dislikes me so much.”

“Because you are so much better at the job than he is. It’s not just the clients who prefer to deal with you, it’s us concierges, too. You watch yourself, sweetie. And I’ll do the same.”

Miranda disconnected and sagged back in her chair, staring sightlessly at her computer screen.

She thought of Luke explaining the hieroglyphics to her in his warm Texas drawl, of his gaze intently focused on the Morgan’s manuscripts, of his patient willingness to sign autographs for every fan who asked, and of how his skin and muscle felt against and inside her body.

Then she pictured Dennis trudging to the barn before the sun came up to milk the cows so he could make the next batch of cheese with the equipment she was paying for. She thought of Patty growing flowers to sell at her roadside stand to make a little extra money. She thought of Theo’s agile brain and the price of college tuition.

A long sigh dragged itself from her throat. Orin’s poison was bad enough with that one photo to support it. If the paparazzi caught Luke and her together again, her boss would have proof positive, and he would use it mercilessly.

He could ruin her chances at the head concierge job in the new luxury condo going up. The building wouldn’t be finished for another couple of months, which gave Orin far too much time to make trouble for her.

Disappointment filled her with a dull, gray fog.

It was better this way. She was already captivated by Luke. Spending more time with him would just make it worse when he went back to football.

With dragging steps, Miranda got up and shut the door to her office before she dialed Luke’s cell phone. When it went to his voice mail, she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.

The beep sounded. “Luke, I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel our dinner plans. I have a conflict with work. Thank you for a wonderful day yesterday.” She wanted to add something about the pleasure of getting to know him, but decided it could be misconstrued as sexual. Of course, it was, but she left her message at that.

The hours that had been bright with the anticipation of seeing him again now stretched before her in dreary, colorless succession. In addition, the shadow of Orin’s ugly allegations had destroyed any joy she might take in her job today.

To cheer herself up, she dialed her favorite resident to offer him the
Hamilton
tickets. At least someone would be happy with her.

Twenty minutes later, a deliveryman walked into her office carrying a vase of sunflowers so large that Miranda could barely see his face behind it. “Miranda Tate?”

“That’s me.”

The man plunked the flowers down on her desk. “Jeez, lady, that arrangement is bigger than your office.”

Miranda pulled a five-dollar bill out of her drawer and handed it to him, turning his grumpiness into gratitude.

Luke had sent her Van Gogh flowers! A sigh of combined delight and regret welled up in her throat. He must have sent them before she left her message.

She pulled off the business-size envelope stapled to the plastic wrapping and ran her finger over the letters of her name in his handwriting. She loved the fact that he hadn’t called the florist and dictated the card. He must have had it messengered in.

She opened the envelope carefully and pulled out a single sheet of stationery with the Empire logo at the top. In a bold scrawl, Luke had written:

Dear Miranda,

Yesterday was surprising in more ways than one, all of them good. I figure if you like Van Gogh, you’ll like the flowers. I’ll find out what other things you like at dinner and afterward.

Luke

Miranda couldn’t help smiling, although her pleasure was laced with wistfulness. The last sentence sent a little shimmer of heat through her body. She wondered what “afterward” he had planned.

Now she would never know.

Chapter 14

Luke sat in the darkened room, trying to keep his focus on the video of last week’s matchup of the Jaguars and the Buccaneers. But he kept drifting back into memories of the day before with Miranda, and they weren’t all about the sex. He remembered moments like when she was impressed with his knowledge of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Or the way she looked at him as though he’d said something smart when he commented on the Van Gogh. And then there was the sex.

“Archer, what do you think?” The coach’s voice shattered Luke’s mental image of Miranda draped over the massage table, naked and gasping.

“It’s my week off. I don’t have to think,” Luke said.

His teammates chuckled, while Junius looked annoyed. But Luke wasn’t worried by the coach. He was more concerned about his own inability to concentrate. You didn’t win Super Bowls by daydreaming.

“Fine, how about you, Burns? You got any comments on how to keep Terrance Fairley from knocking the shit out of you and taking the ball away?”

Luke studied the clip as the Bucs’ giant linebacker put on a surprising burst of speed to slam into his opponent’s star wide receiver, causing a fumble and turnover. Junius cued up another play where the linebacker danced around a guard and a tackle to sack the quarterback. Luke let his lips curve into an evil smile as he flicked a glance at Brandon Pitch. The backup quarterback looked queasy. Luke shifted to test the condition of his bruises and felt the twinge.

Junius showed another play where Fairley flattened a tight end to create a turnover. Luke sat forward. “Can you show that one again, Coach? I might have an idea.”

As he was explaining his strategy, he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, indicating a missed call and voice message. As they discussed and refined the counterattack, impatience swelled in his chest. He was sure the message was from Miranda, because the flowers must have arrived by now.

Finally, the coach released them from the film session, and Luke ducked into an empty office to check his phone. Sure enough, Miranda’s number came up. He punched in the code to check his messages. As he listened to her regretful recording, anticipation turned to fury. That scumbag Spindle was involved in this somehow.

He gave the metal leg of the desk a good, solid kick before he dialed Miranda’s number.

“Luke, thank you so much for the sunflowers,” she said before he could speak. “I feel like I’m in Arles with Van Gogh.”

He could hear both sincerity and constraint in her voice. “What’s the problem with work? I’ll fix it with your boss.”

There was a beat of silence before she said, “It’s a scheduling issue. It can’t be fixed.”

“Look, I want to see you tonight.” The truth of that surprised him. “I’ll work around your schedule.”

Another moment of hesitation before she sighed into the phone. “One of the tabloids published a photo of us holding hands at the museum, and that’s creating some, um, ill will here.”

He was right about Spindle. He’d like to unleash Terrance Fairley on the head concierge. “If I guarantee that no one will see us together, would that work for you?”

“How could you do that?” There was a gratifying note of longing in her voice.

“I already have a room reserved at the Ritz-Carlton at Battery Park.” He needed to explain that. “Because of Trevor. There’s a private entrance we can use.” He wasn’t going to mention that he’d used it before for similar reasons. “We’ll get room service. No photos.”

“That’s a lot of trouble to go to.”

He could hear
no
in her voice, so he laid on the drawl. “You’re worth it, sugar. Let me send a car to pick you up at seven. Just an anonymous black sedan. No one will be the wiser.”

“I . . . well . . . thank you,” she finally said after a pause so long he thought he’d lost her. “That would be nice.”

He pumped his fist. “The car will bring you right to the entrance, and my driver will escort you from there. That eliminates the chance of anyone seeing us together.”

“I appreciate how careful you’re being,” she said. “And I feel ridiculous about it.”

“It’s not your problem, it’s mine. Being in the spotlight is not always comfortable for the people around me, so I’ve found ways to dodge it.” He’d also learned to avoid the people who basked in the light reflected from him. Miranda wasn’t one of them. He let anticipation vibrate in his voice. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Luke disconnected and glanced at his watch. He was going to be late for his session with his trainer. Stan would give him an earful, but Luke didn’t care. He could block out the abuse as long as he had Miranda to focus on.

A few hours later, Luke changed positions on the seat of the limousine for the third time, trying to ease the soreness his session with Stan had induced. His trainer assured Luke he would feel fine in the morning if he got a good night’s rest. But rest wasn’t on Luke’s agenda, so he had a couple of ice packs strapped to his ribs, and he had swallowed a few Aleve capsules before he left the Empire Center. That would do for now. Once Miranda arrived, he’d forget all about his pain.

An alert pinged on his phone. That was his assistant’s reminder that Luke needed to call Nathan Trainor about the gala.

He dialed the CEO’s cell number. This time Trainor answered.

“Trainor, I need a favor,” Luke said. “I got talked into buying a table at a charity dinner tomorrow night, and I need to fill it up. Miller’s coming, so I’m asking you to come, too. And bring a date.” He smiled.

“Miller put you up to this.” The CEO hadn’t gotten where he was by being stupid.

But Luke hadn’t, either. “Miller? No, he’s just willing to go along with it for a good cause. We’re raising money for foster kids in the New York metro area.”

“That’s not what I meant. He wants to meet my date.”

“Hell, based on what Miller says,
I
want to meet her,” Luke said. “You work fast, man.”

“As I told him yesterday, the meeting is premature.” Trainor’s voice was tight. “And I have no intention of exposing her to Miller’s curiosity.”

Definitely not stupid, but protective. “Too bad,” Luke said. “The silent auction has some damn nice jewelry, and all the proceeds go to the kids.”

Silence instead of refusal. That was a good sign, so Luke sank the hook in further. “There’s a listing of the items online. I’ll text you the link.”

“Did you donate a signed football?” the CEO asked.

Luke could tell Trainor was still on the fence, so he injected an element of competition. “With four tickets on the fifty-yard line. Miller kicked in an entire set of autographed Julian Best books, along with a prop from the last movie.”

Trainor laughed at that. “Put me down for a TE-Gen10 3-D printer.”

Luke had him now. “Sounds high-tech. So you’ll come.”

“I’m sure I’ll regret it, but I’ll ask Chloe if she’d like to attend.”

“Chloe. Nice name. I’ll text you all the information.”

Luke hung up and forwarded the details Doug had sent him about the gala to Trainor’s phone. He envied the CEO’s ability to bring the woman he wanted with him to the event. He found himself resenting any free time not spent with Miranda.

Because the clock on their time together was running out.

Chapter 15

Miranda walked out the front door of the Pinnacle and spotted the black sedan pulled up at the curb. Refusing to look around furtively, as though she were doing something wrong, she strode across the sidewalk and opened the car’s back door to let herself in. When the driver had texted her that he was there, she’d told him not to get out. She’d even worn a long belted raincoat to cover the dress she’d changed into in her office.

She slid into the backseat, breathing a sigh of relief that she appeared to have escaped unnoticed. However absurd, her precautions seemed necessary. Two more colleagues had called to mention the rumors Orin was spreading about her. Miranda slumped back into the leather seat and unbuttoned her raincoat. She’d been foolhardy to take this risk, but when Luke promised her complete privacy, temptation had overwhelmed her good sense.

“Is the heat on too high?” the driver asked.

“No, it’s fine.” She almost laughed. It wasn’t the car’s heater that was sending flares of warmth licking through her body.

She smoothed her palms over the skirt of her rose-colored dress. It fit her like a glove without being overtly sexy. She’d fastened a statement necklace of chunky quartz and gold around her neck to add interest to the plunging
V
of the neckline. The high-heeled gladiator sandals in faux snakeskin gave her outfit some edge. She’d taken care with her outfit because she was meeting a man who was accustomed to women wearing high-end designer clothes. In the growing darkness, she wondered if it had been a fluke of time and place that she and the celebrity quarterback had felt such a connection yesterday.

He
seemed to think it was more than that, arranging for all this secrecy. Of course, he wasn’t used to hearing
no
from a woman or anyone else, so it probably brought out the competitor in him.

The town car wove through the narrow downtown streets and crept into a back alley before coming to a stop. This time the driver jumped out and jogged around to hold the door Miranda had already opened.

She swung her legs out and stood in the pool of light thrown by an ornate bronze fixture over an unmarked door. It reminded her of the back entrance to Cleats, and she had a sudden understanding of the downside of fame—always sneaking into places from dark alleys, through utilitarian doors, dressed in a raincoat or a baseball cap and sunglasses. Ironic that she often arranged such access for her clients.

“I’ll take you to Mr. Archer,” the driver said, gesturing toward the door.

Miranda waited while the driver knocked. The door swung open, and then she was ushered through a series of hallways, the decor going from white paint and linoleum to wood paneling and ultrathick carpeting. The driver tapped a distinctive rhythm on a double door before turning to walk away down the corridor. Miranda didn’t have time to say thank you before one of the doors swung inward.

No one greeted her, so she stepped through into a sitting room decorated in richly textured modern fabrics and paneled in dark wood. Huge windows framed spectacular views of New York Harbor, with the Statue of Liberty raising her glowing lamp above the waves. A mouthwatering aroma of gourmet food floated past her nostrils.

The door closed behind her, and she pivoted to find Luke turning the privacy lock. He gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger routine. I didn’t want anyone to see or hear me from the hallway. For your protection.”

“It was a little spooky,” Miranda said, a slight quaver in her voice.

Luke was dressed in charcoal gray trousers that made his legs look even longer than usual, and a dark blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, which gave a surprising elegance to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The dark colors of his clothing made his gilded hair and pale eyes practically glow in contrast. She drew in a deep breath to dampen the flutters in her chest.

“Let me take your coat.” He stepped behind her and slipped the raincoat off her shoulders. His breath stirred a strand of hair against her temple, sending a shiver of sensation skittering down her neck. He laid the coat across a chair set by the door and turned, this time with heat warming his blue eyes.

“Now for a real hello,” he said, bringing one hand up to splay along her jaw as he angled his head downward to brush her lips with his.

The feel of his strong fingers against her skin, the touch of his mouth on hers, the sense of his body only inches away, lit a subtle flame that licked along Miranda’s veins. She stepped into him. As she ran her palms up his chest, he circled her waist with one powerful arm to bring her even closer.

She expected him to intensify the kiss, so she let her lips part, but he lifted his head. “Dinner first. Because once we get started, the food will end up cold.”

A wave of apprehension swept through her, dousing the sensual glow he’d just kindled. He was looking at her with intense anticipation, as though he’d been making plans all day.

She didn’t know if she could live up to them.

“It smells wonderful,” she said, starting to move away from him. His encircling arm stopped her.

He was staring down at her with a frown. “You don’t need to worry about Spindle. No one knows you’re here except my driver, and he’s been keeping my secrets for years.”

That drove home how foolish she had been to come. She was jeopardizing her career—and her brother’s farm—to see a man whose interest she probably wouldn’t hold even through this one evening.

She scanned his face with the distinctive eyes, the sculpted jawline, the thick golden hair—all both famous and familiar from a multitude of photos, advertisements, and television interviews. His head was framed by a window with the kind of view that meant this suite bore a price tag that was stratospheric.

She didn’t belong here with this man. She could only disappoint him. “I’m sure your driver is completely trustworthy, but I probably shouldn’t have come.”

He let his arm drop. “At least have dinner,” he said. “I was going to take you to Bouley, so that’s what we’ve got here.”

He gestured toward a round table set in front of one of the windows, the reflection of candles and yellow roses glowing against the dark blue of the night beyond the glass. A metal warming hutch stood beside it, along with a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne.

He—or his assistant—had gone to some trouble for this dinner. She was flattered and oddly touched. If this was about sex, at least he was romancing her first.

“I just got nervous.” She gave him a genuine smile. “It’s hard to get used to the reality of a date with you.”

All emotion disappeared from his face. “I thought we’d gotten past that.”

“Yesterday we had. Today the shock hit me all over again.” She brushed her fingers lightly against the back of his hand. “Oh, my God, I’m touching Luke Archer.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Maybe you should keep doing it until the novelty wears off.”

She reached up to comb her fingers through his gleaming hair because he’d given her permission. “So many textures to explore.”

He turned his head to kiss her hand. “I’m starting to think you don’t want dinner.”

She caught her breath as his eyes went hot. “I’m starting to think you’re hungry.”

He gave her a slow smile, his dimple emerging gradually. “There are all different kinds of hunger.”

The dimple and the velvet of his drawl sent desire curling through her. Before she could reply, he walked to the table and pulled out a brocade-covered chair. “Let’s satisfy one at a time.”

She walked toward him, feeling his appreciative gaze as a physical touch, skimming down her legs to her ankles, then back up over the swell of her hips to her achingly taut breasts and finally her lips. “How do you do that?” she asked as she stepped between the chair and the table to sit.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like you’re touching me just by looking.”

“Focus of desire.” He pushed in the chair with a smooth motion that made her conscious of his strength. His fingers brushed against her skin as he moved her hair aside with one hand before he bent to press a kiss on the side of her neck. His lips were firm and warm, and she shivered at the contact.

“Focus of desire,” she repeated, trying to shake off the haze of arousal he was creating. “It sounds like one of those slogans athletes use to psych themselves up.”

He gathered the hair away from the other side of her neck, and she tilted her head in anticipation of his next touch. This time the kiss was lingering. She heard him inhale as though he wanted to enjoy her scent as well as her taste. She felt a slight rough flick of his tongue and shuddered at the streak of sensation flashing down to liquefy low inside her.

He moved his head far enough away to say, “It’s just how I do things.” His breath tickled her ear.

“It’s effective.”

She could tell he had straightened and stepped away because the air around her lost its charge. She swiveled to see him pick up the champagne and twist the metal basket off the cork before easing it out of the bottle. He leaned over to fill her flute. “Some people can’t handle it.”

Miranda wondered if she was one of them.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “You can.”

As he sat down, she thought she caught a wince of pain. “Is the bruising still bad?”

An odd expression of relief crossed his face. “Right. You know about it. My trainer Stan says the workout we did today should help, but I’m not feeling an improvement yet.”

Miranda thought about their activities the night before and wondered if they had contributed to his discomfort. “Maybe tonight”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—“is not such a good idea for you.”

“Sugar, last night practically cured me.” He picked up his champagne and raised it to her in a toast. “To us.”

“To us.” She touched her glass to his with a melodic ding. His toast described exactly what was going on here. The two of them together for one night. Nothing more.

His eyes never left hers as he took a drink of the fizzing liquid. Caught in the laser beam of that gaze, she barely tasted her own first sip.

He took another swallow, and she found her eyes drawn to the strong muscles moving in his throat. Every part of his body exuded power and control.

He reached over to lift the silver cover off the plate in front of her. “Organic Connecticut farm egg. Or you can have chilled Wellfleet oysters.” He waved to the oysters on his plate. “There’s also sea urchin-and-rabbit salad.” He uncovered two more dishes resting on the side of the table.

The delectable aromas wafted past her nostrils as each cover was removed. She closed her eyes to inhale. “I could dine on the scents alone.” When she opened them, his gaze was resting on her mouth.

He took an oyster and put it on his plate with a clink of shell on china before passing the rest to her. “We’ll eat family style and share everything.”

“I’ve always wanted to do that at Bouley,” she admitted.

“Do you have a connection at every high-end restaurant in the city?” Luke took a dollop of sea urchin and caviar before passing the spiny shell to her.

“If I don’t, one of my colleagues does. But frankly, your name would get me anything I wanted anywhere in New York City and possibly the whole United States.”

He shook his head. “They don’t like me much in Boston.”

“You ruined their perfect season last year, but they’d still want you at their restaurant, trust me.”

“Maybe to poison me.” He accepted the other half of the Connecticut farm egg.

“Has anyone ever tried to do that?” She dipped into the sea urchin, nearly swooning at the burst of flavors. “Not poison you, but sabotage your food or something before a big game?”

“Not since college.” A look of distaste flitted across his face. “And that wasn’t food. Nowadays the team goes into lockdown at a hotel before big games, partly to prevent anything like that.”

“The sea urchin is fantastic.” She took another bite of the extraordinary dish. “What happened in college?”

He looked away. “They sent a hooker to my room. I still don’t know how she got in when the door was locked.”

She hadn’t meant to bring up dark memories. “You don’t have to tell me any more.”

His gaze returned to her face. “I told her to leave, and the scene got ugly. She’d been paid a lot to keep me awake all night, and she wanted to do her job. It was my first bad experience with the press.”

She imagined him as a young golden boy, still with a glow of innocence even though he was rapidly becoming a star. There was an innate uprightness about him as a man that made her think he would have been shocked by the sordidness of that incident in his youth. “You had to grow up fast.”

“No faster than my teammates.” The planes of his face angled sharply, all the innocence honed away.

“The spotlight was on you, the quarterback, the glory position. That’s more pressure than the others had to deal with.”

“It was my choice.”

“Do we really understand the choices we make at that age?” she asked.

“What choice did you make that has you looking so unhappy?” He put down his fork to give her his full attention, the intensity of his gaze making her feel as though he could see into her mind.

“Not unhappy. I’ve never regretted my decision to leave the farm and move here. But every choice seems to bring along its own burden. My parents were baffled by my ambition to leave the country behind and move to a city they find dirty, ugly, and rude.” She gestured toward the spectacular view with her fork. “They don’t see the magnificence of the architecture, the museums, and the culture. They think what I do, catering to the whims of the very wealthy, is frivolous and unproductive.” Her parents’ dismissive attitude toward her chosen profession, no matter how successful she was, still hurt way down inside.

He spun an empty oyster shell on the plate, watching it rotate before he looked back at her. “My parents don’t know what a two-point conversion is.”

“What?” Astonishment made her voice sharp. “Don’t they watch your games?”

“They claim they do, but”—his shoulders rose and fell on a sigh—“they’re not typical Texans. Football was not on their radar.”