Luke shot a questioning look at Miranda, and she nodded. Someone on the Met’s staff must have noticed the situation and sent a rescuer. She offered up a silent thank-you as the crowd parted for them, and they followed the young man into the next gallery. When they passed through a staff-only door, Miranda breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Thank you so much! I wasn’t sure how we were going to get out of there without causing a riot.”

“It happens with celebrities all the time,” he said. “Security notified me.”

At Miranda’s request, the young man led them through the back corridor to the Degas gallery and left them there with the assurance that he would intervene again if necessary.

“Why Degas?” Luke asked as they stood in front of a pastel of ballerinas rehearsing onstage.

Miranda took a deep breath. “Because I got tickets to the ballet for tonight.” She watched Luke’s face anxiously. “I’ve heard that pro athletes go to ballet classes to improve their flexibility.”

“The ballet. Huh.”

“The dancers are superb athletes, just like you. I got tickets to the New York City Ballet because the program is pure dance rather than a story. I thought you might like that because the choreography stands out more.”

He continued to stare at the painting for a few moments. Then he slanted her a wry smile. “Sugar, you’re trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

Miranda looked at the dazzling blond sports hero standing beside her. “Wait, you’re calling yourself a sow’s ear?”

“When it comes to this stuff.” He gestured toward the ballerinas.

“You knew more about the Egyptians than I did!”

He shrugged. “That was just a kid’s interest.” He glanced to the right, and suddenly his arm was around her waist like an iron band, and he was moving her swiftly toward a door. “Someone spotted me,” he explained. “I’m not going to put you through fending off another autograph session.”

She was having a hard time keeping up with his long stride, so he pulled her more tightly to him and swept her along with her feet barely touching the ground. His strength made her feel weightless, while being pressed along his warm, muscular side from her shoulder to her thigh wrapped her in a haze of sensory overload. Every step thrust them into closer contact, so the hard planes of his body moved against her, sucking the oxygen out of her blood and replacing it with licking flames.

For a minute she gave in to it and let him carry her along. Then she realized she needed to direct them. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp so she could look at her tablet, but he didn’t release her or slow down.

“Stop fighting me,” he said. “You’re making my bruises ache.”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” she said with a jab of guilt as she fell into step with him again. He hid the pain so well that she’d forgotten he was hurt. “Do you know where you’re going?”

He glanced down at her without slowing, his eyes gleaming. “No, but I’m enjoying getting there.”

Did he mean because she was plastered against him? What else could he mean? “Um, I think you need to make a right here,” she stammered.

She felt every point of contact. His long fingers were splayed over her hip, covering so much that the tips grazed the top of her thigh. It was much too close to the spot between her legs that was pulsing with heat in response to his touch. She struggled to focus as a hot, sliding sensation rippled through her.

“Left,” she gasped.

“Where are we going?” he asked, slowing down but keeping his arm around her.

“Arms and armor. Downstairs.”

He glanced at a sign and steered them toward the elevator.

“I’m not sure the elevator’s a good idea. You can’t escape if someone recognizes you.”

“Trust me, they won’t.” He halted and let the doors close on a half-full car. “We’ll just move to the back of the next one.”

When the next elevator’s doors opened and the crowd flooded out, he headed straight for the far corner, wedging his shoulders against the wall. “You’re going to provide screening,” he said, turning her to face him, so he was looking down into her eyes, the bill of his baseball cap nearly covering his face. “Now say something really interesting.”

“What?”

“I need to have a reason to keep my eyes locked on you.” His dimple was showing. “Or I could kiss you.”

“I can do interesting.” Although she hankered to know what it would be like to have his mouth on hers, his hands roaming up and down her back, his rock-hard thighs pressing against hers. Desire coursed through her like a stream in flood. “Um, the armor we’re going to see was worn by Henry the Eighth in battle, probably in his last campaign, which was the siege of Boulogne in 1544. He was overweight and unwell, but he still led his troops. I thought you would be interested because you wear armor and lead your troops in battle, too.”

In the shadow of his cap, his eyes blazed and his smile turned hot. “I like the way you define me. Gladiator, warrior, king.”

She needed to lower the heat or she would combust. “Ballet-goer.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a full-throated, husky sound that drew fingers of delight up and down her spine. Fortunately, the elevator doors opened, because everyone in the enclosed space turned around to stare.

Somehow she guided him through the last three stops at the Met and headed for the limo. As they walked back through the staff corridor, Luke took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “I enjoy touring with you,” he said. “It’s like a highlights reel.”