Dismay clenched a fist in her chest when she recognized the men as the Archer brothers.

Almost anyone in the New York metropolitan area would be able to identify Luke Archer, the superstar quarterback of the New York Empire, winner of four Super Bowls, and a media darling for his blond hair, blue eyes, and laconic charm. He lived in the building, but she rarely saw him since he was either training, playing, or at his ranch in Texas during the off-season. And his penthouse had its own private entrance. He made very few requests of the concierge service, partly because he had a full-time assistant and partly because he was showered with invitations to every exclusive event in the New York metro area without having to ask.

His brother, Trevor, was a different story. She’d heard that he had a PhD from Harvard, but he didn’t seem to have done much with it. He had the same blue eyes as his brother, but his hair was light brown, and his physique was lanky, rather than superbly muscled like the athlete sitting next to him. When Trevor visited his brother, he availed himself of the concierge services with gusto. In fact, she’d had a problem with him last night, but she couldn’t imagine Orin calling her in about that.

Luke Archer surged to his feet, towering over her. “Morning, ma’am,” he said, his Texas accent making it sound friendlier than he probably intended. “Please,” he said, gesturing to his chair.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Miranda said with a quick shake of her head. Orin would be angry if she took a client’s chair.

Trevor looked somewhere to her left as he nodded in her general direction.

Luke didn’t return to his seat. Instead, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall near her. She was used to celebrities, but Luke Archer was beyond that—he was a living legend in New York. She couldn’t help slanting a quick sidelong glance to take in the breadth of his shoulders under the pale blue T-shirt and the swell of his thigh muscles under well-worn jeans. He exuded a coiled energy that must explode on the playing field. It certainly made her breath come a little faster.

“Miranda, I am concerned about a complaint from Mr. Archer that you would not accommodate his request last night,” Orin said, his voice oozing with false courtesy.

Trevor shifted so the leather chair creaked. Miranda dragged her attention away from Luke. “I explained to Mr. Archer that honoring that kind of request is against our policy in this building.”

Orin flicked an uneasy glance at Trevor. Was it possible Trevor hadn’t revealed what he’d asked for?

“We are dedicated to making sure our residents and their guests lack nothing here at the Pinnacle,” Orin spouted.

“However, we have certain boundaries,” Miranda said, feeling her way into the discussion.

Trevor’s fingers beat an uneven rhythm on the arm of his chair. “I might have been unclear about what I wanted,” he said. “This is just a misunderstanding.”

She felt the air move beside her as Luke Archer pushed off the wall and leaned forward to brace his hands on the arm of his vacant chair. “What exactly did you ask for, Trev?” His drawl made the question sound almost casual, but there was steel beneath the leisurely cadence. Miranda was glad he wasn’t addressing her.

Trevor turned toward his brother briefly before looking back at Orin. “Nothing I haven’t asked for before.”

Sweat beaded on Orin’s forehead, and Miranda wound her hands into a knot in front of her. Her boss really didn’t know what Trevor had requested.

Either Orin had been too awed by Trevor’s connection to his illustrious brother to probe, or he had been so thrilled to catch her in a supposed mistake that he’d leaped at the chance to make her look bad in front of Luke Archer. Or both.

It didn’t surprise her that another concierge had broken one of the rules of their building, but it cast Orin in a bad light, since he was the owner of the concierge service. He would make her life even more miserable now.

Orin picked up a pen and clicked it open and shut as he spoke. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding between Mr. Archer and Miranda. I would like to offer my sincerest apologies, Mr. Archer. Miranda, you may return to your office.”

“Just a minute,” Luke Archer said, his voice carrying the edge of command he must use to direct the giants of the offensive line on the field.

He took a step backward as Miranda turned away from Orin’s desk, so she ran smack into him. She bounced off, tottering on her stiletto heels as the sudden contact with his body sent sparks arcing through her. Luke’s hand shot out to grasp her elbow in a grip that felt like sun-warmed iron. As he held her steady, she had the sense that he could lift her off the ground with just that one hand.

“Thank you,” she gasped. She, who prided herself on never losing her composure, sounded like a breathless teenager because a blond football god had touched her elbow.

Then he unleashed a weapon so powerful she had no defense against it. He smiled. The ice in those intense eyes melted, his teeth flashed brilliant white, and the famous single dimple put a rogue’s brand on his left cheek.

There was no need for Photoshopping on all those billboards and clothing ads. Luke Archer looked exactly like his pictures, only better, because she could feel the heat of his hand through her silk sleeve, watch the expansion and contraction of his chest as he breathed, and inhale the scent of clean, warm male.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and released her before turning back to his brother. “Trevor?”

It took all her powers of concentration to recall the question Luke had asked before. She needed to get her inappropriate reactions to the quarterback under control or she would have even bigger problems with her boss than she already did.