The elevator slowed, and he pushed off the wall to look down at her. “Too bad the elevator ride wasn’t longer.”

The pale blue of his eyes no longer looked like a glacier. Now they burned with the scorching flame of an acetylene torch as it sliced through metal. Miranda felt the sear right down to her bones. Their flirting had taken on an unexpected edge that made her nervous. Because despite the city-girl facade she’d built for herself, she didn’t have much experience with city men. She just didn’t have the time. And she had a feeling that her romantic encounters with community college boys hadn’t come close to preparing her for someone like Luke Archer.

As the door slid open, she held up her hand like a stop signal, hoping he didn’t notice its slight waver as her blood pulsed hard in her veins. “Flirting again.”

He laid his big, square palm against the doorjamb to hold it open for her. Miranda sidled past him and pulled in a shaky breath before she resumed her tour guide duties. “The Chinese Garden Court is modeled on a seventeenth-century courtyard and features Ming dynasty wooden furn—”

He took her wrist and pulled her to a stop in the hallway. “You’re ignoring me.”

“That would be impossible,” she said.

“Okay, you’re ignoring what I said.” His thumb was stroking across the fragile skin on the inside of her wrist, which sent shivers of sensation dancing up her arm.

She could barely think straight, so she blurted out an honest answer. “I don’t understand what you’re doing. I’m supposed to be your tour guide and your temporary friend. I’m not your . . . your date.”

“Why can’t you be all three?” he asked.

Chapter 9

She stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. He guessed he couldn’t blame her. It was just that when they’d been closed up in the limo together, he’d become more and more conscious of how sexy she was. There was that smooth, creamy voice, but she also had shining dark hair that he wanted to bury his hands in, brown eyes that held a softness he found rare in this city of hard edges, and a lush mouth that made him want to taste it.

Not to mention the curves outlined by her fitted pants and silky top. Although her clothes led his mind in interesting directions, he had to admit there was nothing suggestive about them. She wasn’t showing cleavage or midriff, as did so many of the women who sought him out.

He liked to watch her dodge and weave, especially when she decided to give some sass back to him. And if she stopped dodging, the day might get very interesting indeed.

For now, he released her wrist, regretting the loss of her warm, soft skin under his thumb. “Okay, back to friendship. For now.”

She gave him a beaming smile that held equal parts relief and regret. The second one was promising. He followed her through the circular moon gate and into a serene oriental garden. She led him around as she pointed and talked about imperial kilns and yin-yang principles.

Spotting a bench standing in a sunbeam, he took her elbow and tugged her toward it. “Let’s sit down for a minute and soak up the atmosphere.”

“I thought you had to keep moving,” she said.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place football fans hang out,” he said, settling on the hard stone bench.

She perched a good foot away from him, her tablet balanced on her lap. The ramrod-straight line of her back set up a nice contrast to the gentle curve of her bottom. He imagined how it would fit in the cup of his hands and felt a twist of tension between his legs. So he pulled his gaze upward. He liked that she’d let her hair flow loose, not in the ponytail she wore at the Pinnacle. He missed the softness of women during the season.

“I’m not a football fan, and I would still recognize you,” she said.

“But would you want my autograph?”

“For Theo, I might. People will dare a lot of things for kids.” She scanned around the quiet space for a moment before tilting her head back slightly to bask in the sunshine.

The bared line of her throat drew his eyes, and he followed it down to the swell of her breasts. Those would rest in his palms quite nicely. His body reacted again, more strongly, so he turned away to take in the courtyard.

This was Miller’s fault. He wouldn’t be thinking about his tour guide this way if the writer hadn’t proposed that damned wager. It was his coach’s fault, too. He’d be watching film if Farrell hadn’t benched him for the week.

Just then, the single-mindedness of his life hit him like a 350-pound linebacker. Here he was in the company of a beautiful, cultured woman, surrounded by great art. Instead of taking pleasure in the response of his senses, he was assigning blame.

Hell, he couldn’t even enjoy his summers at the ranch anymore because he was so focused on getting in shape for the next season. He didn’t allow himself to rope cattle or play pickup basketball games with the ranch hands, because he couldn’t afford to get hurt.

It was a life with narrow horizons, and right now he felt like busting out of them.

He examined the courtyard with closer attention, noticing the pattern of the stone walkway and the tiles on the curving roofs, as well as the strange, contorted rocks. “So tell me about the kilns again.”

His gut tightened when Miranda’s velvety brown eyes lit with eagerness. “The Chinese reopened an old imperial kiln so the ceiling and floor tiles would be authentic. The workers pressed the clay into the frames with their feet. Everything was built by hand.” He realized he was staring too hard at the shapes her lips were forming when she halted and dropped her gaze to her tablet, saying, “It’s time to go see some paintings.”