The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) (3 page)

“I’ll lock them in my private safe,” Frankie said. “Who’s going first?”

Miller threw Luke a challenging smile as he grabbed one of the shiny black Montblanc pens and wrote his name on an envelope. He slid a sheet of heavy paper to his side of the table. “I’ll trust my fellow bettors not to read over my shoulder,” he said as he wrote down several words before holding it out to Frankie.

The club’s owner accepted the sheet and glanced down at it. As she folded it and slipped it into the envelope, she leveled an assessing gaze on the writer.

Luke didn’t bother with the ceremonial pen. He used his own to record his stakes in bold capital letters. Frankie read his wager and gave a low whistle. He allowed himself a tight smile. He wasn’t going to lose.

It was Trainor’s turn. When Frankie read the paper he handed her, she frowned. “Are you sure?” she asked the CEO, concern in her Irish lilt.

His answer was bald and definitive. “Yes.”

Frankie sealed his bet into the envelope. “You’ll inform me anytime someone is approved as a winner, or else we will meet in my office in one year’s time.” She tapped the envelopes into a neat stack on the table. “I certainly hope whatever you win is worth what you all might lose.”

“It will be life changing,” Trainor said.

Luke hoped he was right.

“That explains the stakes,” Frankie said, picking up the envelopes before rising. “Good night, gentlemen.”

All three men came to their feet as she made her exit. Miller scooped up his glass, lifting it high. “To our wager of hearts. May we be guests at each other’s weddings.”

If Miller had to be on the guest list, Luke just might elope.

Chapter 1

At 8:45 a.m., Miranda Tate’s desk phone buzzed.

“I need you in my office now.” Her boss’s voice held an undertone of glee, which meant he believed he’d caught her in a mistake.

She should have known something was up when Orin came in half an hour earlier than his normal day shift. The head concierge at the luxury condominium never worked an extra minute if he could avoid it.

“I’ll be right there,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

She slipped her feet into the black high-heeled pumps she’d kicked off under her desk and stood. Smoothing her slim, charcoal wool skirt down so it touched the tops of her knees, she moved to the mirror hanging on the back of her door. There she checked that her long, dark hair was still neatly tucked into its low ponytail.

After straightening the collar of her blouse, she opened the door of her office and strode across the lobby’s granite floor, her heels clicking on the stone. The Pinnacle had been built with the finest materials, but this gold-and-gray floor was her favorite, reminding her of hot desert sand swirling around cool river rocks. Sometimes she still couldn’t quite believe she worked in such a spectacular building whose residents were on every A list in their respective fields. It was a far cry from milking cows in upstate New York, but she’d worked darn hard to get here.

Her boss, Orin Spindle, had chosen his office for its impressive size rather than its convenience, so she had to hike down a lengthy hallway to reach it. Although Miranda was an assistant concierge, the small, elegant office she shared with her fellow assistant Sofia Nunez was much more accessible to the building’s tenants, which meant they tended to come there first. Depending on his mood, that either irritated or relieved Orin.

His door was closed. Not a good sign. Miranda knocked lightly.

“Come in.” Her boss nearly sang the words.

She braced her shoulders and turned the knob. Once inside, her first impression was that Orin’s capacious office was crowded. The impression resolved itself into the presence of two very tall men seated in the black leather armchairs in front of Orin’s desk. Since there were no chairs left, Miranda walked to the side of the desk. “Good morning,” she said with a polite smile.

Dismay clenched a fist in her chest when she recognized the men as the Archer brothers.

Almost anyone in the New York metropolitan area would be able to identify Luke Archer, the superstar quarterback of the New York Empire, winner of four Super Bowls, and a media darling for his blond hair, blue eyes, and laconic charm. He lived in the building, but she rarely saw him since he was either training, playing, or at his ranch in Texas during the off-season. And his penthouse had its own private entrance. He made very few requests of the concierge service, partly because he had a full-time assistant and partly because he was showered with invitations to every exclusive event in the New York metro area without having to ask.

His brother, Trevor, was a different story. She’d heard that he had a PhD from Harvard, but he didn’t seem to have done much with it. He had the same blue eyes as his brother, but his hair was light brown, and his physique was lanky, rather than superbly muscled like the athlete sitting next to him. When Trevor visited his brother, he availed himself of the concierge services with gusto. In fact, she’d had a problem with him last night, but she couldn’t imagine Orin calling her in about that.

Luke Archer surged to his feet, towering over her. “Morning, ma’am,” he said, his Texas accent making it sound friendlier than he probably intended. “Please,” he said, gesturing to his chair.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Miranda said with a quick shake of her head. Orin would be angry if she took a client’s chair.

Trevor looked somewhere to her left as he nodded in her general direction.

Luke didn’t return to his seat. Instead, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall near her. She was used to celebrities, but Luke Archer was beyond that—he was a living legend in New York. She couldn’t help slanting a quick sidelong glance to take in the breadth of his shoulders under the pale blue T-shirt and the swell of his thigh muscles under well-worn jeans. He exuded a coiled energy that must explode on the playing field. It certainly made her breath come a little faster.

“Miranda, I am concerned about a complaint from Mr. Archer that you would not accommodate his request last night,” Orin said, his voice oozing with false courtesy.

Trevor shifted so the leather chair creaked. Miranda dragged her attention away from Luke. “I explained to Mr. Archer that honoring that kind of request is against our policy in this building.”

Orin flicked an uneasy glance at Trevor. Was it possible Trevor hadn’t revealed what he’d asked for?

“We are dedicated to making sure our residents and their guests lack nothing here at the Pinnacle,” Orin spouted.

“However, we have certain boundaries,” Miranda said, feeling her way into the discussion.

Trevor’s fingers beat an uneven rhythm on the arm of his chair. “I might have been unclear about what I wanted,” he said. “This is just a misunderstanding.”

She felt the air move beside her as Luke Archer pushed off the wall and leaned forward to brace his hands on the arm of his vacant chair. “What exactly did you ask for, Trev?” His drawl made the question sound almost casual, but there was steel beneath the leisurely cadence. Miranda was glad he wasn’t addressing her.

Trevor turned toward his brother briefly before looking back at Orin. “Nothing I haven’t asked for before.”

Sweat beaded on Orin’s forehead, and Miranda wound her hands into a knot in front of her. Her boss really didn’t know what Trevor had requested.

Either Orin had been too awed by Trevor’s connection to his illustrious brother to probe, or he had been so thrilled to catch her in a supposed mistake that he’d leaped at the chance to make her look bad in front of Luke Archer. Or both.

It didn’t surprise her that another concierge had broken one of the rules of their building, but it cast Orin in a bad light, since he was the owner of the concierge service. He would make her life even more miserable now.

Orin picked up a pen and clicked it open and shut as he spoke. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding between Mr. Archer and Miranda. I would like to offer my sincerest apologies, Mr. Archer. Miranda, you may return to your office.”

“Just a minute,” Luke Archer said, his voice carrying the edge of command he must use to direct the giants of the offensive line on the field.

He took a step backward as Miranda turned away from Orin’s desk, so she ran smack into him. She bounced off, tottering on her stiletto heels as the sudden contact with his body sent sparks arcing through her. Luke’s hand shot out to grasp her elbow in a grip that felt like sun-warmed iron. As he held her steady, she had the sense that he could lift her off the ground with just that one hand.

“Thank you,” she gasped. She, who prided herself on never losing her composure, sounded like a breathless teenager because a blond football god had touched her elbow.

Then he unleashed a weapon so powerful she had no defense against it. He smiled. The ice in those intense eyes melted, his teeth flashed brilliant white, and the famous single dimple put a rogue’s brand on his left cheek.

There was no need for Photoshopping on all those billboards and clothing ads. Luke Archer looked exactly like his pictures, only better, because she could feel the heat of his hand through her silk sleeve, watch the expansion and contraction of his chest as he breathed, and inhale the scent of clean, warm male.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and released her before turning back to his brother. “Trevor?”

It took all her powers of concentration to recall the question Luke had asked before. She needed to get her inappropriate reactions to the quarterback under control or she would have even bigger problems with her boss than she already did.

Trevor leaned back in the chair with an air of unconcern that Miranda didn’t buy for a second. “I just wanted a little company, and I asked her to find me some.” He shifted away from his brother’s gaze. “Just make a call to an escort service. Nothing illegal about that.”

Luke’s smile evaporated and all the warmth leached out of his eyes, leaving them the pale blue of a glacier. “
That’s
what you asked her to do for you?” He hissed out a sound of disgust. Miranda watched him settle himself with an effort of will before he pivoted to meet her gaze. “We owe you an apology, ma’am. If I’d known what—” He shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry my brother asked you to do something so distasteful, and even sorrier he complained about it to Mr. Spindle here.”

Miranda tried to keep her smile from appearing forced, but all the apologies in the world weren’t going to fix her already precarious relationship with Orin after this. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Archer,” she said. “I won’t, either.”

His gaze traveled over her face like a laser beam, scanning and assessing. She felt a wave of heat flush her cheeks and then spread lower and deeper. Luke turned to Orin. “Mr. Spindle, I just want to make sure that Miranda will not be held at fault as a result of my brother’s actions. Trevor never should have made that request.” He turned a hard look on Trevor, who was now slumped in the chair, staring at his knees.

Trevor hunched a shoulder. “This meeting was Spindle’s idea, not mine.”

Miranda watched Luke’s big hands curl into fists. She’d heard him called the Iceman because he never showed his feelings on the field or off it. However, his brother seemed to have gotten to him. She considered her own family and how they could push her buttons. Without thinking, she flashed the quarterback a smile of understanding.

For a split second, surprise registered on his face, and she regretted her impulse. A man like Luke Archer didn’t need her sympathy. In fact, a man like Luke Archer didn’t want anything from someone like her. She was just a country girl trying with all her might to act like a city sophisticate.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Luke said to Trevor, jerking his head toward the door.

Trevor unfolded himself from the chair and stalked out of Orin’s office. Luke started after him before turning back. “My apologies. Let me know if you’d like tickets to Sunday’s game.”

Orin lit up. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Archer.” Miranda was sure he would sell them to one of their other clients for a hefty price.

“I’ll have my assistant call both of you,” Archer said, turning away.

Miranda felt bad that the quarterback had been put in this situation by his brother. She didn’t want him to feel obligated to give her compensation for it. “You’re very kind, but I have to work on Sunday.” It was a lie, but she couldn’t gracefully refuse the tickets after her boss had accepted them. She was counting on the fact that Orin didn’t know the weekend schedule for the assistant concierges, since he never worked then.

Archer looked over his shoulder with the dimple in evidence again. “Would you like a signed football as a substitute?”

Her brother’s son would love that. And it would make Orin’s greed less obvious, so maybe he wouldn’t punish her for refusing the tickets. “Thank you. I know someone who would very much appreciate that. My nephew is a huge fan.” She added a smile.

For a moment Archer seemed to freeze, and she wondered if her smile had revealed a little too much of the warmth he had sent sizzling through her. Or maybe she shouldn’t have taken the ball. It seemed fairly insignificant compared to tickets. She was trying to think of a way to back out when he nodded. “It will be in your office later today.” Then he was gone, his absence leaving a curious flatness in the room.

“Are you aware of which assistant concierge called an escort service for Trevor Archer recently?” Orin’s nasal voice was harsh.

Miranda shook her head. “Someone must have done it without realizing there was a rule about it.”

That was the sad part. Concierges often called escort services—and worse—for their clients. The first time she’d gotten such a request, she’d been openmouthed with shock. Growing up on a dairy farm in the boondocks of upstate New York hadn’t prepared her for the shamelessness of vice in the big city. She’d been relieved when the Pinnacle’s owners had instituted the policy after a resident had sued because he caught an STD from the escort. She had always refused to handle those requests, even before the rule was put in place, but she was in the minority, since the gratuity for arranging that kind of service tended to be large.

Orin nodded. “I’ll make sure the other assistant concierges are aware of the policy.” He shuffled through a pile of papers and pulled out the week’s schedule. “You aren’t working Sunday, so why did you turn down the tickets?” He skewered her with his “I’m your boss and I want answers” glare.

She pretended surprise. “I must have gotten my weeks mixed up. I thought I was on duty this Sunday.” Giving him a conspiratorial smile, she said, “I’m not much of a football fan anyway.”

“So the ball is really for your nephew?” Orin appeared unconvinced.

“Yes. Theo thinks Luke Archer walks on water.”

After shooting her one more skeptical glance, Orin dropped the schedule back onto his desk and turned to his computer monitor. “Mrs. Belden wants you to book her massage because she says you always send the best people.” There was a note of peevishness in his voice. Mrs. Belden was a big tipper, and Orin tried to reserve that kind of client for himself.

“I’m so glad she liked the last one. I mentioned to Mrs. Belden that he was from a spa you’d recommended,” Miranda said, crossing her fingers behind her back at the lie. She needed to stay in Orin’s good graces just a little longer so he would give her a reference for the head concierge job at a new apartment building going up in Midtown. Expecting a glowing recommendation was unrealistic, but at least he couldn’t give her a
bad
review without real evidence.

Or even worse, fire her. Since the Pinnacle’s owners contracted with Orin’s concierge service for their building, her boss had sole discretion over who worked there. She would have no recourse if his simmering dislike of her boiled over into something more serious.