The VIP Doubles Down (Wager of Hearts Book 3) Read online

  Chapter 2

  Gavin glared at the blinking cursor on his empty computer screen before he shoved himself to his feet. His back spasmed, and he kicked the chair so it banged against the desk. “What the hell good is an ergonomic chair if my back still hurts?”

  He didn’t even have the excuse of a hangover from drinking with Luke and Nathan the night before. The other two men had refused to join him in a self-pitying binge.

  Stalking over to the standing desk once used by Charles Dickens—the antique he’d bought with his first royalty check from the first Julian Best movie—he picked up a pen and clicked it open and shut several times.

  His gaze rested on the blank legal pad lying on the desk for several moments. He grimaced and wrote: A CEO, a quarterback, and a writer walked into a bar.

  The desk stood solid under the weight of his focused gaze.

  They made an insane wager. The kind you make only when you’re both drunk and choking on despair. The kind that you can’t begin to imagine winning.

  Yet two of them won, their lives transformed by their good fortune.

  “Mr. Gavin, Mrs. Jane is here to see you.” Ludmilla, his housekeeper, spoke in her strong Polish accent.

  With a combination of dread and relief, he tossed the pen onto the desk and turned away from the accusingly empty expanse of paper.

  “Gavin, how are you doing?” His literary agent, Jane Dreyer, had followed Ludmilla into the home office on the second floor of his New York City mansion.

  Leaning down, he kissed the tiny blonde woman on her perfectly made-up cheek. She threw a quick glance at the desk where he’d been standing. “No,” he said. “I’m not writing the next Julian Best novel.”

  She sighed and sat down on the gray leather sofa, crossing her legs so he could see the red soles of her high-heeled designer pumps. Today, her dress was brilliant blue embellished with gold necklaces of varying lengths. Her gaze held concern. “To hell with the deadline and the movie. I want you to be writing for your own mental health.”

  Gavin lowered himself into the wing chair in front of the flickering fireplace, stretching out his long legs and giving her a half smile. “I know your motives are pure, because we could both live in high style on my royalties for the rest of our lives.”

  His bestselling books paid well, but it was the movie deals Jane had negotiated that made him eligible for a place like the Bellwether Club. He owed her.

  She locked her blue eyes on him. “I’m worried about you, sweetie, so I have a serious proposal to make.”

  “No ghostwriters.” He would rather kill off his fictional super spy than entrust him to another writer.

  “Of course not.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “I want you to buy out your contract with the publisher.”

  “What?” Shock vibrated through him. “I’ve missed a few deadlines, but I’m not ready to throw in the towel.” His book might be eight months overdue, but before this he’d never overshot a deadline, not through fourteen novels and three novellas. He had seven chapters drafted, but he hadn’t written a word since . . . since all the events he had shoved to the back of his mind.

  “It would take the pressure off, give you some room to breathe.”

  Gavin hurtled out of the chair, adrenaline overwhelming the protest of his muscles, and laid his arm along the marble mantelpiece. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the silver-framed mirror, he was shocked by how sunken his eyes looked. No wonder Jane thought he needed a rest. “We both know the publisher is the least of my worries. It’s the movie producers. I don’t know why the hell I let them change the movie’s ending to a cliff-hanger.”

  “Because they were very persuasive, and it was a creative challenge for you to weave that cliff-hanger into your next novel.”

  He shook his head. “If the movie had ended like the book, no one would care whether I had writer’s block. They could have made a movie from one of Julian’s earlier novels.” He huffed out a breath. “It was pure arrogance on my part.”

  “I’ll handle the movie producers.”

  She would, too. Jane’s small body housed the spirit of a tigress when it came to protecting her authors. The powers that be in Hollywood cowered before her.

  “What about the actors and the gaffers and the best boys?” The weight of responsibility settled on his tortured shoulders. “They’re counting on the next Julian Best movie.”

  “If you’re worried about Irene Bartram, she’ll be just fine.” Jane’s tone was acid. “I hear she’s already found herself a guest role on a soap opera.”

  “I’m well aware that Irene can take care of herself.” His ex-fiancée had made it very clear that her career interests took priority over their relationship. That had contributed to her becoming an ex. Fresh disillusionment twisted in his chest, and he straightened away from the mantel to escape it.

  “Ludmilla was right,” Jane said.

  “About?”

  “The fact that you’re in physical pain, too.” She leaned back against the sofa cushions. “At least I have a cure for that.”

  Gavin rolled his shoulders under the black cashmere pullover. “It’s just tension. Nothing I can’t work out with a trip to the gym.” He had a well-equipped one, including a lap pool, downstairs, but he hadn’t taken advantage of it in weeks.

  “Well, you’re getting help. I called Havilland Rehab, the best facility in the area. One of their top physical therapists just started her own private practice. I hired her to come here five days a week, starting tomorrow.” Jane smiled. “And she’s used to difficult clients. You can thank me later.” Jane stood up. “Think about the contract buyout.”

  “I don’t want or need a physical therapist,” Gavin snapped, even as a shooting pain in his neck gave lie to his words.

  Jane rested her hand on the forearms he had crossed over his chest, her gaze scanning his face. “You’ve been through a lot recently. Your father. Your fiancée. Your book. There’s no shame in accepting help from your friends.”

  He forced himself to meet her eyes, even though he was afraid she might see too much. “You’ve always told me you were my agent, not my friend.”

  She didn’t flinch. “I’m a hundred times tougher than you, so insults won’t chase me away.”

  “What will?”

  “Your promise to let the therapist in the door.”

  “Ludmilla will do that.”

  “Writers.” Jane sighed in exasperation. “Always hiding behind words.”

  “My words have made us both a lot of money.”

  She clamped her fingers around his arm. “Work with the therapist. You’ve been doing this long enough to know how interconnected the mind and body are.”

  “For you, Jane, anything. Especially since you’re cutting off the circulation to my writing hand.”

  She released his arm and reached up to pat his cheek. “You’ll break through this, sweetie. Just give yourself time.”

  “Don’t go soft on me. I count on you to crack the whip over my back as I slave away at the computer.”

  Jane wouldn’t take the bait. “I’ll call tomorrow to see how you like Allie.”

  “Allie?”

  “The therapist. Allie Nichols.”

  He had no intention of letting the therapist anywhere near him, but he affected a leer. “Is she pretty? Maybe I’ll keep her around for a massage or two.”

  Jane sighed again. “You don’t do lechery with any conviction, so that won’t scare her away. Besides, I’m paying her enough so she’ll stay no matter what you throw at her.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he muttered as Jane headed for the door.

  Chapter 3

  Allie shifted on the green velvet cushion of her chair and surveyed the sitting room where the housekeeper had told her to wait. Gavin Miller owned an entire house in the middle of Manhattan. His Julian Best books and movies must bring in a ton of money.

  At the Havilland Rehabilitation Center, Allie had worked with rich—even famo
us—patients, but she’d never gone to their homes. If she could make it work as a freelancer, it could be really interesting to see where her patients lived. And really intimidating.

  Boy, did she need to make it work, too. Between losing the job at Havilland Rehab and her recent divorce, her bank balance was plunging downward faster than a moonshiner running from a revenuer. Thank goodness her boss at Havilland had felt bad about her dismissal, so he’d recommended her to Gavin Miller’s literary agent.

  She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. An exotic floral scent tickled her nostrils. That giant bouquet on the leather-topped table was real, not fake. She was pretty sure the furniture in this room was genuinely antique, too, and way older than Victorian. The Oriental rug beneath her cross-trainers glowed in deep jewel tones. She couldn’t resist reaching down to run her fingers over its silky surface.

  As she straightened, she caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-framed mirror with an eagle perched on the top, and tugged down the hem of her V-necked navy shirt. Her matching navy athletic pants were still clean, despite her slog along sidewalks edged with February slush. The only thing that ruined her neat, professional look was her flaming red hair. She’d yanked it back into a tight ponytail, but nothing could hide the too-bright color.

  Footsteps sounded on the marble floor of the hallway, and Allie stood. Gavin’s agent had warned her that the writer might be a little difficult but not to let him discourage her. He really needed her help.

  The man who stalked through the door was tall, lean, and scowling and didn’t appear to need anyone’s assistance. His green eyes snapped with temper, and his thick, dark hair appeared to have been tossed by a high wind. Angry energy crackled around him. In his black jeans and sweater, he made her think of some kind of sorcerer.

  She had always found that the author photos on book jackets made their subjects look better than the reality, but Gavin Miller’s publicity shot didn’t convey anywhere near the power and magnetism of the man.

  When his gaze caught hers, he paused for a moment to turn his scowl into a tight, false smile, and held out his hand. That’s when she caught the wince that said he was in pain. Seeing that he needed her services dispelled her nervousness about meeting the famous author.

  “Ms. Nichols, I’m Gavin Miller, and I’m afraid your time has been wasted. My agent hired you without my knowledge. Your services won’t be necessary.” His smile turned sly. “However, I will make sure Jane pays you for a full five days.”

  Five days wasn’t nearly enough. She needed him to hire her for months.

  The fingers he wrapped around hers were long, elegant, and strong. Despite the dismay roiling through her, she gave him a firm grip in return and produced her warmest, most disarming smile. She also laid on her West Virginia accent a little thicker than usual. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Miller.”

  When Allie had mentioned her enthusiasm for the Julian Best series, Ms. Dreyer had hesitated, making Allie wish she’d kept quiet. After a tense pause, the agent had warned her not to mention the books, but now Allie was desperate to make some connection. “I’m a big fan of your Julian Best novels. Every time one of your books was published, my mama would set aside a whole day to read it from cover to cover. Then she would give it to me so I could discuss it with her. A day was about as long as I could wait to get my hands on it.”

  Surprise registered in his eyes as his smile turned genuine. “My thanks to you and your mother. I’m always honored to meet an enthusiastic reader. I hope to have another novel for both of you to share soon.”

  A jab of grief hit Allie, but she kept her smile in place. “Mama passed on two years ago, so I have to enjoy Julian on my own now.”

  “I’m so sorry.” A shadow crossed his face.

  “Thank you. I have good memories.”

  “You’re fortunate.” His voice held an edge. He thrust one hand through his hair, and she understood why it looked the way it did. “Let me get your coat.”

  Allie clenched her hands in a tight ball at her waist. “Mr. Miller, I would like to just talk with you. Maybe you could spare me half an hour.”

  “Talk?” He had started toward the door but now turned back to her, his movement hitching as a muscle grabbed somewhere. “Aren’t you supposed to assign me boring, painful exercises involving multicolored elastic bands?”

  “It’s helpful to discuss what you think the problem is before I develop a plan,” she said. Even more important, she had to gain her patient’s trust. Gavin Miller was going to be a tough nut to crack on that front.

  His jaw muscles tensed. “I know exactly what the problem is, and physical therapy cannot solve it.”

  She knew about his writer’s block, but that was another topic his agent had warned her against discussing. “When your body isn’t working right, it can cause all kinds of trouble for the rest of you.”

  His eyes went stormy again. “She told you, didn’t she? I’m going to strangle Jane.”

  “Like your doctor, I work under strict confidentiality.” Allie sat down. It was a reverse mirroring technique. If she sat, Gavin should feel a subconscious impulse to copy her action. She hoped.

  He hesitated, his glance veering from the door to the chair opposite her. With a muted shrug, he took two strides and eased down onto the upholstered cushion. Then he interlaced his arms over his chest. “So, talk.”

  His redheaded inquisitor in her serious therapist costume took a breath. He was going to regret this, but it seemed marginally better than pacing around his office while he prayed for Julian to speak to him.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” she asked.

  He liked the soft twang in her voice. It wasn’t Texas and it wasn’t Deep South. He guessed Kentucky, maybe. He also liked the vibrant color of her hair. It had to be natural, because it wasn’t a sophisticated auburn or an edgy burgundy. Judging by the way she had it pulled back in that strict ponytail, she probably didn’t care for what Mother Nature had given her.

  “Mr. Miller?”

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I asked if you slept well last night.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  His examiner nodded, making the ponytail sway. What was her name? Allie.

  “Did you dream?”

  That seemed a strange question from a physical therapist. “Are you going to interpret my dreams now? How very Freudian.”

  “That’s not my area of expertise, but the amount and quality of dreaming can indicate why you didn’t sleep well.” Her gray eyes were clear and earnest.

  “Fine. I’ll play.” He cast his mind back to the night, trying to recall how many nightmares he’d had. “Last night was not particularly dream heavy. I remember maybe three scenes, none of them pleasant.”

  “Did the dreams wake you up?”

  “No, I find it difficult to fall asleep. Once I do, even the worst nightmare can’t rouse me.” He’d given up on trying to sleep at about 3:00 a.m., reading for an hour before finally succumbing to exhaustion.

  She nodded again. “What did you have for dinner last night?”

  “You think indigestion gave me the nightmares? My stomach is made of sterner stuff than that.” What had Ludmilla made him? She was an excellent cook, but no matter how she spiced the food, it tasted bland to him. “Salmon? Yes, salmon with grilled vegetables of some sort.”

  “Sounds healthy.” Her drawl held approval. “Did you have wine with dinner? Or coffee?”

  “I had water.” He waited for the little nod of approbation before he added, “Flavored with bourbon.”

  He expected a frown, but she chuckled—a musical, throaty sound that pulled at something low in his body.

  “My pa was partial to bourbon and branch water,” she said.

  “Are you from Kentucky?”

  “No, sir, I’m from West-by-gosh Virginia.” Her accent thickened. It was an answer he could tell she’d given often.

  The “sir” should have made him feel old, bu
t from her it sounded natural and charming. “So not quite southern, not quite midwestern. What brought you to New York?”

  Discomfort flashed across her face. “A dream job. What brought you here?”

  He applauded her technique. Answer the question so you put your inquisitor under obligation to do the same.

  “Bright lights. Being at the center of the publishing industry.” He watched her register each item before he threw her a curveball. “Escape from a small town in Illinois.”

  “You didn’t like living in a small town?”

  “I didn’t like living with my stepmother.” Now why had he told her that? He tightened his arms across his chest, which sent a ripple of pain along his shoulders.

  “My best friend had that kind of stepmother,” Allie said. “Just like the one in Cinderella.”

  That surprised a short laugh out of him. “Mine didn’t quite make me scrub the floors.”

  “Lucky for you.” Allie smiled at him, changing from earnest therapist to sympathetic friend in an instant.

  He wasn’t falling for it. “Don’t you need to ask me more questions, or are we done with the inquisition?”

  “I have a few more.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as though consulting a mental list. “Is the pain worse in the morning or in the evening?”

  “Aha, you’re trying to catch me out. I never mentioned any pain.”

  She focused those limpid gray eyes on him and waited. He did his best to stare levelly back at her, but finally he broke and pushed out of the chair, his back complaining at the sudden movement. Stalking over to the bar hidden in an ornate English marquetry cabinet, he flicked open the doors. “Would you like some water?” he asked, rummaging in the minifridge.

  “That would be nice, thanks.”

  He set two paper-thin crystal tumblers out and poured bottled spring water into them. Carrying them across the room, he handed her a glass before raising his to his lips. As she lifted hers for a sip, he noticed her hand. Short, neat nails with no polish. Slim fingers, but the back of her hand was square, giving the impression of strength.