The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) (5 page)

“About what?” Luke folded his arms across his chest.

“You know about what. And let’s do it inside. It’s colder than the hair on a polar bear’s butt out here.” He looked at Luke. “I know they call you Iceman, but you don’t have to take it literally.”

“Seriously, Stan? I’ve played in blizzards.” Still, Luke started walking back toward the tunnel.

“That’s different. The adrenaline keeps you warm.” As they passed through the big doorway, Stan glanced around and lowered his voice. “So what happened on that last pass on Sunday?”

“It got intercepted.” Luke kept walking.

“Yeah, even that moron announcer Chris Hollis could figure that out. What made you throw a pass that got intercepted? You could have connected with Marshall with your eyes closed, but you threw it right at the Patriots’ cornerback.” Stan put his hand on Luke’s nonthrowing shoulder and pulled him to a stop. “Talk to me.”

“In the training room,” Luke said, nodding toward a door farther down the hall.

Stan jogged beside him as he strode along the corridor and into the empty room. The trainer closed and locked the door behind them before he turned to Luke. “Well?”

Luke allowed himself to roll his shoulder. He should have known he couldn’t fool Stan. “I was cocked to throw to Rob when I saw that Marshall was wide open. I tried to make the change when this pain just ripped through my shoulder and arm. It came out of nowhere, and then it was gone again. That’s why I screwed up the throw.”

“Sit down,” Stan said, pointing to a chair. He came up behind Luke and started probing his shoulder and upper arm. “Does it hurt now?”

“Only when you jab your fingernails into my skin.”

“Smart ass.” Stan jabbed especially hard. “Answer my question.”

“No, it doesn’t hurt now. It hasn’t hurt since after I made the throw.” But it might in the next game.

The trainer took Luke’s arm and moved it through various positions before he stepped back. “There’s no damage that I can find. But we should get the doc to run an MRI to be sure.”

“No. This stays between you and me.” Luke met Stan’s eyes with a hard look. “It was just a twinge because I tried to change directions too fast. Give me some exercises to stretch and strengthen my shoulder.”

“I can give you all the exercises in the world, but neither one of us is getting any younger.” Stan patted Luke on his left shoulder. “You gotta watch the sudden moves.”

That wasn’t what Luke wanted to hear.

That evening, Miranda walked back into her office for her next shift. After her encounter with Luke Archer, she’d gone home to her apartment in Jersey City, fallen into bed, and slept for eight hours. Her dreams had been shockingly vivid encounters between herself and the quarterback, minus the T-shirt and jeans he’d worn that morning. She’d awakened feeling restless and unsettled.

The one task she’d accomplished that made her feel good was sending in another payment on the loan for her brother Dennis’s cheese-making equipment.

The Tate family dairy farm had been struggling until Dennis read an article about turning the milk he produced into artisanal cheese. Miranda had been a little skeptical, but her brother had rented a trailer equipped to make cheese and started experimenting. Much to their delight, New York City chefs and gourmet shops loved the concept, and the flavor of Dennis’s handcrafted cheeses. She’d even been the one to introduce Dennis’s products to some of the chefs at the multistar restaurants where she sent her clients.

The farm was already carrying a heavy load of debt, so Miranda had offered to finance the purchase of the equipment. It assuaged some of her guilt about leaving her parents and Dennis behind when she’d headed for New York City as soon as she graduated from community college.

None of her family had understood her dream of living in the Big Apple. Her father pushed her to join the 4-H club. Her mother wanted her to date the local boys so she could find a nice, solid husband. They shook their heads in bafflement when she saved up her babysitting money to subscribe to
New York
magazine so she could pore over the reviews of Broadway shows and restaurants. They said such things were only for idle rich people. Even Dennis felt that way, although he was more diplomatic about it.

Nowadays the guilt lay heavier on her because her brother carried all the responsibilities of the farm since her parents had moved to Florida. He had shouldered them willingly—being a dairy farmer was what he wanted to do with his life. But because it wasn’t what she wanted for herself, she felt as though she’d abandoned him in some way.

Hanging her coat on the coatrack, she sat at her desk and started clicking through the e-mail requests that had come in since she’d left that morning.

“Miranda Tate?” A man in a royal blue tracksuit with some sort of logo on the sleeve stuck his head in the door.

“Yes, I’m Miranda. Do you need me to sign for a package?” Usually the doorman took care of that, especially this late, but maybe it was something unusually valuable.

“You don’t have to sign for it, but I have a delivery for you.” The man ducked back out before returning with a hand truck stacked with three cardboard boxes.

Miranda came around her desk as the deliveryman picked up a manila envelope off the top box. “The message is that you should open this right away. Compliments of Mr. Archer.”

She took the envelope and glanced at the label. Sure enough, her name was typed on it underneath the whooshing blue-and-gold
E
of the New York Empire. “I don’t understand. I was supposed to get a football.”

“Oh, there’s a football in one of these boxes, I guarantee you,” the man said. “There’s also authentic Empire jerseys, posters, towels, polo shirts, T-shirts, baseball caps . . .”

“Okay,” Miranda said to stop the flow. “But it can’t all be for me.”

“Yup.” The man nodded emphatically. “Doug—that’s Mr. Archer’s assistant—said you get the works. Where do you want me to put ’em?”

“In that corner, I guess.” She pointed to the only space where the pile of boxes would fit. She hoped no one stopped by her office tonight, since the look wasn’t in keeping with the luxurious decor.

The man waved away the tip she tried to give him, saying, “Mr. Archer takes care of me.”

Once he was gone, Miranda opened the envelope, spilling the contents onto her desk. Four tickets fell out, along with a note scrawled on a sheet of Empire stationery.

Dear Ms. Tate,

A football wasn’t enough to make up for my brother’s unfortunate request. Enjoy the game, or at least the food in the VIP box.

Luke Archer

A flush of heat coursed through her. Embarrassment or arousal? She wasn’t sure, but she had to stop it now. He was a client.

She looked at the tickets, which were embellished with shiny gold borders. She sat down and read the note again. On top of being gorgeous, famous, rich, and talented, the quarterback had a sense of humor, a rare attribute among most of the celebrities she had dealt with. Somehow, by going so over the top with his gifts, he had turned this into a charming inside joke.

It looked like she would be rooting for the Empire from now on.

That reminded her of her nephew, Theo, who was the ultimate Empire fanatic. She glanced at the shiny tickets she still held in her hand. Theo would love to go to the game. Maybe she could convince Dennis to take a day off and bring his family to see the Empire play. It was less than two hours’ drive from the farm, but Dennis didn’t like to leave his cows with the hired hand.

She picked up her cell phone and hit her brother’s auto dial. “Are you okay?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You never call after nine because you know I go to bed then.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” She’d been thinking about Luke Archer, not her brother’s working hours. “But you’re awake now, and I have a treat to offer you and Patty, and most especially, Theo. I have four tickets for a VIP box at the Empire game on Sunday. With free food.” That might get him there.

“On Sunday. I don’t know.” She could almost hear her brother worrying about his cows.

“I have all sorts of Empire stuff for Theo, including a football signed by Luke Archer.”

“How did you get that?” Dennis knew she could get tickets, but sports collectibles didn’t usually come her way.

“I just might have met Luke Archer himself,” she said with a note of triumph. And another shimmer of remembered pleasure.

“You met Luke Archer?” Awe rang in Dennis’s voice. “Did he shake your hand? If he did, don’t wash it until Theo gets to touch you. I also might want to.”

Miranda laughed. “So will you come?”

“Whatever it is, he’ll come.” That was Dennis’s wife, Patty, shouting into the phone. “He needs a day off, and so do I.”

“Hey, give me that,” Dennis said. Miranda waited as sounds of a tussle over possession of the phone floated into her ear. She heard a muffled exchange of conversation between husband and wife before Dennis came back on, saying sheepishly, “I guess we’re coming to the game. Thanks for the offer, sis. Patty’s right. I haven’t taken time off in a while. And Theo got a great report card, so this will be his reward.”

“I have four tickets, so you can bring someone else if you want to.”

“Wait, aren’t you coming?”

“Me?” Miranda hadn’t even considered it. “I’m not a football fan.”

“You’re a Theo fan and he’s a fan of yours, so we’d all like you to come. If you’re not working.” Dennis paused for a moment. “We haven’t seen you in a while, and I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty or anything. It would just be nice.”

She knew Dennis meant what he said, but guilt elbowed her just the same. She didn’t go home to the farm much. Her time off was spent cultivating contacts at new restaurants or previewing hot Broadway shows. If she wanted to be a competent head concierge, she had to be able to get whatever her clients wanted—within the law. “Of course I’ll come. Thank you for inviting me.”

“I’m pretty sure you invited us,” Dennis said.

“You know what I mean.”

“Does Luke Archer live in your building? I swear I won’t tell anyone if he does. Not even Patty.” She could hear his wife snort.

Dennis knew how seriously she took the residents’ privacy concerns. However, it was common knowledge that the quarterback lived in the Pinnacle, so Miranda could admit it. “Yes. He doesn’t usually ask for anything because he has his own assistant, and everyone showers him with freebies anyway. However, his brother is visiting and needed some help, so Mr. Archer gave me the goodies as a thank-you.”

“Heck of a thank-you,” Dennis said. “Wait till I tell Theo. He’ll be over the moon.”

“We’re not telling him until Saturday.” It was Patty again. “Otherwise he’ll drive us crazy.”

Theo could be a bit obsessive. “I won’t mention it if I talk to him,” Miranda promised. Sometimes her nephew would ask his parents to dial her up so he could check in with her, which she considered a huge compliment. “I’m at work, so I’d better go. We’ll work out logistics later.”

After Miranda hung up, she decided she should write Luke a polite thank-you note. Pulling out a piece of the Pinnacle’s elegant cream notepaper, she picked up a pen.

Dear Mr. Archer,

He could make her address him as Luke to his face, but not in writing.

Thank you very much for including some additional gifts with the autographed football.

She liked her little dig of understatement there, but then she got sincere.

You’ve made my nephew a very happy boy. My brother might be an even happier man. In fact, I have caught Empire fever and will be attending the game myself.

She hoped he wouldn’t remember she’d claimed to be working on Sunday.

In all seriousness, you gave us more than just tickets. You gave us a wonderful family outing. We all appreciate that.

Regards,

Miranda Tate

She reread the note and addressed it to Luke Archer’s apartment. She would give it to the building’s messenger to hand deliver.

Now it was time to deal with all the messy requests Orin had dumped out of his in-box and into hers.

Chapter 3

The next morning, Luke sat on a stool at the counter in his big, open kitchen, drinking a protein shake and rereading Miranda Tate’s note. She was a class act, that lady. What really got him in the gut, though, was the image of Aunt Miranda with her nephew, the Empire fan. Luke had no idea how old the kid was, but he put the concierge in her late twenties, so the nephew could be about the age of DaShawn’s nine-year-old son.

Luke looked forward to Trevor starting a family so he’d have a nephew who cheered on the team, no matter whether they won or lost.

The imaginary nephew left a hollow ache in Luke’s chest, so he grabbed Miranda’s note and slid off the stool to head for his home office. As he stepped through the door, a slant of early sun caught in the jewels of his Super Bowl rings arrayed in their glass case and threw a confetti of light onto the opposite wall. He kept most of his trophies and memorabilia at his ranch in Texas, but his rings, his second Heisman Trophy, and the congratulatory letter from Joe Namath came with him to New York for the season as his good luck charms.

He stopped in front of the rings. A hell of a lot of pain and effort had gone into earning them. Not just on
his
part, but from the whole team. His fourth Super Bowl win had been a brutal contest against the Patriots, with too many players from both teams getting driven off the field on stretchers. Some never came back to the game.

Trying to shake off his gloomy mood, Luke dropped into the ergonomic chair behind the glass-and-chrome desk and clicked on the Pinnacle’s staff e-mail list to find Miranda Tate.

Dear Miranda,

He figured it was time to move to a first name basis. In fact, as he remembered it, he’d asked her to call him Luke. He tipped back the chair and stared at the sparkling rings as he debated what to say next.

A picture formed in his mind of the sophisticated concierge with the hot simmer behind her eyes wearing his team’s jersey instead of her conservative silk blouse. He’d like to see that, although it would be even better if she wore nothing underneath the jersey.

His mind started to drift in a dangerous direction, and he pulled himself up short. She worked in the building where he lived, and he had a football season to focus on.

But it wouldn’t hurt to go see Aunt Miranda and offer an extra treat for her nephew so he could find out how that Empire jersey suited her.

Manny, her favorite doorman, walked into Miranda’s office as she was putting on her coat to leave after a quiet night shift.

“The roses for Mrs. Anglethorpe are here, and I think you better take a look at them,” the doorman said.

She dropped her coat on her desk and followed him into the lobby. An annoyed-looking deliveryman stood at the reception desk, on which rested an enormous vase of white roses.

Miranda gasped. She had ordered the flowers herself, specifying peach-colored roses and then reconfirming the color yesterday. Mrs. A’s husband sent her the same shade of roses every year on her birthday because his nickname for her was Peaches. The gift would be ruined if the wrong color had been delivered.

“There must be some mix-up,” she said as she hurried over.

The deliveryman pulled a wrinkled sheet of pink paper out of his back pocket and checked it. “Says here the white roses are for Mrs. Anglethorpe at the Pinnacle.”

Miranda took the delivery order to read it herself. The word
peach
had been crossed out and amended to
white
.

“I’ll call your boss and straighten this out,” Miranda said with an apologetic smile. “In the meantime, I’m afraid you’re going to have to take these back and bring peach-colored roses.” She hoped the florist had them. It wasn’t a high demand color, so it often had to be specially ordered. She foresaw a whole series of phone calls ahead of her as she tried to locate the proper colored flowers.

The deliveryman picked up the vase with ill-concealed annoyance. “Joe ain’t going to be happy.”

Maybe not, but Mr. and Mrs. Anglethorpe were her clients, so she was far more concerned about them. As she dashed back to her office, she worried about how much time the new delivery would take.

She was surprised by the error, because she used Richmond Florals regularly and Joe had never gotten anything wrong before. Dialing the number, she checked the order again, noticing that there was handwriting at the bottom. Because hers was the third page of a three-part form, the note was too faint to read.

Joe himself picked up. “Miranda, I just heard from my driver that you sent back the white roses. What’s going on over there? You and Orin can’t make up your minds?”

“Orin?” Miranda was too confused to be diplomatic.

“He called yesterday afternoon to change the order from peach roses to white. I had to steal them from some wedding centerpieces I’m working on.”

Miranda sat down hard. This was sabotage of the worst kind. Orin must be out-of-his-mind furious about yesterday’s meeting if he was willing to upset a client to make Miranda look bad.

“I wrote a note at the bottom of the order,” Joe said. “Didn’t you see it?”

“It didn’t come through on the copy.” She would have to take a hit on this one. “Bill me for both bouquets, but please tell me you have peach roses to send over ASAP.” She tried to inject a smile into her voice, even as she shuddered at how big a chunk the extra flower charge would carve out of her paycheck. Any mistakes made in orders had to be absorbed by Orin’s employees so her boss could keep his profits high.

“No problem with that. I already had the peach ordered, so they’re here.” The slight edge of exasperation in Joe’s voice was gone. “I won’t charge you for the white roses because I can use them for the wedding flowers. But I’ll have to bill you for two deliveries.”

“Of course.” Miranda could handle that. She debated a moment about her next statement, but she couldn’t be at the Pinnacle twenty-four/seven, so it needed to be said. “The next time Orin changes an order I’ve placed, would you just drop me an e-mail? That way we can avoid future confusion.”

“Sure.” He sounded puzzled, but Miranda didn’t care. Orin had crossed the line on this one.

After she hung up, she braced her elbows on her desk and massaged her temples. The amount of damage Orin could do if he kept this up was mind-blowing. She couldn’t double-check every order she placed with every vendor she worked with, and she certainly couldn’t meet every delivery that came in.

She opened her desk drawer and pulled out the cow-spotted stress ball Dennis had given her for Christmas, saying it would remind her of the farm. It was surprising how often she used it these days. She clenched her fist around it and squeezed.

When she’d applied for the position at the Pinnacle, she’d heard that Orin was difficult to work for, but this went beyond that.

She didn’t understand why he had a problem with her. She was good at her job, which should reflect well on him as the owner of the concierge service. Yet he seemed to resent the fact that certain residents came to her on a regular basis rather than routing their requests through him. It wasn’t uncommon that people got to know and trust a particular concierge. She wondered if some of the clients who now worked only with her might have once dealt with Orin.

She was going to have to find another job sooner than she’d expected. And it wouldn’t be easy without a reference from her boss. She wouldn’t go to her clients directly for references, but maybe she could tap some colleagues.

She would have to be careful in her job search. The concierge community was tight knit. A lot of back-scratching and favor trading went on, and Orin was well connected.

As the complexities of her situation loomed large, she crushed the ball until her nails dug into her palm. Maybe she should just resign from the Pinnacle now to cut her losses. She could find temporary work at a lower tier hotel. It meant giving up on her dream job at the new building, but it might be better than second-guessing everything she did here.

Or maybe she should grovel to Orin. He might take pity on her. The thought of it made her feel like she’d swallowed a rotten egg.

No matter what her decision, she was going to have to speak with him about the roses. And she would have to pretend that it was all just a misunderstanding.

Anger and frustration boiled up, and she hurled the foam stress ball at the wall. It ricocheted off just as Luke Archer walked through her door and caught the projectile in his left hand, his long fingers closing around the spotted ball.

Those ice blue eyes did a quick scan of her face, and he frowned. “I’ve come at a bad time.”

She froze.

He didn’t look embarrassed or uncomfortable. He looked concerned. That surprised her and kicked her brain back into gear. She gave him a rueful smile, even as images from her dreams sent a guilty awareness prickling over her skin. “I was just practicing.” Cupping her hands in a mute request for him to throw the ball back, she added, “My nephew says I have a weak arm.”

He tossed it exactly into the center of her palms with a motion of such pure grace that it made her breath hitch. “Looked pretty impressive to me,” he said.

“Now I can brag that I caught a ball thrown by Luke Archer.” She dropped the toy back into the drawer, knowing that she would forever remember his powerful hand wrapped around it. “How may I help you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself into the moss green chair in front of her desk, the breadth of his shoulders completely covering the upholstered back. Pushing the chair a couple of feet farther away, he stretched out his long, denim-clad legs.

“Your nephew sounds like someone I’d like to know,” he said, his drawl once again pouring into her ear like sweet molasses. “If you can wait for about forty-five minutes after the game, I’ll have someone escort your family to the meet-and-greet lounge. Your nephew and your brother might enjoy some of the folks they’ll see there. I’ll be stopping by myself.”

Disbelief and excitement made her heartbeat speed up. She knew she shouldn’t allow Luke Archer to do this. It went beyond generous. But the thought of Theo getting to shake the hand of the quarterback he worshipped was too tempting. And she wouldn’t mind spending a little more time with Luke Archer herself. “You just made me the best aunt in the universe. Theo will be thrilled.”

He gave her a whole different kind of smile from the last time they met. This one was slow and deliberate, bringing the dimple into view gradually. The way it creased the plane of his cheek sent a shudder of appreciation through her. “One of the unexpected benefits of my job is making kids happy just by showing up.”

Oh, dear God, this man was too perfect. No wonder supermodels drooled over him.

Before she could say anything, he locked that laser gaze on her again. “I appreciate the fact that you didn’t talk to the press about Trevor.”

So this was just more insurance that she would be discreet. She tried not to sound insulted, but she couldn’t keep her feelings out of her voice. “I would never discuss a client with the press.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to imply you would.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But it’s happened before. Not in this building,” he added. “That’s why Trevor is supposed to go through my assistant when he needs something.”

She gave him a sideways look as she mentally berated herself. He hadn’t come to her office because of her fascinating personality.

He shifted in his chair and the dimple vanished. “By the way, my assistant wouldn’t have made that call, either.”

So his brother was a total sleazebag. Which made her wonder about Luke, who had endless opportunities for sexual partners. She needed to keep that in mind, especially given that her few, brief romantic relationships didn’t exactly qualify her as experienced in that department.

She pressed her folded hands hard onto her desk. “You don’t need to thank me for doing my job.”

She expected him to give her another well-rehearsed smile, unfold that gorgeously muscled body from the chair, and depart.

Instead, he crossed his long legs at the ankle. “I guess you get some strange requests.”

Seduced into honesty, she snorted. “You have no idea.”

His chuckle came from low in his throat. “Too bad your concierge code won’t let you tell me about them.”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. She couldn’t speak because his laugh was still vibrating through her like a hot, sexy riff on a flamenco guitar.

“You know, I liked your note. Not too many folks take pen to paper these days.” He rose from the chair in one swift, fluid motion. The full impact of his height still startled her. How did a human being that large move with such speed and precision?

“I have to get to practice,” he said. He tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. “I’ll see you after the game.” He gave her a wink and was out of her office in a single stride.

Miranda slumped back in her chair and considered fanning herself. It was impossible not to respond to Luke Archer’s magnetism. He exuded alpha maleness from the very tall top of his blond head, down over those chair-spanning shoulders, through his washboard abs, and along the hard, curved muscles of his thighs to the big feet encased in high-tech running shoes. And that damned dimple. A man with ice blue eyes should not have a dimple. The contrast made him far too fascinating, like a contradiction that needed to be resolved.