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.”