Frankie Hogan was Luke’s kind of person. She didn’t take crap from anyone. When she’d made her massive fortune, she’d applied to some fancy clubs and been turned down, probably because she was new money, Irish, and a woman. In his eyes, that made her achievements more impressive, not less, but the old-money snobs didn’t think so. So she’d turned the tables on them by starting her own club and shutting out the people whose only accomplishment was having rich parents.

She settled into the chair Trainor held for her. “You’re famous for your honesty and your ability to keep a secret,” Trainor said as they all sat, and Donal brought over paper, envelopes, and Montblanc pens.

“Along with ruthlessness, cunning, and sheer cussedness,” Miller interjected.

Luke added his glare to Trainor’s, and the writer shut up. Trainor continued. “So we’re entrusting you with the personal stakes in our wager, sealed in separate envelopes. Each one of us can win or lose individually, but it takes the agreement of all three to declare someone a winner.”

Frankie considered his terms before saying, “I’ll want to read them to make sure they’re legit.”

When Trainor looked at him, Luke nodded. Miller did the same.

“What’s the time frame?” Frankie asked.

“One year,” Luke said. He had to get through the rest of football season before he could focus on the wager. “Anyone who hasn’t claimed their stakes back by then is declared a loser.”

“A long-term game,” Frankie said, her voice carrying a hint of surprise.

Trainor nodded. “One year. Miller?”

Miller didn’t miss a beat. “Agreed,” he said. Was the man simply too drunk to know what he was consenting to? The writer met Luke’s gaze steadily and with a gleam of amused intelligence in his eyes. He knew what he was doing.

“I’ll lock them in my private safe,” Frankie said. “Who’s going first?”

Miller threw Luke a challenging smile as he grabbed one of the shiny black Montblanc pens and wrote his name on an envelope. He slid a sheet of heavy paper to his side of the table. “I’ll trust my fellow bettors not to read over my shoulder,” he said as he wrote down several words before holding it out to Frankie.

The club’s owner accepted the sheet and glanced down at it. As she folded it and slipped it into the envelope, she leveled an assessing gaze on the writer.

Luke didn’t bother with the ceremonial pen. He used his own to record his stakes in bold capital letters. Frankie read his wager and gave a low whistle. He allowed himself a tight smile. He wasn’t going to lose.

It was Trainor’s turn. When Frankie read the paper he handed her, she frowned. “Are you sure?” she asked the CEO, concern in her Irish lilt.

His answer was bald and definitive. “Yes.”

Frankie sealed his bet into the envelope. “You’ll inform me anytime someone is approved as a winner, or else we will meet in my office in one year’s time.” She tapped the envelopes into a neat stack on the table. “I certainly hope whatever you win is worth what you all might lose.”

“It will be life changing,” Trainor said.

Luke hoped he was right.

“That explains the stakes,” Frankie said, picking up the envelopes before rising. “Good night, gentlemen.”

All three men came to their feet as she made her exit. Miller scooped up his glass, lifting it high. “To our wager of hearts. May we be guests at each other’s weddings.”

If Miller had to be on the guest list, Luke just might elope.

Chapter 1

At 8:45 a.m., Miranda Tate’s desk phone buzzed.

“I need you in my office now.” Her boss’s voice held an undertone of glee, which meant he believed he’d caught her in a mistake.

She should have known something was up when Orin came in half an hour earlier than his normal day shift. The head concierge at the luxury condominium never worked an extra minute if he could avoid it.

“I’ll be right there,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.

She slipped her feet into the black high-heeled pumps she’d kicked off under her desk and stood. Smoothing her slim, charcoal wool skirt down so it touched the tops of her knees, she moved to the mirror hanging on the back of her door. There she checked that her long, dark hair was still neatly tucked into its low ponytail.

After straightening the collar of her blouse, she opened the door of her office and strode across the lobby’s granite floor, her heels clicking on the stone. The Pinnacle had been built with the finest materials, but this gold-and-gray floor was her favorite, reminding her of hot desert sand swirling around cool river rocks. Sometimes she still couldn’t quite believe she worked in such a spectacular building whose residents were on every A list in their respective fields. It was a far cry from milking cows in upstate New York, but she’d worked darn hard to get here.

Her boss, Orin Spindle, had chosen his office for its impressive size rather than its convenience, so she had to hike down a lengthy hallway to reach it. Although Miranda was an assistant concierge, the small, elegant office she shared with her fellow assistant Sofia Nunez was much more accessible to the building’s tenants, which meant they tended to come there first. Depending on his mood, that either irritated or relieved Orin.

His door was closed. Not a good sign. Miranda knocked lightly.

“Come in.” Her boss nearly sang the words.

She braced her shoulders and turned the knob. Once inside, her first impression was that Orin’s capacious office was crowded. The impression resolved itself into the presence of two very tall men seated in the black leather armchairs in front of Orin’s desk. Since there were no chairs left, Miranda walked to the side of the desk. “Good morning,” she said with a polite smile.