The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) Page 9

  It was hard to argue with either point. Brandon Pitch was the backup quarterback—a young, talented, but inconsistent player whom they’d drafted in the second round a year ago. He needed some game exposure. It might settle him down.

  Luke cursed mentally. “It’s your call, Coach, but I’m capable of playing right now. How about I take two days to rest and practice on Wednesday?”

  “Luke, we have a chance at the Super Bowl, and I’m not going to risk it by playing you against a crap team when you’re hurt. I don’t want to see you on the field or in the weight room for a week.”

  “Yes, sir.” Luke heard the note of finality in Junius’s voice. In fact, he found it in himself to admire the new coach for overriding him. “What are we going to tell the press?”

  “That I’m resting my star and giving my rookie some seasoning. The reporters will fill in the blanks about what team I’m playing my rookie against. They won’t suspect anything else, especially after your postgame appearance today. No one guessed you were hurt.” There was disapproval in the statement.

  “Because it’s not serious.”

  Junius hung up.

  Luke walked into the living room, picked up the full shot glass, and tossed back the tequila before he threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying explosion of glass shards.

  “Holy shit, what was that?” Trevor came to the kitchen door and stared at his brother.

  “I’ve been benched.”

  Chapter 7

  At six thirty Monday evening, Miranda slumped back in her desk chair, thankful for a lull in her noon-to-ten shift. Mondays were always busy because everyone woke up and decided they needed to get their week planned. It generally took them until noon to figure out what they wanted to do, and that’s when the phone started ringing. She loved this shift, because she only overlapped with Orin for a few hours, and it was lucrative when it came to commissions and tips. All money that could be put toward the loan on her brother’s cheese-making equipment.

  But it was exhausting. She grabbed her water bottle and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. She still had to get theater tickets and some dinner reservations for next weekend, but those could be taken care of later when the phone was less demanding.

  She groaned as the ringer went off again. She couldn’t even pretend to be busy and let someone else pick it up, because it was coming through on her direct line. Sitting forward, she checked the caller ID. Luke Archer. She grabbed the phone.

  “I thought I told you no more thank-yous,” he drawled in that disarming Texas accent.

  She had sent him a note as soon as she got in that day. “My conscience wouldn’t rest until I’d written a proper note.” And she’d hoped it would induce one last encounter with the gut-meltingly gorgeous quarterback. Even his voice on the phone was enough to make her breath quicken.

  “A conscience can be inconvenient.” He paused, which gave her time to wonder which part of his life he referred to. “But I don’t get a lot of handwritten letters, so I appreciated it.”

  Again, she felt the fizz of gratification. She’d given something unusual to a living legend. And it was such a little thing. “Then it has done its job.”

  Another pause before he said, “I want to take a tour of New York. Tomorrow. See some cultural stuff.”

  All these years of living in the city and he hadn’t had time to see the sights? Football was a demanding mistress.

  “Of course. Are you interested in art, performances, or historical landmarks?” She was already flipping through her mental guidebook.

  “Not landmarks. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. How about museums?” He sounded oddly tentative.

  “Absolutely. I can set up lunch and dinner and add a show of some kind. Just let me know how many people will be accompanying you.”

  “Only one.”

  “Any food allergies or ethnic cuisine preferences?” Miranda had her stylus poised over her tablet.

  “I’ll eat anything. How about you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I need a tour guide, and I’d like to hire you.”

  The stylus clattered onto the tablet’s screen. “Me?” she squeaked as a mixture of shock and excitement rippled through her.

  “I’d like you to show me the things I’ve never had time to see before.”

  “But I have to work tomorrow.” She tried to think of how she could get out of it. Turning down a whole day with Luke Archer would be downright painful.

  “I’ll call Spindle and tell him I consider this part of your job as a concierge. And I’ll give him VIP box tickets this time.”

  “I’d have to get someone to cover for me.”

  “Let your boss deal with that. It’s his responsibility.”

  That was a little high-handed, but he wasn’t wrong. She went back into her professional concierge mode. “Well, of course, I’d be happy to accommodate you, as long as Orin approves it. Shall I send you a list of possibilities to choose from?”

  “No, surprise me.”

  That didn’t make her job easier. “Shall I arrange transportation?”

  “I have a limo. What time do we start?”

  “Generally, museums open at ten.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Miranda hung up. The most famous quarterback in the world had chosen her to show him New York City. She wanted to do a jig around her office. Instead, she forced herself to sit with her hands on her desk and breathe normally.

  This was nothing more than a client availing himself of the concierge service. She shouldn’t feel this bubbling elation, and she certainly couldn’t let Luke Archer suspect that his request made anticipation burn through her veins.

  She forced herself to pick up her tablet and stylus, and then the nerves hit her. What on earth would a superstar quarterback want to see?

  As Luke started to shove his phone back in his pocket, it rang again. Gavin Miller’s name appeared on the screen. Luke frowned at it for a moment. His mood had shifted from restless to anticipatory, and he didn’t want to screw with that.

  But he might as well find out what the writer wanted.

  “Archer, I hear that hit knocked the stuffing out of you.”

  “Just some bruising. Nothing serious.”

  “Is that why you’re sitting on the sideline for Sunday’s game? Some bruising?” Miller sounded skeptical.

  Luke clamped down on his annoyance. “Coach wants to give Pitch some real game seasoning.”

  “I thought I’d check in on your progress with our little wager.”

  Leave it to Miller to use every possible irritant. “No progress. I have a football season to get through first.”

  “Let’s see, if you make it to the Super Bowl, you’ll have used up roughly four of your twelve months. You’re a confident man.”

  “I don’t like to split my focus.”

  “All football, all the time, eh?” Miller chuckled. “You must be a dull date. Except perhaps for a cheerleader.”

  The writer knew where to aim. “I can talk horses and cattle, too.”

  “So you’re looking for a country gal. That would go with the white picket fence and the sons. No, I remember now . . . you want daughters.”

  “I want to be left in peace is what I want,” Luke snapped.

  “Well, since we’re talking nothing but football, should I bet on the Empire to go all the way?”

  That was familiar territory. “You’re big into gambling.”

  “A little risk keeps life interesting.”

  Luke decided to dish out some of what Miller was giving him. “How’s the writer’s block?”

  There was a tense silence before the other man said, “It’s breaking my back, boyo. It’s strangling my spirit.”

  While Luke didn’t understand writer’s block, he knew how he was feeling about being benched, so he cut Miller some slack. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “By the way, I think Trainor is ahead
of us. He’s already showing signs of being frustrated by a woman.”

  For a moment, Luke’s competitive streak reared its head, giving him a shot of negative adrenaline at the thought of being beaten by the CEO. “Sounds like he already had a draft pick in mind.”

  “I don’t believe so. At the Bellwether Club, he seemed like a man who was disillusioned with the entire fair sex.”

  That reminded Luke of what was required to win the wager, and he decided he was well out of it for the time being. “I wish him luck.”

  “Speaking of luck, what’s your answer about your team’s chances for the Super Bowl?”

  “We’re going all the way.”

  Miller made an exasperated sound. “Dispense with the sports clichés and give me a real answer.”

  “I. Just. Did.” Luke put steel into his voice.

  Miller whistled softly. “I’ll be placing my money on you for the win, then.”

  The writer hung up, and Luke tossed the phone onto the sofa, grimacing as the careless motion sent pain slicing through his side. Miller had turned his mood sour with the crack about being a dull date. No one had ever complained, but Luke didn’t kid himself about what most women wanted from him. It wasn’t sparkling conversation.

  His expedition tomorrow was aimed at more than just getting his mind off the fact that he couldn’t play football for the next week. He was tired of having people like Trevor and Miller make him feel uneducated. He could learn culture the same way he had learned football.

  Spending the day listening to Miranda Tate’s silky smooth voice talk about whatever she would be talking about seemed like a pleasant way to ease into the project. He pictured her curvy body next to him on the leather seat of the limo and again felt a flash of arousal. Nothing wrong with having that bonus to add interest to the tour.

  And she would keep his secret if he revealed his ignorance about whatever paintings she showed him.

  The prospect of Miranda’s company put a smile on his face. He walked back out onto the terrace, where his brother sat by the fire pit, drinking a beer.

  “Thank God,” Trevor said.

  “What?”

  “The smile is a major improvement. You’ve been as pissed off as a castrated bull since you got benched.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t remind me about that if you want me to keep smiling.” Luke lowered himself into an armchair. If he was careful, the bruises did nothing more than twinge.

  “So why are you smiling?”

  “I found something to do tomorrow.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry I set up my meetings for tomorrow,” Trevor said. “If I’d known . . .” He trailed off.

  He had known. Tuesdays were Luke’s day off. And neither one of them had expected Luke to have every day this week off.

  “It’s okay, Trev.” Luke leaned forward to grab his water bottle, and agony wrapped around his rib cage. “Oof!”

  “Still sore?” Trevor asked. “Have a beer for medicinal purposes.”

  “I’d need something stronger than beer.”

  “There’s always tequila.” Trevor grinned. “You used to put that away like a champ.”

  “If you get up and get it, I’m in,” Luke said.

  Since he was forced to take the week off, he might as well take advantage of it.

  Chapter 8

  On Tuesday morning, Miranda waited by Luke Archer’s private elevator, listening for the hum that would signal its descent. She tapped her toe against the granite floor and mentally reviewed their itinerary one more time, debating whether she should swap out the Frick for the Museum of Natural History. But he’d said he wanted culture, so she was going to give him culture. If he got bored, she could adjust.

  She’d changed her outfit three times before she’d decided on a peach silk top that hugged her hips, slim-legged taupe trousers, and taupe leather wedges that were comfortable for walking. Over it, she had added a cashmere tweed blazer in soft beiges and grays, one of those splurge purchases she’d never regretted. She had tried to strike a balance between her professional service persona, which required blending into the background, and her desire to look pretty while spending the day with a gorgeous man. After all, she was only human.

  The elevator kicked into action, and nervousness tightened her throat. What would Luke expect of her? Did he want information or conversation? Would he like the restaurants she’d chosen? The biggest question of all: Would he think she’d lost her mind when he heard what she’d booked as the conclusion to his day of high culture?

  When the elevator doors opened, she had to swallow her gasp. The waves of his hair caught the lighting of the elevator in a way that made them glow gold. Dressed in worn jeans, a maroon T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, he looked more like a model than a football player. His cool blue eyes warmed slightly when he caught sight of her, and that slow smile brought out his single dimple.

  Speech deserted Miranda as every nerve ending in her body yearned for the man in front of her.

  “Mornin’,” he said, pulling a Yankees baseball cap out of his pocket and fitting it over the gleaming hair.

  “Is that—” Her voice was a croak, so she stopped to clear her throat. “Is that your disguise?”

  His dimple deepened. “I have Ray-Bans, too.”

  She let her gaze roam over the height and breadth of him. “It’s going to take a lot more than sunglasses to make you incognito.”

  He grunted. “I gave up on anonymity a long time ago.”

  She understood. That’s why he lived at an exclusive place like the Pinnacle, used a helicopter or limo to travel around the city, and had a full-time assistant. It was impossible for him to lead a normal life here, so he used his money to buy some privacy.

  “Well, people won’t expect to see you at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

  His smile disappeared, and she saw a muscle tighten in his jaw. What was it about her innocuous comment that bothered him?

  He put on his sunglasses, making his expression even harder to interpret. “So that’s our first stop?”

  She started toward the door. “Yes, we’re doing a whirlwind tour that includes Van Gogh, Degas, Henry the Eighth’s armor, the Temple of Dendur, the Chinese Garden Court, Tiffany windows, and the Frank Lloyd Wright living room.” As he held the door, she smiled up at him, hoping to coax his dimple back. “Because those are my favorite things at the museum.” And she thought he would like the variety.

  The corners of his lips turned up slightly, but all she could really see was her reflection in the lenses of his dark glasses. “Is that going to take an hour or all day?” he asked.

  “However long you want it to,” she said, nodding to the limo’s chauffeur, who had opened the car door for her. She’d already given the driver their itinerary. She started to slide across the backseat, then swiveled to sit on the seat facing the rear of the limo. It seemed more conversational and businesslike that way.

  Until Luke bent to enter the limo, his shoulders filling the doorway and blocking out the autumn sunlight. He slid onto the seat carefully, reminding her that he was injured. Settling with a creak of leather against leather, he stretched out his legs so they slanted diagonally across the space between her seat and his. It was the only way he could fit comfortably, but it emphasized the physical presence of the man. The interior of the limo suddenly felt very intimate.

  He removed his sunglasses and baseball cap and massaged the bridge of his nose.

  “Would you rather postpone the tour?” Miranda asked, noticing circles under his eyes.

  “No.” His reply was sharp. He gave her an apologetic look. “Trevor and I knocked off a bottle of tequila last night.”

  She debated whether to bring up the public speculation about the possibility that a secret injury was keeping him out of the next game.

  He stared out the window and answered her question for her. “Being benched doesn’t sit well with me, so I decided to deal with it the wrong wa
y.”

  She’d wondered how Luke felt about not playing. “I hope Dr. Cavill didn’t do anything he shouldn’t have.”

  He turned back to her with a rueful grimace. “No, I brought it on myself.” He shrugged and winced. “My backup needs some seasoning, and this is a good time to give it to him.”

  Miranda was relieved that she hadn’t contributed to Luke’s unhappiness. “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “No, it’s just—” He stopped and shook his head. “Yeah, even though it’s just bruised, it hurts like a gore from a steer’s horn when I move in certain ways. I couldn’t give my best when I feel like this, so the coach isn’t wrong.” He looked her in the eye. “This is all just between you and me.”

  “Of course.” He’d decided to trust her with sensitive information. That sent warmth seeping through her. “Is there anything you can do to help it heal?”

  “Go on a cultural tour.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  So the subject was closed. She pulled her tablet out of her gray Kate Spade knockoff tote. “You have some choices about what museums to go to. I wasn’t sure what kind of culture you were interested in. Would you prefer the Museum of Natural History or the Frick Collection? The Frick is as interesting for its building as its art, since it was originally Mr. Frick’s Fifth Avenue mansion.”

  “Let’s go for art all the way.”

  “Okay.” Miranda blew out a breath and considered the schedule. She didn’t know how long he would want to look at each work of art, so she’d booked lunch reservations at three different locations. Now she could cancel the one near the Museum of Natural History. She swiped around on her tablet’s screen to take care of that.

  When she looked up, he was watching her with a faint smile. He said, “You look as nervous as a rookie the morning of his first NFL game.”

  “I’m more a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I’ve never taken someone like you on a guided tour before.”

  “Someone like me?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “You know—” She waved her hand vaguely.

  “You mean a jock who doesn’t know anything about culture?”