“So the reality was a disappointment.”

“Oh, no! It made it so immediate. I knew I had really made it to my dream city.”

“You’re an interesting person, Miranda Tate,” he said, shaking his head.

The lights went down, and Miranda spent the whole performance sliding her gaze between the stage and Luke’s face. He watched with a slight frown, his focus absolute.

When the first piece ended, he applauded with apparent enthusiasm.

“Well?” she couldn’t help asking.

“You’re right about the dancers. They have incredible balance and flexibility.” He gave her a devilish look. “But they don’t have half a dozen three-hundred-pound men trying to knock them off their toes.”

“The famous dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov always said he admired athletes because they didn’t have choreography to follow. They had to improvise within chaos.”

“I like the man.”

The lights dimmed, and Luke once again locked his attention on the stage for one of George Balanchine’s famous leotard ballets. Miranda was glad Luke could see this because there were no sets and no costumes. He would be able to focus entirely on the dancers and their athletes’ bodies.

When the lights went up, Luke stood. “Let’s get a drink.”

As they joined the stream of people heading out of the theater and toward the lobby bar, Miranda caught the telltale glance and whisper of recognition from a couple beside them. She blessed the city mind-set that required sophisticated New Yorkers to be too cool to bother celebrities.

Luke escorted her to the bar on the promenade, took one look at the champagne on offer, and handed the bartender a folded bill. “Is there someplace we can get the good stuff?” he asked.

The bartender pocketed the bill and deserted his colleague behind the busy bar. “Follow me.”

As they wove through the crowd to a door set in the hallway that gave access to the orchestra seats, Miranda said under her breath, “That must have been a heck of a tip.”

“If you’re going to poison your body with alcohol, you should only do it with the best,” Luke said.

Their guide swiped his ID card through a slot beside the door and led them into a lounge with a sleek black bar at one end and plush, modern furniture at the other. Several clumps of expensively dressed patrons were scattered around the room. The bartender led Miranda and Luke to the bar, murmured a few words to his counterpart, and turned. “Matt will take good care of you, Mr. Archer.”

So he’d recognized Luke, too.

Luke shook hands with the young man, who practically bowed his way out of the room. By that time, the VIP bartender had poured them two flutes from a bottle of Krug Vintage Brut champagne.

Luke took a swallow. “Now this is worth drinking.”

Miranda sipped it and had to admit that it tasted like heaven.

Luke picked up the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries the bartender offered and led her to two chairs tucked in a corner.

“How did you know they would have ‘good stuff’ somewhere else?” Miranda asked. “You’ve never been to the ballet.”

“Where donations are needed, there’s always a VIP room.” Luke pushed the strawberries toward her on the low table.

Miranda took a bite of a strawberry, enjoying the pleasure of ripe fruit and rich chocolate on her tongue. Luke lounged back in the chair, his eyes disconcertingly fixed on her face. That blue flame flared in them again. She took another bite of the strawberry and felt awareness ripple through her when she realized he was staring at her mouth.

Luke raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to you eating strawberries.”

There was something different in the air between them that made her shift in her chair. Maybe it was the fire in his eyes scorching over her body. “You should have a strawberry,” she said. “They’re yummy.”

“I can tell by the way you’re enjoying them.”

She cleared her throat and left the rest of the strawberries on the plate. “Yes, um, the next ballet—”

He shook his head and stood up. “It’s time for a different kind of dancing. Wait here.”

He strode over to the bar and had a short conversation with the bartender, who nodded. Luke passed him money again before he pulled out his phone and tapped at the screen.

Miranda couldn’t help feeling a small thrill when a couple of designer-clad women cast her an envious glance as Luke sat down next to her. “This time there’s going to be audience participation,” he said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m not getting onstage.”

He laughed and tossed back the rest of his champagne before standing up and holding out his hand to her. “We’re leaving.”

“To go where?” He pulled her to her feet like she weighed nothing. She noticed his brief grimace of pain and flinched in empathy.

“A friend’s,” Luke said, taking the large shopping bag the bartender brought over.

He led her out onto the promenade, where the ballet-goers were streaming back to their seats. The crowd seemed to part magically for him as he plowed through them going the wrong way. “Too bad your opponents aren’t as easily cowed,” she said, following the path he cleared.

He glanced back to lift an eyebrow at her but kept going all the way out to the waiting limousine. The driver opened the door, and Miranda scrambled in while Luke gave instructions that she couldn’t hear.