“That should be my least favorite.” And it would be the most recent one. The Empire had clawed their way into the playoffs and then hung on by their fingernails to make it to the Super Bowl. There had been times when he felt like he was carrying the entire fifty-three-man roster on his battered and aching back. At the end of the game, as he hoisted the Vince Lombardi Trophy over his head, his overwhelming emotion had been relief. He could go home and rest.
Miller disagreed. “The things you work the hardest to earn are the ones you treasure.”
Trainor interrupted them as he rejoined the group minus his date. “I need to talk to you privately,” Trainor ground out. He swung his gaze to Luke. “Both of you. Please excuse us, ladies.” He stalked away from the table, obviously expecting the other two men to follow him.
Miller quirked a smile at Luke. “This promises to be entertaining.”
Luke apologized to Jane and Elyssa for leaving them before he strolled after the CEO. Trainor was waiting for them in a small conference room, his arms crossed and a look of irritation on his face. “Keep it up and I’ll leave you with empty seats at your table, Archer.” Trainor’s gray eyes were pure steel as he held Luke’s gaze.
“What are you talking about, man?” Luke asked, but he knew he and Miller had been too obvious about their interest in Trainor’s companion.
“Chloe’s a smart woman,” Trainor said. “She’s already asked me what’s going on.” He cut his eyes to the writer. “So lay off the interrogation, Miller.”
“Will you tell her about the bet, or will that be our little secret?” Miller was amused rather than repentant.
Luke considered the question himself. “I say keep it to yourself. It might just make her mad.”
“Why wouldn’t she be flattered to know she won the bet for you?” Miller asked. “By the way, I can see why you chose her. She’s got that certain something. Well done.”
“You’re both getting way ahead of yourselves.” Trainor’s tone was hard. “I’ll take Chloe home right now if you don’t back off.”
“Hey, talk to Miller, not me,” Luke said.
Miller laughed. “You’ve got it bad, my boyo. I’ll behave, if only so I can watch you guard your Chloe like a dog with a bone.”
“You’re an idiot,” Trainor said, his ramrod posture going even stiffer.
Maybe it was a good thing Luke hadn’t been able to bring Miranda.
The thought surprised him. Why did he worry that Miller would make Miranda a target? She didn’t look at him the way Chloe looked at Trainor. Luke didn’t hold her with the possessiveness Trainor showed around Chloe. There was nothing for Miller to pick up on.
With a sigh of relief, Luke settled himself in the back of the limousine as it headed downtown, dancing the stop-and-go tango of New York City traffic. Loosening his bow tie, he popped the stud out of his collar to open it.
Because he was famous, he couldn’t take Miranda out in public. And because he was trying to help out his brother, he couldn’t take Miranda to the privacy of his own home.
Something was screwed up about this picture.
As the evening had worn on, Trainor’s and Miller’s presence had made the wager more and more real. Before, it had seemed an abstract concept waiting in the distant future. But the way Trainor and Chloe looked at each other and touched each other was a powerful illustration of what he needed—hoped—to find.
When he had gone to drop some more money in the charity’s coffers by bidding on an auction item or two, his eye was caught by a Cartier necklace. It was a gold chain with a tassel at each end clasped at the front with a ring of pink diamonds. He could see it around Miranda’s graceful neck, the two tassels nestled just at the top of the valley between her breasts. It would tantalize him as she sat across a dinner table from him, and then he would take off everything except the necklace when they were alone. He’d almost picked up the pen to scribble down a bid, but he realized she wouldn’t accept it.
As he stalked into the private elevator to the penthouse, the vibration of a powerful bass beat began throbbing through the car’s walls. When the door slid open on his floor, a wave of pounding rock music smashed into Luke’s ears.
Luke leaned against the elevator wall and put his hand to his forehead. “Well, hell.”
Trevor had decided to have his own party—presumably without the jocks or socialites he scorned.
Luke shoved himself off the wall and into the entrance foyer. If he just walked down the hall, he might be able to get to his bedroom unnoticed. However, he wouldn’t be able to sleep with the music at that volume. Maybe he should go to the gym and set up a bed like the one he and Miranda had shared. The memory sent a jolt of arousal through him.
He hesitated a moment too long.
A woman wearing skintight black leather pants leaned out into the foyer. “That you, Leon?” She blinked unfocused eyes at him.
He recognized that glassy look. It wasn’t liquor; it was drugs. Anger ripped through him, and he started past the woman, who threw out her tattooed arm. “Hey! You can’t go in there.”
“I live here,” he ground out, giving her one of his cold stares.
She pulled her arm back to her side and cradled it as though he’d hit her. “Don’t get pissy. Trev said he lived here.”
Luke didn’t bother to respond. He stalked into the living room and stopped, scanning the bodies gyrating to the blasting music or sprawled on chairs, couches, and even the floor. The sliding door was open to the terrace, and the silhouettes of more guests flickered in the city lights. But Luke didn’t care about that. His gaze zeroed in on the white powder scattered over his coffee table while his nostrils flared at the smell of pot. Some empty bowls indicated there might have been amphetamines on offer as well.
Trevor was nowhere in sight. Luke turned on his heel and walked right back out of the living room to the entrance foyer. Spinning left, he jogged down the stairs that led to the gym floor of his complex. Once he’d shut himself in with the exercise machines, he yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and hit a speed-dial number.
“Escobar Security. That really you, Archer?”
“Yeah, Ron, it’s me,” Luke said, massaging his temples with his free hand. “I need you to clean up a mess my brother has made at my place. He decided to throw a party while I was out, and it’s one I can’t be at.”
“I hear ya. How about Trevor? Do I give him a scare?”
“Wouldn’t hurt, but leave him here. He and I need to talk.”
Ron whistled. “Based on your tone, he’s gonna wish I’d taken him with me.”
“Thanks, Ron. I owe you another one.”
“You don’t owe me nothin’, and you know it,” Ron said. “But since you’ll send me tickets anyway, don’t send them for this week’s game since you ain’t playing in it. I don’t want to watch that second-stringer Pitch. Next week is good.”
“You got ’em.” Luke headed for the elevator as he talked. For the first time all evening, he felt a genuine smile at the corners of his lips. “You’re a good friend, man.”
“The best.” Luke could hear the answering smile in Ron’s voice. “I’ll call you when it’s clear.”
Luke disconnected and slumped against the elevator car’s wall as he rubbed his palms over his face, thanking his lucky stars for Ron. Escobar had been a defensive tackle on Luke’s team at the University of Texas. He’d been good enough to go pro, but he’d chosen to serve his country instead. After a couple of tours with the Army in the Middle East, Ron decided to move into private security, and Luke had bankrolled him. It had been one of the best investments of his life, because Ron had extricated him and more than a few of Luke’s teammates from some sticky situations before the police could get involved.
Now, Luke allowed fury at his brother to flood through him. Trevor knew Luke had to stay miles away from drugs of any kind. There could be no whiff of suspicion that the quarterback used any chemical substance to enhance his performance. And il
legal drugs were off-limits for so many more reasons. So his selfish screwup of a brother had brought the drugs right into Luke’s home.
He wanted to slam his fist into something, but he couldn’t take the risk of hurting his hands when he was this enraged. He shoved them into his pockets and muttered a long, creative string of curses.
The elevator glided to a stop on the ground floor. Luke stood in the stationary car, trying to decide where to go while Ron did his job. He needed a corroborating witness to say he hadn’t been at his own apartment with the drugs, just in case the press got wind of it. He’d signaled his driver to be at the door, but he needed a destination before he walked out.
There was only one place he wanted to be, and it was a place he should stay away from. If Miranda had to confirm his whereabouts to the press, it would negate all their precautions. But his driver knew where she lived, so the temptation gnawed at him.
He pulled his cell phone out and swiped his thumb over the screen, scrolling to the personal cell-phone number she’d given him.
He shouldn’t do this.
He tapped his thumb against the number and lifted the phone to his ear.
Chapter 19
Miranda’s phone rang on her bedside table, making her roll over with a groan. The ringtone indicated a personal call, which meant she didn’t have to answer it. She stared at the ceiling and debated. As the fog of sleep cleared from her brain, she remembered Luke was going to be out late. Without her.
She grabbed the phone. “Luke?”
“Miranda.” She heard a strange mix of emotions in that one word. There was relief but also hesitation.
She shoved the hair out of her face and sat up against the headboard. “Yes, it’s me.” He didn’t say anything, so she filled in the silence. “How was the gala?”
“Gala? Oh, yeah. It was fine.” He went silent again. When he spoke, the tone of his voice was warmer. “No, it sucked. I wanted you there with me.”
He’d told her he wished she could come when they’d said good-bye much, much earlier that day, but it hadn’t carried the raw honesty it did now. Pure joy zinged through her. “I wish I could have joined you. Did all your friends show up?”
“They did. I was surprised.”
Miranda pushed a pillow behind her back and settled in more comfortably. “Why would that surprise you?”
“They can be . . . unpredictable.”
Luke had told her about the high-tech CEO and the famous novelist he’d recently met at his club. “Did your autographed football bring in a lot of money for the charity?”
“The tickets that went with it did.” His tone changed. This time she heard uncertainty. “I need a favor. A big one.”
“Of course.” She was happy he’d called her but worried about what he might need so late at night. Had his injuries gotten worse?
“Can I come to your place for a couple of hours?”
She straightened away from the pillow in shock. “Now?”
“It’s a lot to ask, I know.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I just wasn’t . . . I didn’t expect . . . yes, please come here. Do you need my address?”
“No, my driver still has it.” Now she could hear the smile in his voice as she called herself a moron. His driver had taken her home this morning. “We’re headed for the Holland Tunnel, and there’s light traffic. I’ll be there soon.”
Miranda hurled the covers off and leaped out of bed. Her apartment wasn’t exactly a mess since she hadn’t spent much time there recently, but she needed to clear her piled-up junk mail off the dining table, stash the recycling bins in the kitchen closet, and get herself dressed in whatever the perfect outfit was to entertain a famous quarterback for a late-night visit.
As she tidied, she mentally reviewed her wardrobe. It was heavy on work clothes and very light on anything else other than jeans. So, jeans. And under them, a lacy bra and panties, just in case.
The buzzer sounded as she was dragging a brush through her hair. She’d gone basic: a tailored cotton blouse over slim jeans and silver ballet flats. With peach silk underneath.
She checked through the peephole, catching only his profile, and opened the door. She nearly gasped out loud. He stood on her stoop in a perfectly fitted tuxedo with the tie loose but still draped around his neck. His tuxedo shirt was open at the throat, so the strong column of his neck was visible. The fine black wool of the tux subtly highlighted the breadth of his shoulders, the leanness of his waist, and the muscles of his thighs. His hair glowed like molten gold under the streetlight.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said, his voice a sharp rasp.
“It’s impossible not to.”
She could swear he moved at the speed of light, because he was in her house with her body sandwiched between his long, hard frame and the back of the door before she could blink.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he said, his eyes blazing down at her before he lowered his head and gave her a mind-bending kiss.
His words were as potent as his kiss. Heat blasted through her at the idea that she’d been in his mind at the gala, and she shifted against him. He drove his thigh between hers, sending a bolt of electric desire zinging through her as his solid muscle hit the sensitized throb between her legs. Her mouth opened under his.
“Now,” he said, his voice pure male command. She knew what he meant, because she wanted the same thing.
They tore at each other’s zippers as though they’d gone mad. He yanked her jeans and panties down as she toed off her flats. She ripped open the condom he’d pulled from his pocket and shoved down his briefs to roll it onto his erection.
Then she was levitating upward like an autumn leaf caught in a whirlwind as he lifted her off her feet. Bracing her against the door, he shifted his grip to her thighs, opening them so he could thrust up into her, burying himself fully in one motion. “Oh, God, yes, Miranda,” he ground out. “This is so good. You are so good.”
He held her in place up against the door so he could withdraw and drive into her. It was primal and powerful and made her beg him to do it again. She teetered on an exquisite balance of yearning emptiness and fierce fullness. The contrast made her grind her hips into his for more.
He obliged, moving faster, filling her more completely, until she locked her arms around his neck, closed her eyes, and let him take her wherever he was going. Sensations swirled inside her like a kaleidoscope: the unyielding wood at her back, the controlling grip of his fingers on her thighs, the husky warmth of his breath on her cheek, the wool of his tux on her bared skin, the stretch and thrust of him moving inside her. Her need tightened down in her belly until he flexed his hips at exactly the right angle, and everything inside her burst into a perfect storm of contraction and release and pure, elemental satisfaction. She threw her head back, knocking it against the door, and shouted his name.
Her orgasm ignited his. He drove into her and stopped, suspended for a moment before he pulsed and arched back from where they were joined, her name tearing from his throat.
The force of his climax sent more tremors through her, a ripple of pleasure tugging at already sated muscles. She sighed into him, her head dropping onto his shoulder.
His iron grip on her thighs eased as he let his weight hold her up against the door. His chest expanded against hers when he drew in a long, shuddering breath. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes flew open and she lifted her head. “Sorry?” She tried to see his expression, but he was resting his forehead against the door beside her cheek.
“I’m sorry I didn’t take more time with you.” Regret laced his voice.
She let her head drop onto his shoulder again. “In case you didn’t notice, I beat you to the finish.”
He was silent for a moment before she both felt and heard a chuckle rumble up from his chest. “You’re a mite competitive.”
“This is a win-win situation,” she said. “We both get a prize.”
“Sugar, you are the prize.” His weight shifted and he slid out of her. “I’m going to let you down slow now.”
“That’s good, because I think my legs might fold up under me.”
He eased them both away from the door and set her down on the floor as gently as though she were made of fine crystal. Her knees wobbled, and she clutched at his lapels while he kept his hands firmly around her waist to support her. She looked up to find his pale eyes warm with something she might have called happiness. It transformed his face, gentling the angles and softening his implacable will. “Want me to carry you?”
“Yes, but I’m going to walk,” she said, remembering his injury.
He released her and turned away while she scrambled back into her panties and jeans, the lightest touch of the fabric against her still-sensitive clitoris making her suck in a quick breath. She watched Luke zip his trousers, leaving the tails of his tux shirt hanging out.
It was surreal to see this huge, gorgeous man in the midst of her ordinary apartment. She crossed her arms and wondered what to do next. They’d already cut to the chase. “Would you like a drink? Wine? Coffee?”
“I’m good.” He glanced around, and she wondered what he thought of her exposed-brick wall, the built-in bookcases she and her brother had spent a weekend constructing, and the scarred but lovingly polished parquet floor. “This is a nice place,” he said.
“Not quite the penthouse, but I’m content here.”
He walked to the bookcase to examine her reproduction of a Degas horse sculpture before he pivoted to meet her eyes. “It’s like you. Warm and elegant.”
“Elegant?” She raised her eyebrows and glanced around. Maybe the small Oriental area rug in tones of burgundy and blue was elegant. And the bronze-and-crystal Victorian chandelier she’d found in a consignment shop might qualify. The rest was just comfortable. “It’s home.”
His expression darkened at her last word. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me why?” She wanted to keep him there, so she waved toward the sofa she loved so much. It was upholstered in a subtle, cream basket-weave pattern that she’d found marked down in a high-end fabric store.
The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) Page 21
