He pushed himself up from the bench, ignoring the complaints of his stiff, bruised muscles.

“It may be a little risky, but we’re going to head through public spaces to get to Van Gogh,” she said. “Maybe you should put on your sunglasses for this part of the tour.”

He was used to being accosted every time he appeared in public. It went with the territory. But he slipped the Ray-Bans on to ease her concern. And to hide the hunger in his eyes.

Since walking didn’t seem to bother Luke’s bruises, Miranda set a brisk pace as she led her companion through a procession of galleries to the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century European section.

She didn’t know how to respond to the blatant desire she had caught in his gaze. She’d never struggled so hard not to cross the line between professional and personal, but Luke turned her body into a mass of pure yearning. Just his touch on her elbow sent an electric shock zinging around inside her.

He is a client. He lives at my place of work.

But it was more than that. Luke Archer existed at a level she couldn’t even imagine, with his prodigious money, talent, and fame. She had no business wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Even though she was sure virtually every woman in America wondered the same thing.

She cast a glance sideways to take in the way he moved beside her, the muscles in his long legs flexing under the denim, his big hands casually shoved into his pockets, and that perfectly carved face unreadable behind the mask of his dark glasses. His gilded hair curled out from under the dark blue of the Yankees cap, making her want to feather her fingers through the waves.

Who wouldn’t be flattered to catch this golden god’s interest?

She called on all her mental discipline to quell her unprofessional reactions, even as several women slanted long, admiring looks his way. Fortunately, no one seemed to realize who he was. Yet.

The painting galleries were going to be tricky, because the Van Goghs drew crowds of tourists. However, she didn’t want to bypass them. Somehow the boldness of the brushstrokes and colors seemed meant for Luke Archer.

She made a couple of sharp turns that landed them in front of Van Gogh’s Wheat Field with Cypresses, her personal favorite.

He took off his sunglasses and stood for a few long moments. “That’s a heck of a sky,” he finally said. “Reminds me of Texas.”

She decided that was a compliment. “There’s another wonderful sky in the next gallery. Along with his famous self-portrait, his early sunflowers, and irises.”

“I remember one of his sunflower paintings from my junior year trip to Amsterdam,” he said. “Always liked the guy’s work. It’s strong and a little crazy.”

She nodded, feeling connected to him by the way he responded to the art. He didn’t just glance and pass on. He got caught by the brilliance of Van Gogh’s masterpieces. Sharing beauty with him set up a happy little hum inside her. It gave them something in common.

They walked side by side to the next gallery. He spotted the painting with its swirling sky and crescent moon and headed straight for it. “It’s like the moment after the center hikes the ball,” he said. “Everything is in motion.”

“Luke Archer?” A middle-aged man wearing an Empire sweatshirt was towing his reluctant wife in their direction.

The whispering and staring started, and Miranda looked up at Luke to catch a fleeting expression of resignation cross his face. Regret pinched at her. She’d hoped to avoid this.

As the man approached, the quarterback plastered on a pleasant half smile and nodded.

“I knew it!” the man said to his wife. “We’re huge fans. Watched you win all four Super Bowls, and we know you’re going to bring home the Lombardi Trophy this year.”

“It’s a long season,” Luke said, his drawl pronounced. “But thanks.”

“Marilyn says I shouldn’t bother you, but our son would be so excited to have your autograph.” The man fished his wallet and a pen out of his pocket, thumbed out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it and the pen to Luke. “Here, you can use my back as a clipboard,” the man said, turning around. “My son’s name is Chris.”

Luke pulled out his own pen and signed the bill. “Would you like me to sign your sweatshirt, too?”

The man practically vibrated with excitement, nodding over his shoulder. “Oh, yeah, that would be great.”

Luke wrote his name on the gold E insignia.

The man swiveled forward again and held out his hand. “It’s an honor.”

The quarterback shook his hand, and the man backed away, grinning and staring at the signature on the money.

An older woman approached more tentatively, opening her Chanel handbag. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re Luke Archer. My grandson thinks you are the cat’s pajamas. Would you sign a dollar bill for him?”

Once again Luke smiled and signed the proffered bill. By then a small crowd had gathered around him with people lifting cell phones to take pictures and holding out various pieces of paper for his autograph. Miranda got edged aside, but she noticed that the fans kept a respectful space around Luke. No one shoved in to have a photo taken with him unless they got his permission. They knew they were in the presence of a star.

As people began to stream in from other galleries, Miranda cast around for a way to extricate the quarterback from his fans. Just then, a young man dressed in a slim-fitting dark suit and wearing a Metropolitan Museum ID badge strode up to the growing clot of people. “Mr. Archer, Ms. Tate, come with me, please.”