The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) Read online

  ALSO BY NANCY HERKNESS

  Wager of Hearts Series

  The CEO Buys In

  Whisper Horse Novels

  Take Me Home

  Country Roads

  The Place I Belong

  A Down-Home Country Christmas (novella)

  Stand-Alone Novels

  A Bridge to Love

  Shower of Stars

  Music of the Night

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Nancy Herkness

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503935464

  ISBN-10: 1503935469

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  In loving memory of my father, who was my biggest fan.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT NANCY HERKNESS

  PROLOGUE

  Luke Archer picked up his cut-crystal glass and winced as the motion tweaked the bruises from yesterday’s game. He switched hands before bringing the glass to his lips. He’d been sacked once, but those aches and pains didn’t faze him. Some ice, some work with his trainer, and he wouldn’t notice them by Friday’s practice.

  What he didn’t want to think about was how in the last seconds of a hard-fought battle, he’d thrown an interception. He’d been set up to pass one way but had seen a better opportunity downfield, so he’d redirected his throw. It was something he’d done a thousand times before, but this time pain had seared through his shoulder like a branding iron. The shock spoiled his aim and sent the ball spiraling into the hands of the enemy.

  Then the pain was gone, like it had never been there. He hadn’t told his trainer because Stan would be all over him to get it checked out by a doctor. Luke didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that it was anything other than a misthrow.

  Luke grimaced at his glass. Maybe he should have ordered tequila instead of water. The alcohol might ease the sting of the memory. However, even alcohol couldn’t dull the agony of losing to the Patriots, so Luke swallowed his water and stretched out his legs under the brass-topped bar table. His motion made the light from the wall sconces glint off the patent leather of his tuxedo shoes and sent more twinges of discomfort jabbing through his stiff muscles.

  The perfect emptiness of the Bellwether Club’s bar was spoiled as another tuxedo-clad patron with an almost military posture strode through the big mahogany door to settle at a table across the room. His air of command brought a waiter instantly to his side. After the new arrival ordered scotch, he ripped off his bow tie, which made Luke think the fellow was settling in for some serious drinking.

  The man seemed familiar, but then Luke had met most of the members of the Bellwether Club at one time or another, because there weren’t that many of them. Membership required a net worth in ten figures, and all of it had to be earned, not inherited. Hell, if Luke hadn’t invested in the BankBuddy start-up as a favor to a friend, he wouldn’t be a member here himself.

  He let his chin sink forward onto his chest. It wasn’t really the muscle aches or even the loss that had sent him to the bar instead of home to his New York City penthouse. It was the party he’d just been to, a charity gala honoring all-star wide receiver DaShawn Williams’s retirement from football.

  That and the fact that Luke’s brother, Trevor, was waiting for him back at his place.

  As a cloud of gloom settled itself on his shoulders, the door swung open again. Glad for the distraction, Luke glanced up to see a tall, lean man with disheveled dark hair stagger in, also wearing a tux. The man threw Luke a long stare, and Luke gave him his well-practiced polite but distant nod. The man nodded in return before hoisting himself onto a bar stool and ordering a bourbon straight up. His face nagged at Luke’s memory more strongly than the first man’s, but he couldn’t place it, either.

  When the newcomer had been served his drink, he turned and made a sweeping gesture around the room with his glass. “To my fellow late night tipplers. Bottoms up!”

  Luke lifted his glass and took a swallow of water while the other man polished off his bourbon in one gulp. He was pretty sure the drinker at the bar had recognized him. Thank God the man hadn’t tried to start up a conversation. He didn’t want to talk about the game.

  That was one reason he liked the Bellwether Club. The members were all at the top of whatever field they were in, so they respected the desire for privacy. Still, even CEOs of multinational corporations had opinions on football.

  Which brought his thoughts back to DaShawn.

  They had played and roomed together in college, forming a bond so close that the other players claimed they used mental telepathy on the field. Their partnership had been pivotal in the three NCAA championships they’d won for the Longhorns. The NFL draft had broken up their partnership on the field, but their friendship had stayed strong.

  Now DaShawn was leaving the game.

  He and Luke had talked about the decision for hours the night after the Empire beat DaShawn’s team, the Seahawks. DaShawn had looked Luke in the eye and said, “I can feel myself losing just one microsecond of jump at the snap. No one else knows it, but I do, and that’s enough. I want to go out at the top of my game, bro, not as some washed-up old guy who won’t let go of his glory days.”

  DaShawn had paused before continuing. “The thing is, I’ve lost my passion for playing. When I’m on the road, all I think about is Marcy and my kids.” His friend smiled in a way that sent a strange hollowness echoing through Luke’s chest. “I don’t know why the hell Marcy married me, but she’s the center of my world. I need her like water.”

  DaShawn had gripped Luke’s shoulder, his left one. “It’s different for you, man. You’ve still got the hunger. You’re still going for the gold.”

  Luke shifted in the leather chair again. The irony was that he had helped make it possible for DaShawn to retire by advising the wide receiver on how to invest his contract money. Luke had watched too many fellow players get drained by greedy family members and bad managers, or just spend their money as though they were going to keep playing football for fifty years.

  So he’d started taking them aside and offering basic financial advice. At the beginning it was just his friends, but word got around, so teammates began to seek him out. During the off-season he spent time wit
h his own money manager, augmenting his knowledge of the markets. It gave him something to think about as he powered through the punishing grind of the training required to keep his thirty-six-year-old body in top condition.

  Luke rolled his right shoulder, feeling the ghost of the brief, excruciating pain that had burned through it.

  He couldn’t argue with his friend’s decision. DaShawn had a wife and two sons, and a powerful dedication to the foundation he’d started to help kids from disadvantaged backgrounds go to college.

  Luke had football.

  “At this hour of the night, I’m betting it’s a woman.”

  Startled, Luke looked up, but the man at the bar was talking to the quiet drinker on the far side of the room.

  “I know what his problem is.” The man on the stool jerked his head toward the corner where Luke sat. “He threw an interception with five seconds to go against the Patriots.”

  It was inevitable. Pissed off, Luke locked his gaze on his glass.

  “So am I right?” the barfly asked the other man.

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  Luke gave the scotch drinker kudos for refusing to play the game.

  The barfly laughed. “Everything’s my business. I’m a writer.”

  Luke raised his eyebrows. The fellow must be one hell of a bestselling writer if he belonged here.

  “What do you write?” the other man asked.

  There was a moment of silence. “Novels,” the writer growled.

  The connection snapped into place in Luke’s brain. He’d seen the author’s photo on the back of his paperbacks. “You’re Gavin Miller. I read your Julian Best books on planes.” The fast-paced spy thrillers helped him unwind after games. Miller made a half bow from his stool in self-mocking acknowledgment. “When’s your next one coming out?” Luke asked.

  “My original deadline was three months ago.” Miller turned a humorless smile Luke’s way. “I missed it. My deadline extension was today. Missed it, too. Writer’s block.”

  That explained why Luke’s assistant hadn’t been able to find him a new Julian Best novel for the past six months.

  “So what happens when a writer misses the deadline?” the other man asked.

  “The same thing that happens when a quarterback throws a bad pass. The coach isn’t happy. And I get no royalties.” Luke kept his face impassive as he mentally cursed the novelist up, down, and sideways. Miller gulped some more of his drink. “But there’s nothing they can do about it, because I don’t have a backup.”

  “No ghostwriters?” the other man asked.

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered it, but I have enough respect and gratitude for my readers to believe I owe them my own efforts.” Miller shook his head. “The truth is, I could keep myself in style on the residuals from the Julian Best movies for the rest of my life and beyond, but good old Julian has become a small industry in his own right. The editors, directors, actors, film crews—hell, even the movie theater ticket takers—all depend on him.”

  Luke felt an unexpected flash of sympathy. He carried the same burden every week of the season.

  “So we’ve established who two of us are. What about you?” the writer asked the third man.

  “I’m just a businessman.”

  “Not if you belong within these hallowed walls.” The writer tipped his glass at the fancy paneling, which had come from some English manor house that was being torn down. “Frankie Hogan doesn’t allow ‘justs’ in her club.”

  The other man gave up dodging Miller with a shrug. “Nathan Trainor,” he said.

  “Computer batteries,” Luke filled in.

  Miller gave Luke a mock salute. “So you’re not just a dumb jock.”

  Anger surged again like hot lava, but Luke quashed it. Miller had clearly had too much to drink even before he’d arrived at the club.

  He dismissed the writer by turning his attention to Trainor. This was a man he wanted to talk to. “I’m considering an investment in Trainor Electronics stock,” Luke said. “No one has ever figured out how to make a computer battery as long lasting as yours.”

  “We’ve diversified,” Trainor said. “Just in case they do.” He took another swallow of scotch, as though the idea made him unhappy. Then he gestured to the table where he sat. “Why don’t you all join me? That way we won’t have to shout at each other.”

  The writer slid off his stool with a slight wobble, saying, “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Luke considered the idea. Trainor didn’t seem interested in football, and Miller was too drunk to be much of a problem. So he hauled himself out of the chair, his muscles protesting, and carried his water glass across the room. Miller had dropped into the only other chair at Trainor’s table, so Luke spun one around from a nearby grouping and eased into it.

  “It’s the beginning of a bad joke,” Miller said. “A writer, a quarterback, and a CEO walk into a bar.”

  Luke waited, expecting something sharp and funny from a bestselling writer. Miller just sat there, staring into his empty glass. “What’s the punch line?” Luke asked.

  Miller shook his head. “I have writer’s block, remember? That’s why I missed my deadline.”

  In Luke’s world, blocks involved huge, violent men wearing cleats and pads. No one was standing between Miller and his keyboard. Annoyance put an edge in Luke’s tone. “What does that mean, having writer’s block? You can’t type?”

  Miller slashed a look at him. “Why’d you throw a pass nowhere near your wide receiver?”

  Because his shoulder had betrayed him. “It’s harder than it looks,” Luke said. He resettled his shoulder against the cushioning of the chair.

  “Exactly,” Miller said with a short laugh. “You must have some major endorsement contracts to be a member of this club.”

  Luke couldn’t fault him for the thought, since he’d had a similar one about the novelist. “I’ve had some luck in the stock market. It’s a hobby of mine.” And he’d had a friend who needed funding for his electronic payment company, which had gone stratospheric in its success.

  “Luck, eh?” Miller said. “Maybe I’ll buy some Trainor Electronics stock, too.” The writer turned his attention back to the CEO. “So, a woman?”

  Why the hell was Miller so determined to ferret out Trainor’s reason for being here? He must be some sort of obsessive drunk.

  Trainor seemed unbothered by the writer’s persistence. “Maybe I just learned that my competitors invented a better battery.” He slanted a sardonic smile at them. “Which means you might want to rethink that investment.”

  Luke wasn’t fooled. The man was reputed to be a genius at electronics development.

  “It’s after midnight and you’re wearing a tux.” Miller’s eyes were half-closed as he tilted his head back against the chair. “You weren’t jilted at the altar, because it’s a weekday. Maybe you caught your wife in bed with another man.”

  Miller really was an asshole.

  “Is this a way of trying to break your writer’s block?” Trainor asked.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.” The tinge of amusement on Trainor’s face vanished. Maybe Miller was right about the woman thing.

  “You wear an expression of cynical disgust, so her motives were less than pure,” Miller said.

  Luke thought of all the football groupies he’d encountered from high school on. He’d been flattered until he realized they just wanted to be seen with “the quarterback.” Or sleep with him. It had only gotten worse when he started making big money in the NFL. He tilted the last of his water down his throat. “Good luck finding a woman without ulterior motives when you qualify as a member of this club.”

  Trainor flagged down the waiter and turned to Luke. “What are you drinking?”

  “Water.” He’d given up alcohol during the football season a few years ago. It took too much work to overcome the effects of liquor on his body now that he was over thirty.

  Mille
r snagged Trainor’s bottle of scotch. He splashed a generous serving of liquor into his own and Luke’s glasses. “If we’re going to discuss women, you need something stronger than water.” The writer slapped the empty bottle into the waiter’s hand. “Bring us one of bourbon and another one of scotch. And some nuts.”

  Luke picked up the glass of single malt, inhaling the smooth, smoky aroma. He stared at the clear, golden liquid and decided, What the hell. The first sip was pure heaven.

  “Attaboy,” the writer approved before he went back to poking at Trainor. “Did she break your heart or just injure your pride?”

  Trainor thought for a moment. “How can you tell the difference?”

  The writer gave a snort of laughter. “Now that is an excellent question. When my fiancée dumped me, I believe she broke my heart. But I was new to Hollywood back then and quite naive.”

  “Hollywood?” Trainor asked.

  “She’s one of the actresses in the Julian Best movies,” Miller said. “I met her on the set.”

  Luke enjoyed the movies, too, so he mentally scanned the cast. “Irene Bartram,” he decided. “She plays Samantha Dubois, the double agent.” Irene seemed like Miller’s type. She was hot and hungry.

  Miller inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A true fan. My thanks.”

  “You don’t have a lot of women in your books,” Luke said. That was partly why he found them relaxing.

  “There’s a reason for that,” the writer said.

  Trainor grunted in agreement before looking at Luke. “So, Archer, how do you handle women?”

  During the football season, Luke focused on the game. On the occasions he sought out female companionship, he prided himself on keeping expectations realistic. “Full disclosure and keep it short. I don’t have a lot of free time.”

  “None of us do,” Trainor pointed out.

  Miller was intrigued by a different point. “Full disclosure?”

  “No strings, no rings,” Luke said with a shrug. He never raised false hopes, and he always carried condoms.

  “No gifts?” The writer raised his eyebrows. “I hear Derek Jeter gave them signed baseballs.”

  The women Luke knew generally weren’t interested in sports souvenirs, but occasionally one would request something for a father or brother. “If they ask for a football, I’m happy to oblige. Seems kind of arrogant to assume they want my signature, though.” Except maybe on a check.