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

by Nancy Herkness

  They strolled through the beautiful rotunda with its marble surfaces, lapis lazuli columns, and gorgeous mosaic panels. “Now this is nice,” he said.

  “It’s just the entrance. This is the library,” Miranda announced in a whisper of awe as they stepped into what might be her favorite room in the world. “Close your eyes and inhale,” she said, taking her own advice. “That’s the smell of centuries of knowledge and music and culture.”

  She opened her eyes and tilted her head to see what Luke’s reaction was. His nostrils flared, so he had at least inhaled, but his gaze was angled upward at the three tiers of walnut-and-bronze bookcases. “So this is what rich men did with their money in the old days.”

  “They still do it. The Robert Lehman wing at the Met was built just to house his private art collection when he bequeathed it to the museum.”

  “Huh,” he said, echoing his comment in the Met. His face had gone sharp and focused as he continued to look around. “It’s impressive.” He brought his gaze back to hers, and she felt the weight of his concentration. “Let’s see those Gutenberg Bibles.”

  “There’s usually only one on display at a time.” She led him to the glass case, where a large tome was opened to show neat columns of bold black Latin words. Beautifully colored and gilded leaves and vines swirled up one margin. “The decoration was done by hand,” she said.

  He stared down at it before sliding her a sideways glance. “Can you read any of it?”

  “No, but isn’t it amazing how clear it still is, so if I could read Latin, I would be able to?”

  “For something that’s over five hundred years old, it’s in good shape.” His grip on her hand tightened for a moment, and a bleak expression crossed his face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Just thinking about the difference between my career and Gutenberg’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His work is still important five hundred years later. Mine is—” He shrugged. Suddenly, the circles under his eyes were evident, and lines appeared around his mouth.

  It hit her then. Here was a man who had reached the absolute top of his field. Her Internet search had led her to many discussions about who was the greatest quarterback of all time. About half a dozen names got thrown around, but Luke Archer’s was always on the list, even if someone occasionally ranked a different player higher. He had won the greatest honors in his sport. Fans adored him—he was the face of the Empire franchise.

  Yet other discussions she had read were about his age and when he was going to retire. Would he go out on top, or would he keep playing until his body betrayed him? Would he stay with the Empire to the end of his career, or would they trade their longtime star to another team as he aged?

  All that work and talent would fade away, leaving nothing behind but old game footage being rerun during the off-season. It must be hard for someone as driven as Luke to face the slow slide into oblivion.

  “Your work has brought incredible joy to millions of football fans,” she said. “Remember what you said about making people happy? Parents and kids bond over your games.” She gestured toward the Bible. “As cool as this is, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t provide the same experience.”

  The tension in his jaw eased, and his dimple appeared, as did his drawl. “I like to think you and I have bonded over this Bible, sugar.”

  The potency of his dimple and his drawl left her breathless. The sudden glimpse of his vulnerability made her heart twist.

  It was a dangerous combination. She pivoted on her heel and headed toward another display case, babbling, “Do you like classical music? Because there are some amazing manuscripts by composers like Mozart and Beethoven. There’s something cool about knowing their hands touched those pages.”

  Luke followed her. She watched in fascination as the quarterback focused all his attention on the artifacts. His big body was angled over the display case, his gaze locked on the manuscripts. Every now and then he would straighten and glance around the room with the same laser stare he used on the football field.

  She wondered if he planned to start his own library.

  “Mr. Archer?” A bald man in rimless glasses and a tweed jacket approached them.

  Luke nodded.

  The man looked relieved. “I thought I recognized you. I’m Richard Brown, one of the curators here.” He offered his hand and Luke shook it. “Is there anything in particular you’re interested in seeing?”

  “We came for the Gutenberg Bibles, so the rest is just icing on the cake.” Luke gave him one of his aw-shucks smiles.

  “I wonder if I might make a request,” Richard said, his manner somewhat hesitant. “We would be honored to have an artifact of significance to your career in our collection. Perhaps a letter or a contract of some sort? I’m not very familiar with your sport, so I’m not sure what to ask for.” His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “My wife would know better. She’s the football fan.”

  For the first time since she’d met him, Luke Archer appeared to be at a loss for words. It lasted no more than a second before another smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. “You want something about football for the Morgan Library’s collection?”

  Richard nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Luke’s smile spread wider, the sheer joy of it lighting up her own mood. “Beg your pardon on the language.”

  “We value documents of cultural significance,” Richard said. “And as Justine informs me after every Empire game, you are an iconic cultural figure.”

  Miranda could tell that Luke was enjoying himself, because he was laying on the Texas accent thick as he said, “I’ll go through my papers and find you the best darned document I have. Please thank your wife for her kind words.”

  “We appreciate that.” Richard shook Luke’s big hand with both of his.

  After the curator left them, Miranda and Luke headed to the library’s restaurant for lunch. As they sat in what had once been the private dining room in the Morgan family’s nineteenth-century brownstone, Luke still wore his dazzling smile.

  “You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Miranda said, basking in his happiness. “I may go blind from the reflection on your teeth.”

  He leaned back in his chair, making it creak alarmingly. “The next time you visit the Morgan Library, you might see my first contract displayed right beside Mozart’s symphony.”

  She understood now. He’d been validated in a place he didn’t expect to be. “Is that what you’re going to give them? Your first contract?”

  “Maybe. Or I have a letter from Joe Namath, congratulating me on signing with the Empire, which would be a double score for the Morgan. However, I need to hold on to that a little longer. It’s a good luck charm.” She noticed his Texas twang was muted now that he was talking to her about business. “I’ll definitely send along an autographed jersey for Justine.”

  “Another autograph for another adoring fan.” Miranda looked up from the menu with a teasing smile.

  “Well, here’s the thing. As part of my contract, I have to sit in a hotel room and autograph jerseys, photos, posters, footballs, and other crap that the NFL then sells at jacked-up prices. It’s boring as hell and gives me writer’s cramp. Which is why I only do it in the off-season. Don’t want to damage the valuable tool.” He held up his right hand, fingers splayed.

  Miranda could see the power in that big square palm and those long fingers. She remembered the heat and strength of them and felt an exquisite shiver run across her skin.

  He dropped his hand. “They glue on a sticker that says whatever I signed is authentic. My opinion is that it’s more authentic to sign things for people I actually meet.”

  A waiter bustled up and took their orders. Miranda had felt safe bringing Luke here, where the clientele was almost entirely ladies of a certain age wearing expensive designer suits and even more expensive jewelry. However, she saw the waiter walk up to one of his colleagues and
say something as he cut his eyes over toward their table. She sighed inwardly. To the young man’s credit, he did not say a word until the very end of the meal, when he simply expressed his admiration for Luke’s play. Of course, Luke signed the check for him.

  “It’s no wonder your hand stays so strong,” Miranda said. “You’re always using it to autograph things.”

  He just laughed and draped his arm over her shoulder as they walked out to the waiting limo. It was a moment of easy camaraderie that she hadn’t expected from this intense man. She felt good about giving him time off from being Luke Archer, celebrity quarterback.

  After touring the Frick and the Guggenheim, they had dinner at a quiet restaurant near Lincoln Center, discussing the art and artifacts they’d seen. Miranda had spent most of the meal mesmerized by the way the candle flame gilded the slash of Luke’s cheekbones and cast a profound shadow in his dimple as it came and went.

  When they headed toward the theater, she began to have second thoughts about their destination and came to a stop on the sidewalk. Moving in front of him, she watched his expression as she said, “Tell me the truth. Do you want to go to the ballet?”

  He flicked her cheek with his finger. “Sure do. Who knows? They might invite me up onstage to do a pirouette.”

  “Do you know how to do a pirouette?”

  She watched in amazement as he dropped her hand, braced himself a moment with his arms held out at shoulder height, and then spun into a turn on the ball of one foot. She caught only a hint of a wince as he landed. It wasn’t exactly a pirouette, but it was both athletic and graceful.

  A little glow of wonder spun in her chest. “You truly can do anything.”

  He gave her a roguish look. “You have no idea, sugar.”

  She laughed because she’d decided to just go with the flirting. It wasn’t going to lead anywhere, after all.

  At the theater, they walked in the front door like average audience members, had their tickets scanned, and headed up the steps. Luke eyed the oversize marble statues of plump women situated on the promenade. “They look like wrestlers, not ballerinas,” he said. Since Miranda had always thought the same thing, she stifled a chuckle.

  “Let’s get you into your seat before anyone recognizes you,” she said.

  “I don’t think this crowd will know who I am.” His tone was dry as he looked around the big open space with its gray stone floor and tiers of walkways.

  “You didn’t think they’d know you at the Morgan Library and look what happened.”

  As Luke settled into his red velvet orchestra seat on the aisle of the vast, modern theater, he removed his baseball cap and slid down so his knees nearly hit the seat in front of him.

  “No one will bother you while you’re sitting,” Miranda whispered, “so you don’t have to slouch.”

  He slanted her a smile. “I’m being considerate of the person behind me.”

  She looked at the difference between his eye level and hers and muttered, “Oh, right.” It was one of those small, courteous gestures he kept surprising her with.

  Opening the program, she pointed out the write-ups about the three pieces they were seeing. “Just forget about the tutus, and watch the dancers’ bodies. I think you’ll be impressed by what they can do.”

  “Do you like the ballet?” he asked.

  “It was one of the things I most wanted to see when I left the farm. The first live performance I came to, I kept getting distracted by this soft tapping sound. It took me a while to realize it was the hardened toe boxes of the ballerinas’ shoes hitting the stage floor as they danced. On television, they edited that out, I guess.”

  “So the reality was a disappointment.”

  “Oh, no! It made it so immediate. I knew I had really made it to my dream city.”

  “You’re an interesting person, Miranda Tate,” he said, shaking his head.

  The lights went down, and Miranda spent the whole performance sliding her gaze between the stage and Luke’s face. He watched with a slight frown, his focus absolute.

  When the first piece ended, he applauded with apparent enthusiasm.

  “Well?” she couldn’t help asking.

  “You’re right about the dancers. They have incredible balance and flexibility.” He gave her a devilish look. “But they don’t have half a dozen three-hundred-pound men trying to knock them off their toes.”

  “The famous dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov always said he admired athletes because they didn’t have choreography to follow. They had to improvise within chaos.”

  “I like the man.”

  The lights dimmed, and Luke once again locked his attention on the stage for one of George Balanchine’s famous leotard ballets. Miranda was glad Luke could see this because there were no sets and no costumes. He would be able to focus entirely on the dancers and their athletes’ bodies.

  When the lights went up, Luke stood. “Let’s get a drink.”

  As they joined the stream of people heading out of the theater and toward the lobby bar, Miranda caught the telltale glance and whisper of recognition from a couple beside them. She blessed the city mind-set that required sophisticated New Yorkers to be too cool to bother celebrities.

  Luke escorted her to the bar on the promenade, took one look at the champagne on offer, and handed the bartender a folded bill. “Is there someplace we can get the good stuff?” he asked.

  The bartender pocketed the bill and deserted his colleague behind the busy bar. “Follow me.”

  As they wove through the crowd to a door set in the hallway that gave access to the orchestra seats, Miranda said under her breath, “That must have been a heck of a tip.”

  “If you’re going to poison your body with alcohol, you should only do it with the best,” Luke said.

  Their guide swiped his ID card through a slot beside the door and led them into a lounge with a sleek black bar at one end and plush, modern furniture at the other. Several clumps of expensively dressed patrons were scattered around the room. The bartender led Miranda and Luke to the bar, murmured a few words to his counterpart, and turned. “Matt will take good care of you, Mr. Archer.”

  So he’d recognized Luke, too.

  Luke shook hands with the young man, who practically bowed his way out of the room. By that time, the VIP bartender had poured them two flutes from a bottle of Krug Vintage Brut champagne.

  Luke took a swallow. “Now this is worth drinking.”

  Miranda sipped it and had to admit that it tasted like heaven.

  Luke picked up the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries the bartender offered and led her to two chairs tucked in a corner.

  “How did you know they would have ‘good stuff’ somewhere else?” Miranda asked. “You’ve never been to the ballet.”

  “Where donations are needed, there’s always a VIP room.” Luke pushed the strawberries toward her on the low table.

  Miranda took a bite of a strawberry, enjoying the pleasure of ripe fruit and rich chocolate on her tongue. Luke lounged back in the chair, his eyes disconcertingly fixed on her face. That blue flame flared in them again. She took another bite of the strawberry and felt awareness ripple through her when she realized he was staring at her mouth.

  Luke raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to you eating strawberries.”

  There was something different in the air between them that made her shift in her chair. Maybe it was the fire in his eyes scorching over her body. “You should have a strawberry,” she said. “They’re yummy.”

  “I can tell by the way you’re enjoying them.”

  She cleared her throat and left the rest of the strawberries on the plate. “Yes, um, the next ballet—”

  He shook his head and stood up. “It’s time for a different kind of dancing. Wait here.”

  He strode over to the bar and had a short conversation with the bartender, who nodded. Luke passed him money again before he pulled out his phone and tapped at the screen.

  Miranda couldn’
t help feeling a small thrill when a couple of designer-clad women cast her an envious glance as Luke sat down next to her. “This time there’s going to be audience participation,” he said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m not getting onstage.”

  He laughed and tossed back the rest of his champagne before standing up and holding out his hand to her. “We’re leaving.”

  “To go where?” He pulled her to her feet like she weighed nothing. She noticed his brief grimace of pain and flinched in empathy.

  “A friend’s,” Luke said, taking the large shopping bag the bartender brought over.

  He led her out onto the promenade, where the ballet-goers were streaming back to their seats. The crowd seemed to part magically for him as he plowed through them going the wrong way. “Too bad your opponents aren’t as easily cowed,” she said, following the path he cleared.

  He glanced back to lift an eyebrow at her but kept going all the way out to the waiting limousine. The driver opened the door, and Miranda scrambled in while Luke gave instructions that she couldn’t hear.

  Then Luke was sliding onto the seat beside her and plunking the shopping bag down on the carpeted floor between his cowboy boots.

  “Why the rush?” Miranda asked.

  “Because it’s my day off.” Luke’s eyes lit up. “And I’m damned well going to take advantage of every single minute.”

  Chapter 11

  Luke shrugged out of his jacket and reached into the shopping bag, allowing Miranda to survey the beautiful musculature of his arms. His skin was dusted with golden blond hair that glinted in the passing lights, and the muscles and tendons flexed and shifted as he pulled out a bottle of the same Krug they’d been drinking. He twisted off the cork with a subdued pop, not spilling a drop. “Flip open that compartment and there should be some champagne glasses,” he said to Miranda, nodding to a padded console on her side of the big car.