But he wanted to go beyond sex. “What else?”
That had her avoiding his eyes. He put his finger under her chin and tipped her face up. He’d trade her some real feelings. “I thought being benched would make me bored and restless. Instead, I look forward to getting away from the Empire Center and back to you.” He was astounded by the truth of it.
He’d thought she would smile. Instead, her eyes lost their glow, and her mouth turned sad. “I’m glad I could make your time off bearable.”
“You’ve made it a holiday.” Suddenly, the time between now and Monday didn’t seem nearly long enough. He wanted to explore the bond he’d felt when they were touring around the museums. Taking her to bed might have screwed that up, but the intangible connection had felt so powerful that a physical relationship seemed like the inevitable next step.
He leaned down to kiss the wistful curve of her lips. She responded by clutching his shoulders and running her knee up the side of his thigh so that she was pushing against his half-hard cock.
He sensed an edge of desperation in her reaction and knew she was trying to distract herself or him with sex. Locking his hands under her, he lifted her to wind her legs around his waist before walking to the bed. His bruises howled, but the pressure of her against his arousal submerged the hurt.
As he lowered her to the edge of the mattress, an arrow of intense pain lanced into his rib cage. He straightened with a grunt.
“You have to stop carrying me,” she said, her reproof laced with guilt. She smoothed her hands around the edges of his bruises as though she could take the hurt on herself.
“I moved wrong. That’s all.”
His cock hardened even more as she looked up at him from where she sat, her hands still on his skin and her dark hair streaming over her naked breasts. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Sugar, I brought you over to the bed so we can do just that.” He stripped off his trousers and briefs.
She gave a gasping laugh as his erection sprang free. “You don’t look like you’re ready for a nap.”
Her head was at waist level, and he had a vision of her lips wrapped around his cock. He forced it away, clenching his hands into fists to control the wave of desire. But he wanted something different from her.
He knelt in front of her, taking one of her high heel–clad feet in his hand and fiddling with the buckle. He needed some distraction to get himself under control.
“Let me do that,” she said, trying to lift his shoulders with her soft hands in an attempt to make him stand. “You’re going to hurt yourself again.”
He ran his finger along the bottom of her arch, making her jerk and giggle.
“Hey, the handsome prince isn’t supposed to tickle Cinderella,” she said, the smile back in her voice.
He tossed the shoe over his shoulder. “Good thing it’s not made of glass,” he said as he unbuckled the other one and sent it sailing as well.
Taking her ankles in his hands, he swung them up onto the bed and climbed in beside her. As she started to cuddle against him, he rolled over onto his uninjured side and propped his head on his hand.
“Now talk to me, sugar.”
Chapter 17
Miranda looked adorably confused. He couldn’t blame her. He had taken off his clothes, gotten into bed with a naked woman, and told her to talk. Hell, he was confused.
“Talk about what?” she asked.
“About you. What you like. What you want.”
“That’s pretty open-ended.” Her tone was wary.
“How about telling me what you would do if you didn’t need to earn a living?” Because that was the question on his own mind.
She gave him a dubious glance before saying, “I think I’d be a tour guide for travelers overseas.”
Maybe she had missed the not-earning-a-living part. “Money doesn’t enter into this, so you don’t have to take anyone with you. You can travel by yourself.”
“I’d travel on my own first, discover all the most interesting places to see and most scrumptious places to eat, and then share my knowledge.” She was warming to her vision. “I like helping other people enjoy things.”
“You’re a strange one, Miranda Tate.” He imagined going on the exploratory trip with her, searching out exotic locales, deciding which sights and food they liked and didn’t like, trying out the beds at hotels. It was a damned appealing picture.
“What about you?” she asked. “What would you do if you didn’t play football?”
He should have seen that coming, but it felt as though she had hauled back her fist and punched him in the sternum. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Now she came up onto her elbow and brushed her slim fingers around his bruised ribs. “Your injury isn’t that bad, is it?”
He fought with himself for another few moments before he said, “No.” He rolled toward her again. “I don’t have an answer to your question.”
“Why is that a problem? You love football, and to say you’re good at it would be an understatement.” Her brown eyes held puzzlement.
He ran his finger along her arm. “I’m thirty-six.”
He saw understanding dawn on her. “You’re wondering what to do after football.” She paused for a long moment, and he watched something that looked like pity cross her face. That should have bothered him, but instead it made him feel less alone.
“Wouldn’t you like to coach?”
Everyone assumed that was his next step. He pictured himself standing on the sideline, watching the game unfold when he could do nothing about it. “If I can’t be on the field, I don’t want to be anywhere near it.”
“You could start that art collection we talked about at the Morgan Library,” she suggested.
He’d considered that, a lasting legacy of some kind, but—“I’d have to hire experts, take their advice.”
She frowned, coming up against the same wall he kept hitting. “There’s got to be something that interests you other than football.”
He let his fingers drift over the smooth skin of her shoulder again, avoiding eye contact by following their progress. He took the plunge. “Investments. The stock market. Venture capital.”
“I can see you being very good at that. It requires strategy and risk taking.”
She hadn’t laughed or looked shocked, so he confessed some more. “Sometimes I help out my teammates with their investments. I got tired of seeing them get cheated or just fritter away their money.”
“You like to help people as much as I do.”
“I’d have to learn a lot more, take some tests, get licensed.” He smoothed his palm down the curve of her hip.
“And the problem is?”
This was the hardest part. “Studying wasn’t my strong suit in school.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you memorize all the plays for every game so you don’t have to wear one of those wrist thingies?”
“Not the same. I know football like I know the back of my own hand.”
She snorted, a surprisingly inelegant sound from such a cultured woman. He liked it. “I’ve seen those charts with all the Xs and Os. If you can memorize those, you can handle stocks and bonds.”
“The study guide for the Series 7 test is three inches thick.” He’d taken one look at it and decided he needed to find something else to do for chapter two of his life.
She scanned his face, seeming to peer into the fault lines of his soul with her grave, kind eyes. “If I had a portfolio, I’d hand it over to you without a moment’s hesitation. There’s no one I would trust more than you to take care of my hard-earned money.”
The uncertainty inside him melted away. She’d made it so simple and so clear. He might not be the most sophisticated money manager in the world—yet—but he was 100 percent committed to doing the right thing for anyone who entrusted their money to him.
He wanted to leap out of the bed and do a touchdown dance like DaShawn’s famous Cotton Bowl boog
ie. Instead, he let a grin spread across his face.
“What?” she asked, her lips curling upward in an echoing smile.
“You are a very smart woman.” He pulled her against him to plant a loud smack of a kiss on her lips. As soon as the season was over, he’d hire a tutor to get started on the Series 7 material.
“Am I?” A shadow dimmed her smile.
He wasn’t having any of her self-doubt, especially not with her soft breasts crushed against his chest. “More than smart. Brilliant. A genius.” He slid his hand under the sheet to take a satisfying handful of rounded behind.
“If that’s where my genius resides, I’m not flattered,” she said, but he heard the tiny gasp in her breath.
All the exhilaration her words had sparked seemed to flow into his cock. He wanted to bury himself inside her and make her feel as good as he did. He slipped his fingers between her legs from behind and made her gasp long and loud.
Miranda lay in the big bed as Luke slept facedown beside her, the muscled weight of his arm heavy over her waist. The steady rise and fall of his back as he breathed was almost hypnotic, while the warmth of his athlete’s body soaked into her bones. She felt as wrung out as he looked, but her brain wouldn’t stop revving. She stared out the window, only half seeing Lady Liberty’s solemn presence as the helicopters and ferries plied their routes back and forth across the variegated dark blues of water and sky.
She knew he’d entrusted her with something private when he’d talked about his parents and then admitted his ambition to be a financial adviser. And his doubts about his ability to handle the examination.
When he’d said he had no answer for his future, she’d felt a wrench of heart-cracking pity. He’d had to cut away everything else in his life to reach this level of success. If he couldn’t play football, what was left? It shocked her to realize how bleak his future must look to him. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him.
He’d confided his past disappointments and shared his future dreams with her. His trust was both potent and treacherous, because she wanted it to mean something.
A dangerous longing for an assistant concierge to feel about a superstar billionaire.
Chapter 18
Since he was the table’s host, Luke did his best to hide his ferociously bad mood at the charity gala. All he could think about was wasting an evening he could be spending with Miranda.
He was annoyed by her gracious acceptance of the news that he had to attend this shindig without her. If she’d been disappointed, she’d concealed it well behind her unruffled smile. Orin Spindle had better pray he didn’t cross paths with Luke anytime soon.
Not that Luke’s personal trainer and date, Elyssa Lauda, didn’t look stunning in her formfitting sequined sheath. He often brought her to public events because she looked the part. That and the fact that she was gay, so neither of them would get into trouble after a few drinks.
But he wanted Miranda beside him so he could wrap his arm around her waist and pull her warm, curvy body close against him. It had been hard as hell to let his driver take her home to New Jersey in the dark, chilly hours of the early morning. He’d wanted to spin the sheets into a cocoon around the two of them and stay there until the sun blazed through the big window, talking to her, touching her, making love to her.
In the meantime, Miller had resorted to a professional connection for his date as well, bringing his high-powered literary agent, Jane Dreyer. Jane was using all her persuasive skills to talk Luke into writing his memoirs. So far he’d held firm, but it was surprisingly difficult to say no to the tiny blonde woman with the steely determination of a hunting tigress. Luke recognized a kindred spirit.
He got a brief reprieve from Jane’s cajoling when Trainor walked up with the mysterious Chloe on his arm. The CEO looked every inch the powerful businessman in his tailored navy suit, while his companion wore body-hugging blue lace, undoubtedly designer. The dress would look even better on Miranda, with her dark hair and curves. He pulled himself up short as his mind strayed to the specifics of where the dress would touch Miranda.
As she shook his hand, Chloe surprised him by saying, “I’ll never forget the eighty-two-yard pass you threw to win the Super Bowl. My heart was in my throat as that ball flew through the air. I’m a great fan of yours.” She nodded toward the rest of the room with a smile. “Along with everyone else here, I suspect.”
He could see what Nathan liked about this woman. There was a straightforward honesty about her that drew you in. He shook his head with a smile. “There are plenty of Patriots and Dolphins fans here.”
He introduced the two newcomers to Jane and noticed that even when he shook hands with Miller’s agent, Trainor never let go of Chloe. And she nestled comfortably against the CEO’s side. Their body language told Luke all he needed to know about how real the relationship was. The craving for Miranda’s presence intensified.
Miller strolled up with Elyssa, triggering another round of introductions. Luke saw the assessing way the writer’s gaze traveled over Trainor and his companion. Miller maneuvered himself into position beside Chloe. “So tell me how you and Nathan met. Being a writer, I’m always interested in the backstory.”
Chloe had the good sense to look wary before she said, “I worked for him briefly. I’m temping between permanent jobs.”
“An office romance, then.” The writer’s eyes brightened with interest. “So you spent hours in his company and still agreed to go on a date with him. You’re a brave woman.”
Trainor slid his arm around her waist in a protective gesture. “Foolhardy might be a better word. Not to mention the fact that for the first few days of our acquaintance, I had the flu.”
His date looked startled by his admission, but she smiled up into Trainor’s eyes in a way that made Luke’s gut tighten with envy. “And germs make him cranky.”
“I’ll bet,” Luke said, awarding her mental kudos for speaking frankly in intimidating company.
The CEO gave him a hard stare. “Chloe and I are going to take a look at the auction offerings,” Trainor said, guiding his date away from Miller’s inquisition. “We’ll meet you at the dinner table.”
“Methinks there’s more to the story than Trainor is letting on,” Miller said, watching the couple’s progress through the crowd of guests.
Luke saw Trainor snag two glasses of champagne from a passing server and hand one to Chloe, his look and posture intimate. “Doesn’t matter. That’s the real deal.”
“There’s many a slip twixt the champagne flute and the lip,” Miller said. “Based on what Trainor has said to me, it’s far from a sure thing.”
“Trainor discusses his love life with you?”
The writer chuckled. “Mostly he curses at me for getting him involved in this wager.”
“But he hasn’t backed out.”
“No.” Miller turned to Luke. “Having second thoughts?”
“I made the bet. It’s done.” Miranda slid into his mind again. He didn’t like thinking about her and the drunken wager at the same time. It made the reality of what he had bet on too vivid.
“Ah, but this gamble has just begun,” Miller said.
Luke had a strange desire to shield Chloe and Trainor from Miller’s cynical prying. “How’s the writing?”
The writer flinched, making Luke feel a twinge of guilt. “How’s the bruising?”
“Healing fast.”
“I’ve heard that’s one of your talents. You don’t get hurt much, but when you do, you recover at amazing speed.”
It was true that Luke didn’t have an obvious Achilles’ heel. His shoulders and knees were sturdy enough to handle the constant wear and tear of the sport, with only a few minor surgeries. He took very good care of his body, so it mended quickly. But he also played through pain. And not just limped through it, but played full-out without anyone being the wiser. “It’s a gift.”
“I wonder.” Those green eyes of Miller’s were damned penetrating. “So the exquisi
te Ms. Lauda is not the love of your life?”
Luke allowed himself a tight smile. “Just my personal trainer.”
“Too bad. She’s quite beautiful.”
Miranda’s velvet brown eyes, her serene, elegant voice, the glossy tendrils of her hair, and the feel of her satin skin floated through Luke’s mind. “Never challenge Elyssa to a capoeira match. You’ll get your butt kicked.”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Miller said. “Based on your date, I’m guessing you’re not making any progress with our little wager of hearts, either.”
“I have other things to focus on during the season.” But today at the Empire Center, he had found his mind again wandering to Miranda during the video review. Not just how she felt when she was moving underneath him, but her belief that he could pass the Series 7 exam. He’d ordered the study guide that morning.
He’d also put Doug on the task of tracking down Miranda’s dream job. There couldn’t be too many luxury high-rise buildings nearing completion in Midtown, and he trusted Doug to zero in on the right one. Luke would take it from there. He was damned if she would work for that puke Spindle any longer than necessary.
“Archer?”
Luke snapped out of his reverie to find Miller giving him an amused glance. “Maybe you’re making more progress than you let on,” the writer said. “You had a strangely dazed look on your face.”
That pulled him up short, since he knew what—or whom—he’d been thinking about. “After a few minutes of your conversation, I zone out.”
Miller cracked a laugh. “I like you. Underneath that homespun Texas twang and clichéd dimple is the soul of an ancient pillager.” He gestured to Luke’s hands. “So why don’t you wear your Super Bowl ring?”
“Which one?” He put on his patented “that’s all on that topic” smile.
Miller was impervious. “Your favorite one, of course.”
“I don’t have a favorite.”
“Sure you do.” Miller’s eyes glittered. “It’s the one that cost you the most.”
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