The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) Page 11

  “This doesn’t look like the kind of place football fans hang out,” he said, settling on the hard stone bench.

  She perched a good foot away from him, her tablet balanced on her lap. The ramrod-straight line of her back set up a nice contrast to the gentle curve of her bottom. He imagined how it would fit in the cup of his hands and felt a twist of tension between his legs. So he pulled his gaze upward. He liked that she’d let her hair flow loose, not in the ponytail she wore at the Pinnacle. He missed the softness of women during the season.

  “I’m not a football fan, and I would still recognize you,” she said.

  “But would you want my autograph?”

  “For Theo, I might. People will dare a lot of things for kids.” She scanned around the quiet space for a moment before tilting her head back slightly to bask in the sunshine.

  The bared line of her throat drew his eyes, and he followed it down to the swell of her breasts. Those would rest in his palms quite nicely. His body reacted again, more strongly, so he turned away to take in the courtyard.

  This was Miller’s fault. He wouldn’t be thinking about his tour guide this way if the writer hadn’t proposed that damned wager. It was his coach’s fault, too. He’d be watching film if Farrell hadn’t benched him for the week.

  Just then, the single-mindedness of his life hit him like a 350-pound linebacker. Here he was in the company of a beautiful, cultured woman, surrounded by great art. Instead of taking pleasure in the response of his senses, he was assigning blame.

  Hell, he couldn’t even enjoy his summers at the ranch anymore because he was so focused on getting in shape for the next season. He didn’t allow himself to rope cattle or play pickup basketball games with the ranch hands, because he couldn’t afford to get hurt.

  It was a life with narrow horizons, and right now he felt like busting out of them.

  He examined the courtyard with closer attention, noticing the pattern of the stone walkway and the tiles on the curving roofs, as well as the strange, contorted rocks. “So tell me about the kilns again.”

  His gut tightened when Miranda’s velvety brown eyes lit with eagerness. “The Chinese reopened an old imperial kiln so the ceiling and floor tiles would be authentic. The workers pressed the clay into the frames with their feet. Everything was built by hand.” He realized he was staring too hard at the shapes her lips were forming when she halted and dropped her gaze to her tablet, saying, “It’s time to go see some paintings.”

  He pushed himself up from the bench, ignoring the complaints of his stiff, bruised muscles.

  “It may be a little risky, but we’re going to head through public spaces to get to Van Gogh,” she said. “Maybe you should put on your sunglasses for this part of the tour.”

  He was used to being accosted every time he appeared in public. It went with the territory. But he slipped the Ray-Bans on to ease her concern. And to hide the hunger in his eyes.

  Since walking didn’t seem to bother Luke’s bruises, Miranda set a brisk pace as she led her companion through a procession of galleries to the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century European section.

  She didn’t know how to respond to the blatant desire she had caught in his gaze. She’d never struggled so hard not to cross the line between professional and personal, but Luke turned her body into a mass of pure yearning. Just his touch on her elbow sent an electric shock zinging around inside her.

  He is a client. He lives at my place of work.

  But it was more than that. Luke Archer existed at a level she couldn’t even imagine, with his prodigious money, talent, and fame. She had no business wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Even though she was sure virtually every woman in America wondered the same thing.

  She cast a glance sideways to take in the way he moved beside her, the muscles in his long legs flexing under the denim, his big hands casually shoved into his pockets, and that perfectly carved face unreadable behind the mask of his dark glasses. His gilded hair curled out from under the dark blue of the Yankees cap, making her want to feather her fingers through the waves.

  Who wouldn’t be flattered to catch this golden god’s interest?

  She called on all her mental discipline to quell her unprofessional reactions, even as several women slanted long, admiring looks his way. Fortunately, no one seemed to realize who he was. Yet.

  The painting galleries were going to be tricky, because the Van Goghs drew crowds of tourists. However, she didn’t want to bypass them. Somehow the boldness of the brushstrokes and colors seemed meant for Luke Archer.

  She made a couple of sharp turns that landed them in front of Van Gogh’s Wheat Field with Cypresses, her personal favorite.

  He took off his sunglasses and stood for a few long moments. “That’s a heck of a sky,” he finally said. “Reminds me of Texas.”

  She decided that was a compliment. “There’s another wonderful sky in the next gallery. Along with his famous self-portrait, his early sunflowers, and irises.”

  “I remember one of his sunflower paintings from my junior year trip to Amsterdam,” he said. “Always liked the guy’s work. It’s strong and a little crazy.”

  She nodded, feeling connected to him by the way he responded to the art. He didn’t just glance and pass on. He got caught by the brilliance of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. Sharing beauty with him set up a happy little hum inside her. It gave them something in common.

  They walked side by side to the next gallery. He spotted the painting with its swirling sky and crescent moon and headed straight for it. “It’s like the moment after the center hikes the ball,” he said. “Everything is in motion.”

  “Luke Archer?” A middle-aged man wearing an Empire sweatshirt was towing his reluctant wife in their direction.

  The whispering and staring started, and Miranda looked up at Luke to catch a fleeting expression of resignation cross his face. Regret pinched at her. She’d hoped to avoid this.

  As the man approached, the quarterback plastered on a pleasant half smile and nodded.

  “I knew it!” the man said to his wife. “We’re huge fans. Watched you win all four Super Bowls, and we know you’re going to bring home the Lombardi Trophy this year.”

  “It’s a long season,” Luke said, his drawl pronounced. “But thanks.”

  “Marilyn says I shouldn’t bother you, but our son would be so excited to have your autograph.” The man fished his wallet and a pen out of his pocket, thumbed out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it and the pen to Luke. “Here, you can use my back as a clipboard,” the man said, turning around. “My son’s name is Chris.”

  Luke pulled out his own pen and signed the bill. “Would you like me to sign your sweatshirt, too?”

  The man practically vibrated with excitement, nodding over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, that would be great.”

  Luke wrote his name on the gold E insignia.

  The man swiveled forward again and held out his hand. “It’s an honor.”

  The quarterback shook his hand, and the man backed away, grinning and staring at the signature on the money.

  An older woman approached more tentatively, opening her Chanel handbag. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re Luke Archer. My grandson thinks you are the cat’s pajamas. Would you sign a dollar bill for him?”

  Once again Luke smiled and signed the proffered bill. By then a small crowd had gathered around him with people lifting cell phones to take pictures and holding out various pieces of paper for his autograph. Miranda got edged aside, but she noticed that the fans kept a respectful space around Luke. No one shoved in to have a photo taken with him unless they got his permission. They knew they were in the presence of a star.

  As people began to stream in from other galleries, Miranda cast around for a way to extricate the quarterback from his fans. Just then, a young man dressed in a slim-fitting dark suit and wearing a Metropolitan Museum ID badge strode up to the growing clot of people. “M
r. Archer, Ms. Tate, come with me, please.”

  Luke shot a questioning look at Miranda, and she nodded. Someone on the Met’s staff must have noticed the situation and sent a rescuer. She offered up a silent thank-you as the crowd parted for them, and they followed the young man into the next gallery. When they passed through a staff-only door, Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Thank you so much! I wasn’t sure how we were going to get out of there without causing a riot.”

  “It happens with celebrities all the time,” he said. “Security notified me.”

  At Miranda’s request, the young man led them through the back corridor to the Degas gallery and left them there with the assurance that he would intervene again if necessary.

  “Why Degas?” Luke asked as they stood in front of a pastel of ballerinas rehearsing onstage.

  Miranda took a deep breath. “Because I got tickets to the ballet for tonight.” She watched Luke’s face anxiously. “I’ve heard that pro athletes go to ballet classes to improve their flexibility.”

  “The ballet. Huh.”

  “The dancers are superb athletes, just like you. I got tickets to the New York City Ballet because the program is pure dance rather than a story. I thought you might like that because the choreography stands out more.”

  He continued to stare at the painting for a few moments. Then he slanted her a wry smile. “Sugar, you’re trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  Miranda looked at the dazzling blond sports hero standing beside her. “Wait, you’re calling yourself a sow’s ear?”

  “When it comes to this stuff.” He gestured toward the ballerinas.

  “You knew more about the Egyptians than I did!”

  He shrugged. “That was just a kid’s interest.” He glanced to the right, and suddenly his arm was around her waist like an iron band, and he was moving her swiftly toward a door. “Someone spotted me,” he explained. “I’m not going to put you through fending off another autograph session.”

  She was having a hard time keeping up with his long stride, so he pulled her more tightly to him and swept her along with her feet barely touching the ground. His strength made her feel weightless, while being pressed along his warm, muscular side from her shoulder to her thigh wrapped her in a haze of sensory overload. Every step thrust them into closer contact, so the hard planes of his body moved against her, sucking the oxygen out of her blood and replacing it with licking flames.

  For a minute she gave in to it and let him carry her along. Then she realized she needed to direct them. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp so she could look at her tablet, but he didn’t release her or slow down.

  “Stop fighting me,” he said. “You’re making my bruises ache.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” she said with a jab of guilt as she fell into step with him again. He hid the pain so well that she’d forgotten he was hurt. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  He glanced down at her without slowing, his eyes gleaming. “No, but I’m enjoying getting there.”

  Did he mean because she was plastered against him? What else could he mean? “Um, I think you need to make a right here,” she stammered.

  She felt every point of contact. His long fingers were splayed over her hip, covering so much that the tips grazed the top of her thigh. It was much too close to the spot between her legs that was pulsing with heat in response to his touch. She struggled to focus as a hot, sliding sensation rippled through her.

  “Left,” she gasped.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, slowing down but keeping his arm around her.

  “Arms and armor. Downstairs.”

  He glanced at a sign and steered them toward the elevator.

  “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.