Rules of the Game

by Nora Roberts

  “Well then.” Casually, Claire tucked her hand into Lee’s beefy arm. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Have a good time, kid,” Lee called over his shoulder as Claire propelled him away.

  “Thanks a lot.” Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Brooke worked her way up, then out to the lower level, third-base box. “Thanks a hell of a lot,” she repeated and stared out at the empty diamond.

  There were a few maintenance workers scooping up the debris in the stands with humming heavy-duty cleaners, but other than that the huge open area was deserted. Finding it strangely appealing, Brooke discovered her annoyance waning. An hour before, the air had been alive, throbbing with the pulse of thousands. Now it was serene, with only the faintest trace of the crowd—the lingering odor of humanity, a whiff of salted popcorn, a few discarded cardboard containers. She leaned back against the rail, more interested in the empty stadium than the empty field.

  When had it been built? she wondered. How many generations had crammed themselves into the seats and aisles to watch the games? How many thousands of gallons of beer had traveled along the rows of seats? She laughed a little, amused by her own whimsy. When a player stopped playing, did he come here to watch and remember? She thought Parks would. The game, she concluded, would get into your blood. Even she hadn’t been immune to it . . . or, she thought wryly, to him.

  Brooke tossed her head back, letting her hair fall behind her. The shadows were lengthening, but the heat still had the sticky, sweltering capacity of high afternoon. She didn’t mind—she hated being cold. Habitually, she narrowed her eyes and let herself visualize how she would approach the stadium on film. Empty, she thought, with the echo of cheers, the sound of a ball cracking off a bat, a banner left behind to flutter in the breeze. She’d use the maintenance workers, sucking up the boxes and cups and bags. She might title it Afterthought, and there’d be no telling if the home team had left the field vanquished or victorious. What mattered would be the perpetuity of the game, the people who played it and the people who watched.

  Brooke sensed him before she heard him—only an instant, but the instant was enough to scatter her thoughts and to bring her eyes swerving toward him. Immediately, all sense of the scene she had been setting vanished from her mind. No one else had ever had the power to do that to her. The fact that Parks did baffled her nearly as much as it infuriated her. For Brooke, her work was the one stability in her life—nothing and no one was allowed to tamper with it. Defensively, she straightened, meeting his stare head-on as he walked down to her in the loose, rangy stride that masked over a decade of training.

  She expected him to greet her with some smart remark. Brooke was prepared for that. She considered he might greet her casually, as if his lie in the locker room had been perfect truth. She was prepared for that, too.

  She wasn’t prepared for him to walk directly to her, bury his hands in her hair and crush her against him in a long, hotly possessive kiss. Searing flashes of pleasure rocketed through her. Molten waves of desire overpowered surprise before it truly had time to register. His mouth pressed against hers in an absolute command that barely hid a trace of desperation. It was that desperation, more than the authority, that Brooke found herself responding to. The need to be needed was strong in her—she had always considered it her greatest weakness. And she was weak now, with the sharp scent of his skin in her senses, the dark taste of his mouth on her tongue, the feel of his shower-damp hair on her fingers.

  Slowly, Parks drew away, waiting for her heavy lids to lift. Though his eyes never left hers, Brooke felt as though he looked at all of her once, thoroughly. “I want you.” He said it calmly, though the fierce look was back on his face.

  “I know.”

  Parks ran a hand through her hair again, from the crown to the tips. “I’m going to have you.”

  Steadying a bit, Brooke stepped out of his arms. “That I don’t know.”

  Smiling, Parks continued to caress her hair. “Don’t you?”

  “No,” Brooke returned with such firmness that Parks lifted a brow.

  “Well,” he considered, “I suppose it could be a very pleasant experience to convince you.”

  Brooke tossed her head to free her hair of his seeking fingers. “Why did you lie to Lee about our having plans tonight?”

  “Because I’d spent nine long, hot innings thinking about making love to you.”

  Again he said it calmly, with just a hint of a smile on his lips, but Brooke realized he was quite serious. “Well, that’s direct and to the point.”

  “You prefer things that way, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, settling back against the rail again. “So let me do the same for you. We’re going to be working together for several months on a very big project that involves a number of people. I’m very good at my job and I intend to see that you’re very good at yours.”

  “So?”

  Her eyes flashed at his amused tone, but Brooke continued. “So personal involvements interfere with professional judgment. As your director, I have no intention of becoming your lover, however briefly.”

  “Briefly?” Parks repeated, studying her. “Do you always anticipate the length of your relationships beforehand? I think,” he continued slowly, “you’re more of a romantic than that.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” she snapped, “as long as you understand.”

  “I understand,” Parks agreed, beginning to. “You’re evading the issue.”

  “I certainly am not!” Temper flared, reflecting in her stance and her eyes as well as her voice. “I’m telling you straight out that I’m not interested. If that bruises your ego, too bad.”

  Parks grabbed her arm when she would have swept by him. “You know,” he began in a careful tone that warned of simmering anger, “you infuriate me. I can’t remember the last time a woman affected me that way.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Brooke jerked her arm out of his hold. “You’ve been too busy devastating them with your charm.”

  “And you’re too worried about being dumped to have any kind of a relationship.”

  She made a quick, involuntary sound, as if she’d been struck. Cheeks pale, eyes dark, she stared at him before she shoved him aside to race up the stairs. Parks caught her before she’d made it halfway. Though he turned her back to face him firmly, his touch was gentle.

  “Raw nerve?” he murmured, feeling both sympathy and guilt. It wasn’t often he lost control enough to say something he’d have to apologize for. Eyes dry and hurting, Brooke glared at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just let me go.”

  “Brooke.” He wanted to pull her into his arms and comfort, but knew she wouldn’t accept it. “I am sorry. I don’t make a habit of punching women.”

  It wasn’t charm, but sincerity. After a moment, Brooke let out a long breath. “All right. I usually take a punch better than that.”

  “Can we take off the gloves—at least for the rest of the day?” How deep was the hurt? Parks wondered. And how long would it take to win her trust?

  “Maybe,” Brooke returned cautiously.

  “How about dinner?”

  She responded to the smile before she realized it. “My weakness.”

  “We’ll start there, then. How do you feel about tacos?”

  She allowed him to take her hand. “Who’s buying?”

  ***

  They sat outdoors at a busy fast-food franchise with tiny metal tables and hard stools. Sounds of traffic and blaring car radios rolled over them. Brooke relaxed when she ate, Parks noted, wondering if she were consciously aware of the dropping of guards. He didn’t think so. The relaxation was the same when she sat in an elegant restaurant with wine and exotic food as it was in a greasy little takeout with sloppy tacos and watered-down sodas in paper cups. After handing her another napkin, Parks decided to do some casual probing.

  “Did you grow up in California?”

  “No.” Brooke drew more soda through her str
aw. “You did.”

  “More or less.” Remembering how skilled she was in evading or changing the subject, Parks persisted. “Why did you move to L.A.?”

  “It’s warm,” she said immediately. “It’s crowded.”

  “But you live miles out of town in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I like my privacy. How did your family feel about you choosing baseball over Parkinson Chemicals?”

  He smiled a little, enjoying the battle for control. “Stunned. Though I’d told them for years what I intended to do. My father thought, still thinks, it’s a phase. What does your family think about you directing commercials?”

  Brooke set down her cup. “I don’t have any family.”

  Something in her tone warned him this was a tender area. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Here and there.” Quickly, she began to stuff used napkins into the empty cups. Parks caught her hand before she could rise.

  “Foster homes?”

  Eyes darkening with anger, Brooke stared at him. “Why are you pressing?”

  “Because I want to know who you are,” he said softly. “We could be friends before we’re lovers.”

  “Let go of my hand.”

  Instead of obliging, Parks gave her a curious look. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “You make me furious,” she tossed back, evading one truth with another. “I can’t be around you for more than ten minutes without getting mad.”

  Parks grinned. “I know the feeling. Still, it’s stimulating.”

  “I don’t want to be stimulated,” Brooke said evenly. “I want to be comfortable.”

  With a half laugh, Parks turned her hand over, brushing his lips lightly over the palm. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, watching her reaction over their joined hands. “You’re much too alive to settle for comfortable.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Exactly my point.” He leaned a bit closer. “Who are you?”

  “What I’ve made myself.”

  Parks nodded. “I see a strong, independent woman with lots of drive and ambition. I also see a woman who chooses a quiet, isolated spot for her home, who knows how to laugh and mean it, who forgives just as quickly as she angers.” As he spoke Parks watched her brows lower. She wasn’t angry now, but thoughtful and wary. He felt a bit like a man trying to gain the confidence of a dove who might fly away at any time or choose to nestle in the palm of his hand. “She interests me.”

  After a moment, Brooke let out a long breath. Perhaps if she told him a little, she considered, he’d leave it at that. “My mother wasn’t married,” she began briskly. “I’m told that after six months she got tired of lugging a baby around and dumped me on her sister. I don’t remember a great deal about my aunt, I was six when she turned me over to social services. What I do remember is being hungry and not very warm. I went into my first foster home.” She shrugged then pushed away the debris that littered the table. “It wasn’t too bad. I was there for little more than a year before I got shuffled to the next one. I was in five altogether from the age of six to seventeen. Some were better than others, but I never belonged. A lot of that may have been my fault.”

  Brooke sighed, not pleased to remember. “Not all foster parents take in children for the money. Some of them—most of them,” she amended, “are very kind, loving people. I just never felt a part, because I always knew it would be temporary, that my sister or brother of the moment was real and I was . . . transient. As a result I was difficult. Maybe I challenged the people whose home I was placed in to want me—for me, not out of pity or social obligation or the extra dollars my living with them would bring in.

  “My last two years in high school I lived on a farm in Ohio with a nice couple who had an angelic son who would yank my hair when his mother’s back was turned.” A quick grimace. “I left as soon as I graduated from high school, worked my way cross-country waiting tables. It only took me four months to get to L.A.” She met Parks’s quiet, steady look and suddenly flared. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  The ultimate insult, he mused, taking her rigid hand in his. “I wasn’t. I was wondering how many people would have had the guts to try to make their own life at seventeen, and how many would have the strength to really do it. At the same age I wanted to head for the Florida training camps. Instead I was on a plane heading for college.”

  “Because you had an obligation,” Brooke countered. “I didn’t. If I had had the chance to go to college . . .” She trailed off. “In any case, we’ve both had a decade in our careers.”

  “And you can have several more if you like,” Parks pointed out. “I can’t. One more season.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “You’ll only be . . .”

  “Thirty-five,” he finished with a wry smile. “I promised myself ten years ago that’s when I’d stop. There aren’t many of us who can play past forty like Mays.”

  “Yes, it’s obvious you play like an old man,” she returned dryly.

  “I intend to stop before I do.”

  Taking a straw, she began to pleat it while she studied him. “Quit while you’re ahead?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  That she could understand. “Does giving it up with half your life ahead of you bother you?”

  “I intend to do something with the second half, but at times it does. Other times I think about all those summer evenings I’ll have free. Do you like the beach?”

  “I don’t get there often, but yes.” She thought about the long, hot commercial she’d just filmed. “With occasional exceptions,” she added.

  “I have a place on Maui.” Unexpectedly he leaned over, caressing her cheek with fingers that were whisper soft and undeniably possessive. “I’m going to take you there one day.” He shook his head as Brooke started to speak. “Don’t argue, we do that too much. Let’s go for a drive.”

  “Parks,” Brooke began as they rose, “I meant what I said about not getting involved.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Then he kissed her long and lingeringly while she stood with her hands filled with paper plates and cups.

  Chapter 5

  It was three days before Brooke heard from Parks. She was aware that the last four-game series in the regular season would be played out of town. She knew, too, from what she told herself was simply a casual glimpse at the sports section, that Parks had knocked in three more RBIs in the first two games. In the meantime, she was busy looking over the storyboard for his first block of commercials.

  The word had come down that the first thirty-second spot would be filmed before the league play-offs, in order to capitalize on Parks’s exposure in the competition. That left Brooke little time to prepare, with an already demanding schedule of studio and location shoots, editing and preproduction meetings. But challenge, like food, was vital to her.

  Closed off in her office, with a half an hour’s leeway before she was due at the studio, Brooke ran over the final script for the initial de Marco commercial. Casually slick, she thought, approving. It had minimal dialogue and soft sell—Parks at the plate, swinging away while dressed in de Marco’s elegant sports clothes, then a slow dissolve to the next scene with him dressed in the same suit, stepping out of a Rolls with a slinky brunette on his arm.

  “Clothes for anytime—anywhere,” Brooke muttered. The timing had been checked and rechecked. The audio, except for Parks’s one-line voice-over, was already being recorded. All she had to do was to guide Parks through the paces. The salesmanship hinged on her skill and his charm. Fair enough, she thought and reached for her half cup of cold coffee as a knock sounded at her door. “Yeah?” Brooke turned the script back to page one, running through the camera angles.

  “Delivery for you, Brooke.” The receptionist dropped a long white florist’s box on her cluttered desk. “Jenkins said to let you know the Lardner job’s been edited. You might want to check it out.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Curiously, Brooke frowned over the top of the script at the flower
box. Occasionally, she received a grateful phone call or letter from a client when they were particularly pleased with a commercial—but not flowers. Then there’d been that actor in the car spot last year, Brooke remembered. The one who was on his third wife. He’d alternately amused and annoyed Brooke by sending her batches of red roses every week. But six months had passed since she had convinced him that he was wasting her time and his money.

  More likely it was one of E.J.’s practical jokes, she considered. She’d probably find a few dozen frog legs inside. Not one to spoil someone’s fun, Brooke pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.

  There were masses of hibiscus. Fragrant, dew-soft pink-and-white petals filled the box almost to overflowing. After the first gasp of surprise, Brooke dove her hands into them, captivated by their purely feminine scent and feel. Her office suddenly smelled like a tropical island: heady, exotic, richly romantic. With a sound of pleasure, she filled her hands with the blooms, bringing them up to her face to inhale. In contrast to the