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

by Nancy Herkness

  Except today was her day off, and she was with her family. Not to mention that he had no idea how to reach her. Maybe Doug would know, since he often worked out of the condo at the Pinnacle. Luke gingerly eased his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and hit Doug’s speed dial.

  His assistant answered instantly. “That was a major pass, Boss Ice. You are the man.”

  A smile tugged at Luke’s mouth. “Thanks, buddy. I had to make up for losing to the Patriots.”

  “Ha! The Pats caught a lucky break with that one.”

  “You’re not biased or anything,” Luke said. “Listen, I need to get in touch with Miranda Tate at the Pinnacle. You have any idea how I can do that?”

  “Was there a problem with the works? Sheldon swore he delivered everything to her personally.”

  “No problem at all. She brought her nephew to the game today. The kid had a blast.”

  “That’s cool.” He could hear the relief in Doug’s voice before his assistant said, “I think you could reach her through the main concierge desk. Let me check out the listing online . . . yeah, here it is. I’ll text you the number and her extension. The website says it forwards to her cell phone if she’s not in the office.”

  “Thanks, buddy. You deserve a raise,” Luke said, amused by the young man’s cheerful energy, even as it made him feel ancient.

  His assistant laughed.

  “I’m serious, Doug. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need to do that. It’s an honor to work for you.”

  “Never tell your boss that. It undermines your negotiating power.”

  Luke disconnected and swiped to the text screen. Should he ruin the rest of Miranda’s day? He looked at Stan’s expression of implacable resolve and dialed the number.

  Lulled by the rocking motion of the train carrying her home to Jersey City, Miranda drowsed in her seat while images of her amazing afternoon spun through her mind. Of course, most of them involved a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed quarterback with a dimple that sent waves of desire surging through her.

  When her cell phone rang with the tune that indicated it was a concierge call, she sighed. Sofia was on duty today, and she wouldn’t bother Miranda unless it was either a problem or a special request.

  “Miranda Tate. How may I help you?” It was hard to inject her usual warmth and enthusiasm into her voice because she wanted to go back to daydreaming about Luke Archer.

  “Hey, it’s Luke Archer.”

  Miranda gasped and sat bolt upright on the bench seat. “H-hello.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to bother you when you’re with your family, but I have a problem that I think you might be able to solve for me.”

  He was laying the Texas drawl on thick and slow, which made her want to fix everything that was wrong in his life. Not that there could be much that needed fixing. “I’ll do all I can to help,” she said with total sincerity.

  “I got hit at the end of the game, and my overanxious trainer thinks I might have a cracked rib.” She heard a squawk of protest in the background before Luke continued. “I need to get an X-ray on the QT. Since discretion is your middle name, I’m hoping you can help me with that.” His voice held a smile, and she could easily picture the dimple that went with it.

  Luckily, this was an easy assignment. Clients often needed to keep health issues confidential, so she had a trustworthy concierge doctor on call at all times. He had an office outfitted with the latest in medical technology, charged astronomical prices, and kept his mouth firmly shut. “Not a problem. Dr. Cavill’s office is in the city.”

  There was a short silence. “I just want to be one hundred percent clear on this. Dr. Cavill will not tell anyone, not even his wife, that he saw me.” Steel laced his words.

  “The doctor has a clear understanding of privacy issues. He expects payment commensurate with that.”

  When Luke spoke, there was admiration in his voice. “Where do you keep your magic wand?”

  Pleasure washed through Miranda. She’d impressed a man who had people waving magic wands for him all the time. “In my purse. It’s safer than in my pocket, where it sometimes would go off accidentally and burn a hole in my clothes.”

  He gave a low, rumbling chuckle that made tingles of delight dance over her skin. “Give me two hours to get to Cavill’s office.”

  “I’ll confirm with the doctor and call you back.”

  She disconnected and hit Cavill’s speed dial, arranging the meeting and stressing the need for secrecy. The doctor whistled when he heard who his visitor was. He had many wealthy, prominent patients, but Luke Archer’s name impressed even him.

  When Miranda dialed Luke back, he answered on the first ring. “Can Cavill do an MRI, too? My worrywart trainer wants to be sure there’s no danger of further damage.”

  “He has a fully equipped office, and he’s a very skilled doctor. He’ll take excellent care of you.”

  “If you recommend him, I have no doubt of that.” His tone turned serious. “I owe you, Miranda.”

  She thought of how she’d like to collect on that debt before she pushed away her fantasy of Luke’s bare chest under her hands. “No, you don’t. You’re a resident of the Pinnacle, and the concierge service comes with the building. Frankly, this was easy.”

  “You have an interesting job,” he said with a dry note in his voice.

  “Interesting doesn’t begin to describe it,” she said with equal dryness. “But it has its perks, like introducing my nephew to the football player he idolizes.”

  “He’s a cute kid. Nice manners, too.” A pause. “The young fans are my favorites. They don’t critique my on-field decisions.” The smile was back in his voice, evoking a heart-fluttering vision of the dimple.

  The train entered a tunnel with a whoosh of changing air pressure, and regret thickened in Miranda’s chest. She was flattered that Luke seemed to want to prolong their conversation. “My train is about to pull into the station, so I’d better go.”

  “And I have to get to the doc. See you at the Pinnacle.”

  Since she’d only caught brief glimpses of him before the meeting with Orin, that seemed unlikely. However, a girl could dream.

  “You can put your shirt on,” the doctor said, stepping back from the examining table where Luke sat. Cavill had run three different kinds of imaging machines over and around Luke’s torso, as well as doing a manual examination that had the quarterback clenching his jaw in order not to groan. The man was nothing if not thorough.

  “The good news is that no ribs are cracked. The bad news is that you have inflammation of the cartilage, as well as periosteal and intramuscular bruising. It’s going to hurt like hell for a week or so, and that’s if you rest it. Which I understand may not be an option.” The doctor’s eyes held a hint of ironic humor. “So it’s going to be pain meds and ice for you.”

  “How deep’s the bruising, Doc?” Stan’s forehead was creased with concern.

  “Deep. What hit you? A Mack truck?”

  “Rodney D’Olaway, which is about the same thing,” Luke said, wincing as he gingerly slid his left arm into the shirtsleeve. He was stiffening up. “I guess you don’t watch football.”

  The doctor shook his head. “All I can think about is the damage being done to the bodies on the field, which makes it unpleasant.” He walked over to a standing desk and started typing on the computer there. “I’m going to give you a prescription for the pain, instructions on icing, and a thorough write-up on your condition with all the medical jargon. I will also recommend that you stay away from the field for ten days, but I imagine you will ignore that.”

  Stan snorted in agreement.

  Inserting his right arm in the shirtsleeve was slightly less painful, but Luke decided to leave off his jacket. As he buttoned his shirt, he scanned the doctor’s office. The room itself was decorated more like the Bellwether Club than a medical facility, while the extensive array of equipment was cutting-edge. Cavill must do all right with h
is practice.

  The doctor himself was about Luke’s age, which initially had been a concern, but Cavill wore his crisp white lab coat with the kind of confidence that arises only from skill, knowledge, and experience. Not to mention that Miranda had recommended him. Luke had come to trust her so completely that it surprised him.

  The doctor stopped typing, and a printer began to spit out pages.

  “You don’t have a sign outside, so how do patients find you?” Luke asked, buttoning his cuffs.

  “My business is all word-of-mouth,” Cavill said, picking up the printed pages and inserting them in an electric stapler. “And it keeps the paparazzi away if they don’t know where to stalk me.”

  “So does Miranda Tate send you a lot of patients?” Luke planted his feet on the floor and eased off the examining table.

  Cavill slanted Luke a look. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Okay, so can you tell me about Miranda Tate?”

  “She’s very discreet and very good at her job. And a nice lady.”

  “You have a mutual admiration society.” For some reason, that annoyed Luke. “What about her boss?”

  “Her boss?”

  “Spindle.”

  The doctor’s expression altered subtly. “I don’t deal with him.”

  “Don’t or won’t?”

  Cavill gave Luke another of those assessing looks before he said, “Both.” He held out the printed papers.

  Luke’s feeling about Spindle had just been confirmed. The man was a weasel. Luke took the sheets from the doctor and folded them in half.

  Cavill raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to review the instructions?”

  “Stan knows more about this than I do.” Luke handed his trainer the papers. “Bottom line is pain meds and on-field decision making don’t mix.”

  “Let me emphasize one point,” the doctor said as he pulled his stethoscope off and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “Severe pain can cloud your judgment almost as much as the meds do. If you don’t stress the muscles for a few days, the pain will be less when you start playing again. So you might want to give it a rest in order to play better.”

  The doctor was right. This kind of pain made him avoid moving in certain ways, and that limited his options. Not to mention that the press was allowed to come to the Thursday practice. Some of those reporters had been around football players longer than Luke had been alive. They could spot an injury a mile away. Better to admit he was taking time off after D’Olaway’s hit than to have the newshounds speculate he was covering up something more serious.

  Not that he would stay away from the Empire Center. He could watch film and work on the new plays Junius wanted to institute with his teammates.

  “You’ve convinced me, Doc,” Luke said. “I’ll take a couple of days off.”

  “A couple is better than nothing.” Cavill grinned, which made him look younger. “I don’t think I had anything to do with your decision, though.”

  “How do I take care of payment?” Luke asked.

  “The paperwork goes to Miranda, and you pay her,” Cavill explained. “Another layer of discretion.”

  And she would add her commission. That’s how it worked with concierges. Luke didn’t begrudge her the payment. She’d saved him from a lot of official crap that the league required team doctors to go through when a player was injured. All he had to do now was have a chat with Junius and tell the reporters he had some bruising from the tackle.

  He thought of the twinge in his shoulder. If it happened again, he was coming back to see Cavill.

  In the limo, he and Stan worked out their strategy for Farrell. Stan was going to call the head coach and express his concern about Luke’s condition, without mention of the visit to Dr. Cavill. He would advise Farrell to convince his quarterback to take some time off. Farrell would call Luke to tell him he needed to rest. Luke would object before agreeing. That way the head coach would credit himself with persuading Luke to let the bruising heal.

  The limo pulled up at the Pinnacle’s private entrance. Luke ducked out of the car, which headed on to New Jersey to drop Stan off. As Luke stepped into the elevator to his penthouse, he dialed Miranda’s number.

  “Miranda Tate. How may I help you?” she answered.

  There was something about her voice. It poured smooth and rich out of the phone, like heavy cream, and made him picture the perfect, pillowy curve of her lips.

  “It’s Luke Archer. I wanted to thank you for setting me up with Dr. Cavill. He’s a great guy.”

  “I’m glad you were pleased with his service.” That was her professional response. Her tone changed to a more personal one when she asked, “Are you all right? Or is that top secret?”

  “No cracks, no breaks. Just bruising. It’ll heal quickly.” That was his professional answer. He added, “Here’s the secret part—I’m taking a few days off to speed up the process.”

  The elevator door opened into his entrance hall, and he wedged his foot against it to keep it that way.

  “That sounds wise. If you need anything while you’re resting, let me know.” With ringing sincerity, she added, “Thank you again for a truly memorable day.”

  He wanted to have done something real to earn her gratitude. “You’re welcome. And that’s the last word on it.”

  “If you say so.” He heard amusement in her tone, and then she disconnected.

  He stepped out of the elevator and walked into the living room. Trevor was sprawled on the couch in front of the flat-screen television, his bare feet propped on the glass top of the coffee table. Beside his feet sat a bottle of Gran Patrón tequila, a dish of salt, a plate of limes, and two shot glasses, one of which held a few drops of clear liquid.

  Trevor pointed the remote at the set, muting the sound before he turned to his brother. “You were quite the hero in the last minutes of the game, bro. Such poise and precision. But then, you’re the Iceman. Nothing shakes you out of your cleats.” He leaned forward to pick up the bottle of tequila, filling both glasses. “We should celebrate your win.”

  Anger spilled through Luke so fast and hot that it shocked him. He swallowed it back down. “Thanks, Trev, but you know I don’t drink during the season.”

  His brother gave him a look of exaggerated surprise. “You were pretty loaded on Monday night, so I thought you’d loosened up on that rule.”

  The anger simmered. “That was a mistake.” In more ways than one.

  “So you can drink with two strangers, but not with your brother. The hell with you.” Trevor pinched up some salt to sprinkle on the back of his hand. He licked the salt off and tossed back the tequila, finishing up by sucking on a wedge of lime. He slammed the shot glass onto the table so hard that Luke thought it would break. Miraculously, both table and glass stayed intact.

  Luke combed his fingers through his hair as guilt pricked at him. “How about we take the party out to the fire pit?”

  The guilt jabbed even harder when Trevor’s face lit up. “Now, that’s more like it. You gotta celebrate the good times in life.” Luke could hear the slurring in his brother’s voice now. He checked the level of the tequila and figured his brother had had several shots already. Luke needed to get some food into him.

  “But you can’t drink tequila without salsa and chips. And maybe some quesadillas.” Luke headed for the kitchen. His housekeeper made fresh salsa for him, and he could throw together chicken and cheese on a whole wheat tortilla.

  Trevor followed him, bouncing off the door frame into the kitchen before he plunked down at the table. “You know, there were two SI swimsuit models in the box with us,” Trevor said. “Man, their legs just go on forever.”

  Luke winced as he rummaged around in the refrigerator. He hadn’t known who else had tickets for the box he’d put Trevor in. He should have been more careful after the incident on Monday, but his brother had never been such a letch before. “Yeah,” he said, setting out quesadilla ingredients. “They’re paid to have long legs.”<
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  “Probably paid by the inch,” Trevor said, snorting out a laugh. “You ever dated one of them?”

  “Once or twice, maybe.” In those heady early days of fame, he’d dated actresses, models, and the daughters of very rich men. None of them had interested him as much as football.

  “That’s as often as you date anyone,” Trevor pointed out. “Once or twice. Have you ever made it to three times?”

  “Not in a while.” Luke shrugged. “I have other things to focus on.”

  “And I don’t?” Trevor’s tone was bitter.

  “You’re married, Trev. You found the right woman.”

  “Sometimes I’m not so sure.” Trevor stared down at the shot glass in his hand.

  “What’s going—” Luke’s cell phone rang. He dropped the cheese grater and pulled out his phone. It was the head coach. “Damn, I’ve got to take this. Be back in a few.”

  He swiped “Answer” and walked toward his office. “Hey, Junius.”

  “Stan called.” Junius’s voice was brusque. “He says you got more banged up by Rodney D’Olaway than you let on.”

  “It stiffened up on me.” Luke kept his tone easy. “It’s just bruising, though. I got it looked at.”

  “I want you to give it a rest so you can heal faster.”

  Now Luke had to read from the script. It was easy, because he’d said the same things before when he meant them. “I’ll heal fine without any rest.”

  “You’re taking the week off, including the game.”

  Shock ripped through Luke like a barbed wire fence. “No way, Junius. It’s a bruise. I’ve played with worse.” He was no longer faking his objection.

  “When you were younger and less valuable. I can’t afford to have you get seriously injured because you’ve been slowed down by this one.”

  Well, at least Junius had called him valuable. But old.

  The coach continued. “We’re playing the worst team in the conference, so it’s a good time to give Brandon some game experience.”