Two kinds of pleasure danced through her: gratification at his praise, and the sensual thrill of having his large, warm hand around hers.

They scooted onto their opposite seats in the limo, the driver shutting the door and enclosing them once again in that dim, intimate space. Miranda felt a sense of loss as she had to let go of his hand, but it was for the best.

“You are incredibly generous with your fans,” Miranda said. His unfailing courtesy and patience with his admirers, from Theo to the Chanel lady, had the effect of making her heart go soft. He curbed all the power and arrogance of his field presence in deference to his loyal followers. It was like watching a prince walk humbly among his subjects.

“They pay my salary,” he said with a shrug and a grimace.

“Is your side hurting you?”

“Only when I move wrong. Don’t worry about it.”

He clearly wanted to brush it off, so she went back to her original topic. “I work with some other famous people, and they don’t interact with their admirers the way you do. In fact, some of them are downright rude.”

Luke stared out the window. “Those fans spend money on jerseys and programs and tickets. Money they work just as hard as I do to earn. The least I can do is write my name on their memorabilia.” He looked back at her. “It’s a powerful thing to be able to make another human being happy with just your signature.”

With great daring, she leaned forward to touch his knee. “But it costs you time and privacy.”

He covered her hand and held it against the denim of his jeans. She could feel the flex of tendon over bone under her palm, and a shiver of awareness ran up her arm. “When I want those, I can have them,” he said. Picking up her hand, he tugged on it. “Come sit beside me. It’s friendlier, and you can show me what we’re seeing next on your handy tablet.”

Nervous excitement vibrated through her. They were playing a game where she was the rookie. Now he was pushing the boundaries, watching her and waiting for her to pull back or go forward. She should just hit the correct icon and hand him the tablet. “I, uh, okay,” she said.

As she transferred to the backseat, his weight compressed the springs so she slid up against his leather-covered side. He laid his arm along the back of the seat behind her shoulders so she could feel it brushing against her. He smelled of lemon, leather, and male, a potent mix.

She stared down at the screen and inhaled sharply, which merely intensified the heady aromas that enveloped her. Then she tapped the Morgan Library button.

“A library?” Surprise laced his voice. “I thought we were doing art.”

“Books can be art.” Relief muted her nerves as she returned to being a concierge. “Pierpont Morgan built it as his private library and stocked it with the most incredible treasures. The library has not one, not two, but three Gutenberg Bibles, the earliest books printed with movable type, and the most in any single collection. Can you imagine buying three Gutenberg Bibles for yourself?”

She glanced up at him to find that the easy smile had disappeared from his face. “You get mighty excited about books,” he said, the angle of his jaw tight.

“The technology of movable type eventually opened up reading to the masses. It transformed the western world.” She didn’t know what had changed his mood, so she tried a different tack. “Who’s your favorite author?”

The smile he gave her was humorless. “It used to be Gavin Miller, but I might rethink that.”

“The Julian Best thrillers? Those are terrific. So are the movies. Why are you changing your mind about them?”

“Because I met Miller about ten days ago. He’s a troublemaker.”

“What kind of trouble could he make for you?” She was baffled.

He huffed out a short laugh. “You have no idea.”

“Then I won’t buy his books anymore.”

He weighed her words. “I appreciate your loyalty.”

“In my line of work, you can tell a lot by how people treat those who work for them,” she said. “You’re one of the good guys.”

He turned so his pale eyes met hers. “Just remember, you’ve only seen me on my day off.”

Chapter 10

At the Morgan Library, Miranda was less concerned about Luke being mobbed, so they went in through the front door. A couple of patrons cast appraising glances at him, but no one approached.

“Let’s go to the original library first,” she said, starting across the sun-drenched glass atrium that now joined J. P. Morgan Jr.’s former residence with his father’s library. Luke reached for her hand as he looked around, letting her lead him into the magnificent Italianate palazzo. The easy familiarity of his gesture sent heat prickling through her. She could get addicted to the feel of his palm against hers.

They strolled through the beautiful rotunda with its marble surfaces, lapis lazuli columns, and gorgeous mosaic panels. “Now this is nice,” he said.

“It’s just the entrance. This is the library,” Miranda announced in a whisper of awe as they stepped into what might be her favorite room in the world. “Close your eyes and inhale,” she said, taking her own advice. “That’s the smell of centuries of knowledge and music and culture.”

She opened her eyes and tilted her head to see what Luke’s reaction was. His nostrils flared, so he had at least inhaled, but his gaze was angled upward at the three tiers of walnut-and-bronze bookcases. “So this is what rich men did with their money in the old days.”