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

“Thanks,” he said, but his voice held a tinge of disappointment.

“Would you rather go in the front? We can.”

He shook his head. “You’re right.”

The driver opened the door and stood waiting. Luke shifted his legs out of Miranda’s way and offered his hand for support.

She kept her hands on her tote bag as she scooted sideways on the seat. “I’m not going to aggravate your injuries.”

“You’ll aggravate me more if you don’t take my hand.”

She gave in and laid her hand in his, savoring the way his long fingers wrapped around hers. But she kept her weight balanced away from him, stooping to back out of the door so he didn’t have to twist in his seat.

A cloud of annoyance scudded across his face, the mirrored Ray-Bans adding to the formidable effect. “That’s called a pass fake,” he said when she tugged her hand away.

As soon as she stood up, he swung his legs out, planted his worn tan cowboy boots on the pavement, and unfolded his body with a grunt.

“That’s why I didn’t lean on you,” she said.

“When it’s you doing the leaning, it feels good.” His drawl was like molasses, slow-moving and scrumptious.

“Do you always flirt with your friends?” she asked, struggling against the slide of his seduction.

“When they’re pretty.”

Miranda didn’t buy that. He was accustomed to stunningly beautiful. “Well, let’s keep this on a friends-only basis.” Otherwise she would fall completely under his spell.

He covered his gleaming hair with the Yankees cap again. “We’ll see how it goes.”

She choked on thin air as his implication sank in. Her body wanted it to go one place, while her brain knew it had to stay in another. But she’d handled flirtations from clients before. It shouldn’t make her feel this flustered.

Marching briskly to an unmarked door, she punched in the temporary security code she’d been given by the museum’s PR director. Luke reached around her to pull the door open, so the sleeve of his jacket brushed her shoulder, and his big body angled close to her. If she leaned a little to the right, she would come up against his muscular chest.

She practically ran through the door.

Luke followed her into an empty, utilitarian corridor and looked around. “How’d you get access to this?”

“Oh, I’ve arranged enough VIP tours of the museum that the PR director trusts me.” In addition, she might have hinted that Luke would make a donation if he enjoyed his visit to the Met, as some of her other clients had.

She pulled up the map she’d been e-mailed and started in the direction that would lead them to the Temple of Dendur. He strode along beside her, his boots thudding on the commercial-grade carpeting. She tried hard not to notice the subtle creak of his leather jacket, or the way the worn denim of his jeans outlined his thigh muscles.

They passed through a catering kitchen used to serve the parties that took place in the venue and emerged on the stone platform beside the ancient Egyptian temple. She felt bad that Luke couldn’t approach it from the front to get the full effect of the dramatic setting, but this offered less risk of him being recognized and bothered.

Still, the huge exhibition space with its vast ceiling and curtain wall of glass made a strong impact. Luke stopped and whistled softly as he took in his surroundings.

“The big pool of water surrounding the temple is supposed to represent the Nile River,” Miranda said, drawing on the research she’d done. “The decorative carvings on the base of the temple are stylized papyrus and lotus plants.”

Luke started walking toward the front of the temple.

“It was built in 10 BC under the rule of Caesar Augustus,” Miranda continued. As they came around to face the entrance with its two tall columns, she said, “The winged disk is—”

“The symbol of the sky god Horus,” Luke finished for her. He gave her a slanted smile. “As a kid, I got interested in the Egyptians. Some of it stuck.”

“And you let me babble on about it. A
friend
would tell me to shut up.” Miranda worried that she had sounded patronizing with her mini lecture.

He sauntered into the first room of the temple, his gaze skimming the carvings of pharaohs making offerings to the gods Isis and Osiris. “I don’t know anything about this temple. I just recognize some of the symbols. Like that one means
pharaoh
.”

“Which is more than I knew.”

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and looked down at her with a gleam in his eye. “Well, the truth is, I like to listen to your voice.”

“My voice? What do you mean?”

“It’s all smooth and soothing. It just kind of washes over you.”

There he went, nudging things past the friendship line. She didn’t know whether to flirt back or try to keep things on a client-concierge basis. It would be easier if the molecules of her body didn’t do a jig every time he smiled at her. “You mean my voice puts you to sleep.”

He shook his head. “No, it makes you want to sort of bathe in it, like a hot shower.”

A totally inappropriate picture of Luke standing naked under a showerhead sprang into her mind. He would rival any of the perfectly muscled statues in the European sculpture gallery. Heat cascaded through her, and she thrust the thought away. Better to keep the flirting to a minimum before she did something she regretted. “Thank you. I think.”

She turned away to drag her mind off her fantasy of Luke’s nude body and noticed that a couple of people were casting speculative looks at him and whispering to each other. He was either oblivious or ignoring them, because he continued to examine the bas-relief carvings on the temple walls.

“We’d better get moving,” she said under her breath. “I think some adoring fans have spotted you.”

Resignation cast a cloud over his face. He nodded and walked out of the temple. “Keep walking,” he said, taking her elbow to propel her forward. She forced her attention away from the delicious power of his touch. “It’s when you stand still that they get up the nerve to pounce.”

“I want you to see it from the front, though,” she said, veering toward the huge reflecting pool.

He let her guide him to a vantage point that showed the entire vista of seated statues on the edge of the pool, the temple’s entrance gate, and the temple itself. She loved the stark majesty of it.

“You’re right. It’s worth the risk of getting ambushed by autograph hounds,” he said. His face was alight with the kind of wonder she’d hoped to evoke. She let him stand there, drinking it in, as she kept an eye out for fans. The people who’d been staring at him in the temple were coming closer, so she tugged him gently in the opposite direction.

“We’re going to duck into another side door and head for the Astor Chinese Garden Court,” she said. “That ought to shake them off.”

She got him through the door and into the staff elevator. “How did they notice you so fast?”

He shrugged with that gleam in his eye. “My charisma.”

She took a step away from him and tilted her head. He had his shoulder propped against the elevator wall, and one booted ankle crossed over the other. He had more than charisma. He made her want to run her hands over every inch of his body. “I guess there is something there,” she said, letting herself respond in kind this once.

The elevator slowed, and he pushed off the wall to look down at her. “Too bad the elevator ride wasn’t longer.”

The pale blue of his eyes no longer looked like a glacier. Now they burned with the scorching flame of an acetylene torch as it sliced through metal. Miranda felt the sear right down to her bones. Their flirting had taken on an unexpected edge that made her nervous. Because despite the city-girl facade she’d built for herself, she didn’t have much experience with city men. She just didn’t have the time. And she had a feeling that her romantic encounters with community college boys hadn’t come close to preparing her for someone like Luke Archer.

As the door slid open, she held up her hand like a stop signal, hoping he didn’t notice its slight waver as her blood pulsed hard in her veins. “Flirting again.”

He laid his big, square palm against the doorjamb to hold it open for her. Miranda sidled past him and pulled in a shaky breath before she resumed her tour guide duties. “The Chinese Garden Court is modeled on a seventeenth-century courtyard and features Ming dynasty wooden furn—”

He took her wrist and pulled her to a stop in the hallway. “You’re ignoring me.”

“That would be impossible,” she said.

“Okay, you’re ignoring what I said.” His thumb was stroking across the fragile skin on the inside of her wrist, which sent shivers of sensation dancing up her arm.

She could barely think straight, so she blurted out an honest answer. “I don’t understand what you’re doing. I’m supposed to be your tour guide and your temporary friend. I’m not your . . . your date.”

“Why can’t you be all three?” he asked.

Chapter 9

She stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. He guessed he couldn’t blame her. It was just that when they’d been closed up in the limo together, he’d become more and more conscious of how sexy she was. There was that smooth, creamy voice, but she also had shining dark hair that he wanted to bury his hands in, brown eyes that held a softness he found rare in this city of hard edges, and a lush mouth that made him want to taste it.

Not to mention the curves outlined by her fitted pants and silky top. Although her clothes led his mind in interesting directions, he had to admit there was nothing suggestive about them. She wasn’t showing cleavage or midriff, as did so many of the women who sought him out.

He liked to watch her dodge and weave, especially when she decided to give some sass back to him. And if she stopped dodging, the day might get very interesting indeed.

For now, he released her wrist, regretting the loss of her warm, soft skin under his thumb. “Okay, back to friendship. For now.”

She gave him a beaming smile that held equal parts relief and regret. The second one was promising. He followed her through the circular moon gate and into a serene oriental garden. She led him around as she pointed and talked about imperial kilns and yin-yang principles.

Spotting a bench standing in a sunbeam, he took her elbow and tugged her toward it. “Let’s sit down for a minute and soak up the atmosphere.”

“I thought you had to keep moving,” she said.

“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. “Mr. 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.