The VIP Doubles Down (Wager of Hearts Book 3)

by Nancy Herkness

  Or he could until she removed the last of the sticky pads and began to stroke his shoulders with long, firm sweeps of her oil-slicked hands. Her palms felt like warm satin gliding over his skin. He nearly moaned as she kneaded a tight spot on the back of his neck, the pressure of her fingertips balanced right on the edge between pleasure and pain. His body soaked up her touch like a plant drawing in water after a drought. He felt lighter and more expansive. And aroused.

  The crisp scent of wintergreen swirled past his nostrils again. “Are you wearing eau de mint?” he asked.

  Her chuckle sounded from above him. “It’s the massage oil. I figured you’d prefer this to something floral.”

  “Don’t you have something neutral? I’ll smell like Vicks VapoRub.”

  “I’ll bring unscented oil tomorrow.”

  He heard the stiffness in her voice and felt like an ass. Truth was, he liked the smell. It reminded him of hiking in the woods of New England. His testiness was an attempt to shake off some of the sensual cocoon she had woven around him.

  He kept waiting for a pause in the assault on his self-control, but she never broke contact, always keeping a warm palm pressed against his bare skin as she shifted around him. He remembered from some distant piece of research that this was one mark of a skilled masseuse.

  “Okay, the fun part is over,” she said, although the slide of her soft, warm hands over his skin belied her words. “Now you need to tell me if anything I do causes you discomfort.”

  And then she showed her true colors as she dug her thumbs into a knot on the back of his neck, sending a bolt of agony through the muscle. He grunted.

  “Too much?” she asked, easing the pressure.

  “Yes, but don’t stop. You seduced me with your ants and your massage, and now I must pay for the pleasure.”

  However, the pressure lessened as she worked over the worst spots in his neck and shoulders. He got fond of the little spurts of breath she let out when she pushed especially hard. It was just enough advance warning so the pain didn’t surprise a groan out of him.

  And then she was stroking his back again, petting him like a dog who had done well. “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Good boy’?”

  “What?” The rhythm of her movements never faltered despite the puzzlement in her voice.

  “Isn’t this my reward for letting you pummel me?”

  “Your reward will be the ability to move without wincing. Now I’d like you to roll over, keeping your head on the headrest.”

  Her professional persona was impressive but not as much fun as her country-girl one. He felt her lift the blanket so he could shift without getting tangled. As he turned, he felt a shock of desire. The skin of her face and neck held a light sheen of effort, while curling wisps of fiery red hair clung damply to it. Her gray eyes were smoky, with some emotion he couldn’t interpret, and her thick ponytail trailed over her shoulder to rest on the curve of her breast, rising and falling with her audible breath.

  She looked as though she’d just made love.

  Her gaze skimmed over his chest, but he felt as though she had touched him lower. Luckily, she floated the blanket back over him and moved to the head of the table.

  She slipped her warm hands between his head and the headrest, cupping his skull in her palms as she leaned over to meet his gaze, her ponytail swinging just above his nose. “Now I’m going to ask you to trust me again.”

  The upside-down angle of her face was disconcerting, but her scent of wintergreen and something lemony combined with pure warm woman sent another streak of lust down to his crotch. “You’ve dosed me with electric ants, jabbed your thumbs into my already tortured muscles, and refused to discuss Julian Best. Explain why I should trust you.”

  She smiled, the inversion still disorienting him. “Because you know this is all good for you. I’m going to remove the headrest and hold your head in my hands. I don’t want you to support any of your weight with your neck muscles. Relax into my grasp. I promise not to drop you.” She flicked her ponytail back with a toss of her head. “That’s where the trust comes in.”

  “Ah, that’s an easy one. Barely any trust required.” He closed his eyes. He could feel her fingers threaded in his hair, their tips resting on the nape of his neck.

  “You may not feel that way when the headrest drops out from under you. I’m going to shift so your head is resting on one of my hands, but don’t worry, I’m strong enough to hold you.”

  He felt her words in a way that had nothing to do with his physical problems.

  But she continued with her work, withdrawing one of her hands while she centered her other one under the back curve of his skull. A couple of clicks and creaks and the cushion of the headrest vanished. He tensed, but the level of his head didn’t shift by even a single millimeter. Almost immediately her other hand was cradling him as well. He willed himself to believe in her and let all the weight of his head rest on her palms.

  “That’s good,” she said. He felt a flare of pride at her approval.

  “Now I’m going to carefully move your head in various directions. Again, try not to assist me. Let your head sink into my hands, so I control all the movement.”

  “Ha! Don’t you know that writers are control freaks? We make our characters dance to our own weird tunes. That’s half the fun.”

  She angled his head ever so slowly to the right. “What’s the other half?”

  Just as the position became uncomfortable, she reversed the motion. “Rewriting,” he said. “You know how you think of a brilliant response to an insult six hours later when it’s utterly useless? A writer has a time machine. I can go back to the moment the insult was hurled and parry it with my slow but rapier-sharp wit.”

  “Relax. I’ve got you,” she said, rotating his head gently to the right. “I guess us nonwriters think you just sit down at your computer and the book comes out the way we read it.”

  “We foster that myth. It makes us seem more like creative geniuses and less like mere craftsmen.” There was something very restful about allowing Allie to manipulate his head. Her grip was firm enough to instill confidence but soft enough to feel like a caress.

  “I have more respect for craftsmen. They work hard at what they do.” Her voice held a tart bite, but her movements were calm.

  “So I should show you my marked-up manuscripts to impress you.” It sounded as though his capable little therapist knew an artistic sort she didn’t care for.

  “Now I’d like you to sit up,” she said. “I’ll help you so you don’t stress your muscles.”

  He gave her his entire trust, letting her guide him upright with her skillful hands. Before she stepped back, she adjusted the blanket so it remained draped over his shoulders.

  She met his gaze straight on. “Now, on a scale of one to ten, where is your pain level? I want an honest answer, not a diplomatic one.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Have I given you any reason to believe I would be diplomatic?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Good point. Give me your usual brutal honesty.”

  He rolled his head in a half circle and saw her wince as though she was afraid he would undo all her hard work. Astonishment flashed through him as he rolled it again. The muscles still pulled in his shoulders, and he could feel soreness where she had pinpointed his severest problems. But the grinding sensation at the base of his skull was gone, and he could turn his chin fully from shoulder to shoulder without a grimace. “Three,” he said. “You’re a witch.”

  “Glinda or Bellatrix Lestrange?”

  He lifted a hand to probe the miraculously mobile back of his neck. “You use Bellatrixian methods to achieve Glindian results.”

  “It didn’t hurt that much, did it?” A line of worry creased her forehead.

  “I would face a charging rhino with less terror than you strike in my heart.”

  The furrow vanished. “I’ve been called a lot of names, but this is the first for a charging rhino.” She gl
anced at her watch. “I guess we won’t have time for the swiss ball.”

  “You have another implement of torture in your bag?”

  She pointed to the large vinyl ball tucked in a corner of the room. “You own your own implement. I saw it yesterday.”

  “It looks so harmless, but in your hands I’m sure it will become a thing of horror.”

  “Enough to give you nightmares.” Her tone was as dry as the Sahara.

  He eased off the table and grabbed his shirt from the weight machine, pulling it on over his head with delicious, nearly painless ease.

  “And now it’s story time.”

  More like humiliation time. He would be so disappointed in her ridiculous fantasies.

  Allie handed him the bottle of designer spring water she’d found in the minifridge. “You need to hydrate after the massage.”

  Thank goodness he’d put his shirt back on. Once she stopped actively working on him, Gavin’s bare chest became a distraction. If she were honest, his eyes, his mouth, and his hair were distractions, too. The man was so darned mouthwatering. Maybe he was just so different from Troy’s blond all-American good looks that she found the contrast refreshing.

  Or maybe she had fallen a little in love with him while staring at his book-jacket photos over the years, picturing Julian as looking like his creator.

  “May I pack up my equipment first?” she asked, heading for the bench where her duffel bag sat.

  “I want your full focus, so go ahead. We’ll go upstairs to my office for our discussion.”

  She wiped her hands on her towel and began stowing the stim pads. He prowled over to stand beside her, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body.

  “You have a considerable investment in that bag,” he said.

  “Good tools are important.”

  He reached out to close his long fingers around her wrist, stretching her arm up so her hand was level with his face. “I would say this is your most valuable tool.” He rotated her wrist slightly. “Small but filled with power.”

  She could feel the pulse in her wrist beating too fast against his fingertips. He was examining her hand as though it were some sort of independent artifact, a position she found both awkward and thrilling. When he traced along the lifeline on her palm, a shiver of awareness radiated up her arm and into her breasts and belly. She sucked in her breath and stood utterly still.

  He released her. “I interrupted your packing.”

  She flexed her fingers, still feeling the echo of his grip on her wrist and his touch on her palm. “I’m almost done.” Gavin’s face lit with anticipation, which made her nervous. “You’re not going to be able to use my silly stories in a book, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. They’re your stories. But when we were talking about Julian yesterday, my imagination went to work for the first time in months.” He took a swig of his water and looked at her in a way that sent swirls of warmth spiraling deep inside her. “You might be my new muse.”

  She reached for the handles of the duffel, throwing Gavin a warning glance when he tried to grab them first.

  “Does it pay well, being a muse?” she asked.

  “I’ve never paid my old muse a penny. Maybe that’s why she’s gone on strike.”

  “Well, darn.” Allie was very aware of his presence just behind her as they climbed the steps. She walked stiffly, wondering what part of her body he was looking at, but she kept her words light. “I thought I’d discovered a profitable side business. Muse for hire.”

  “I know many writers who would pay you almost any amount if it were that easy.”

  Allie halted in the hallway, not sure which way to go. Gavin led her to the foot of the main staircase, where she stowed her duffel in the coat closet.

  Turning, she looked up to discover a cascading bronze-and-crystal chandelier hanging from a plaster rosette three floors up, framed by the graceful curves of the staircase’s polished wooden banisters. All that wasted space in a city that charged thousands of dollars per square foot illustrated with great vividness just how wealthy Gavin Miller was. Which meant she needed to treat him as a valued client rather than lusting after his body.

  “Come with me,” he said, inviting her to walk beside him up the stairs. Their athletic attire looked out of place against the highly grained wood paneling and the jewel-toned Oriental runner. She should be wearing one of Kate Winslet’s gowns from Titanic, while he should be decked out in white tie and tails. She gave a little gasp as she pictured him that way, holding out his arm for her gloved hand to rest on. Her heart flipped in her chest as she imagined the feel of his hard muscle under the fine wool.

  As they reached the second floor, he gestured toward a paneled door. “If you’d like to freshen up, please feel free. I might splash some water on my face myself.”

  She practically bolted for the bathroom, but he still managed to get there first, twisting the knob and pushing the door inward for her.

  She slipped into a powder room that was twice the size of her apartment’s kitchen, closed the door and leaned against it. She needed to get her rioting imagination under control. And her overheated face.

  Shoving away from the door, she walked to the embossed copper bowl that served as a sink. One look in the mirror made her grimace. Her hair was frizzing around her face, several spots of massage oil marred her shirt, and her cheeks were flushed as though she had a nasty fever.

  She gave her face a good scrub with cold water and redid her ponytail, using the rice paper–wrapped throwaway comb thoughtfully provided for a guest’s bad hair day. Her shirt was a lost cause because dabbing the spots with soapy water would just make them more noticeable.

  Well, Gavin Miller would have to accept that she looked like what she was: a working physical therapist. No lolling about on a chaise longue wearing a flowing silk robe for this particular muse. Or maybe that was more what muses for artists did. Allie made a silly face at herself in the mirror and walked out the door.

  Gavin stood in the hall, with comb marks in his damp hair, swiping away at his cell phone. He lifted his head and smiled, creating a wave of sizzling desire that obliterated all her excellent resolutions about not lusting after him.

  “Shall we?” He stepped closer and lightly pressed his hand into the small of her back to start her moving toward the front of the mansion. His touch rippled across her skin like the highest setting of the e-stim unit, but she couldn’t avoid it without seeming rude.

  He guided her through a half-open double door and removed his hand from her back to sweep it around with mock drama. “My domain.”

  The room was filled with light slanting through the three tall windows on the front wall. Like the hallway, the walls were paneled, but here the wood was lighter. Low flames flickered in a fireplace framed with carved rose-colored marble. The rest of the decor was surprisingly modern, yet it harmonized with the Victorian bones of the house.

  A look of aversion tightened his jaw as he glanced toward the windows. It took her a moment to realize he was reacting to the desk placed there. It was a beautiful modern piece: polished rosewood inset with rectangles of ribbed silver-gray leather, so it evoked the leather-topped desks of old without imitating them. On the desktop sat a sleek computer monitor and keyboard, their brushed aluminum-and-leather casings clearly custom-made. An ergonomic chair was swiveled away from the desk, as though he had left in a hurry.

  Turning his back on the desk, Gavin walked to an armchair upholstered in steel blue fabric and gestured toward the leather sofa it faced. “Make yourself at home.”

  Allie slid onto the edge of the couch cushion and pressed her knees and feet together.

  Gavin sprawled into the armchair. He rolled his head around backward with his eyes closed. “God, it feels good to move like this.” When he lifted his head and opened his eyes, annoyance flitted across his face. “You look like a bird who’s ready to fly off at the slightest provocation.”

  Pulling out hi
s phone, he tapped a button. “Ludmilla, would you bring hot tea to my office with two mugs? And steep some of that herbal stuff labeled Calm. My therapist needs it.”

  Allie cocked an eyebrow at him. “So you fell for that Starbucks marketing ploy.”

  “No, but I was hoping you would.” He rested his elbows on the chair’s cushioned arms and let his hands dangle from the wrists. However, his relaxed pose couldn’t counteract the focused desperation in his gaze. “Now, tell me who you chose for Julian Best’s ideal woman.”

  Allie looked down at the spray of burgundy orchids artfully arranged in a glass bowl on the coffee table. She twisted her fingers together on her knees before she met Gavin’s avid green eyes again. “Me, of course.”

  “You?” The surprise in his voice was harsh. He must be disappointed.

  “I told you it was just a silly story Mama and I made up.” She shrugged. “Julian needed someone normal, and I’m about as normal as they come.”

  “You.” This time he sounded reflective rather than shocked. He let his head fall back and stared at the coffered ceiling. “A flame-haired physical therapist for Julian.”

  She snorted at the poetic description of her carroty hair before she looked down at her hands again. “What we had fun with was imagining how Julian and I would meet. Sometimes it was while I was on vacation in Venice or Rome, because I always wanted to travel to Italy. Or I’d take a trip to New York, and Julian would jump into my cab. Or at an airport when he was trying to get out of the country and needed a fake wife for cover.” She lifted her head. “It was never in Sanctuary, because we couldn’t think of any reason for Julian to come there.”

  He angled his head down to pin her with his gaze. “So I’m curious. Julian falls for a so-called normal woman who’s modeled on you. Did this normal woman come to New York for the job or for the adventure?”

  She stared into the flickering fireplace and lied. “For the job. I outgrew my need for adventure during PT school.”

  “I sense I’m not getting the whole—”

  Raised female voices wafted in from the hallway.