by Nora Roberts
sultry scent, the petals seemed impossibly fragile. A small white card fluttered down to her littered desk.
Letting the flowers drift back into the box, Brooke reached for the envelope and tore it open.
I thought of your skin.
There was nothing else, but she knew. She shuddered, then chided herself for acting like a mooning teenager. But she read the line three times. No one had ever been able to affect her so deeply with such simplicity. Though Parks was a thousand miles away, she could all but feel those lean, strong fingers trace down her cheek. The flood of warmth, the flash of desire told her she wasn’t going to escape him—had never truly wanted to. Without giving herself any time for doubts or fears, Brooke picked up the phone.
“Get me Parks Jones,” she said quickly. “Try Lee Dutton, he’ll have the number.” Before she could change her mind, Brooke hung up, burying her hands in the flowers again.
How was it he knew just what buttons to push? she wondered, then discovered at that moment she didn’t care. It was enough to be romanced—and romanced in style. Lifting a single bloom, she trailed it down her cheek. It was smooth and moist against her skin—as Parks’s first kiss had been. The ringing phone caught her dreaming.
“Yes?”
“Parks Jones on line two. You’ve got ten minutes before they need you in the studio.”
“All right. Hunt me up a vase and some water, will you?” She glanced at the box again. “Make that two vases.” Still standing with the blossom in her hand, Brooke punched the button for line two. “Parks?”
“Yes. Hello, Brooke.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She hesitated, then let herself speak her first thought. “I feel like a teenager who just got her first corsage.”
Dropping flat on his back on the bed, he laughed. “I’d like to see you with some of them in your hair.”
Experimentally she held one up over her ear. Unprofessional, she thought with a sigh, and contented herself with the scent of them. “I’ve a shoot in the studio in a few minutes; I don’t think the lights would do them much good.”
“You have your practical side, don’t you, Brooke?” Parks flexed the slight ache in his shoulder and closed his eyes.
“It’s necessary,” she muttered but couldn’t quite bring herself to drop the blossom back in the box. “How are you? I wasn’t sure you’d be in.”
“I got in about half an hour ago. They cut us down five to two. I went oh for three.”
“Oh.” She frowned, not quite sure what she was supposed to say. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t seem to have any rhythm—it’ll pass.” Before the play-offs, he added silently. “I thought of you, maybe too much.”
Brooke felt an odd twist of pleasure that was difficult to pass off. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a slump, particularly when I remember some of the remedies.” His chuckle sounded faint and weary. “Are you tired?”
“A bit. You’d think with the division wrapped up we’d glide through this last series. Last night we went eleven innings.”
“I know.” She could have bitten off her tongue. “I caught the highlights on the late news,” she said breezily. “I’ll let you sleep, then. I just wanted to thank you.”
Her inadvertent admission had his lips twitching, but he didn’t bother to open his eyes. With them closed, he had no trouble bringing her face into focus. “Will I see you when I get back?”
“Of course. We’ll be shooting the first segment on Friday, so—”
“Brooke,” he interrupted firmly, quietly. “Will I see you when I get back?”
She hesitated, then looked down at the mass of pink-and-white hibiscus on her desk. “Yes,” she heard herself saying. Pressing the flower to her cheek, she sighed. “I think I’m going to make a very big mistake.”
“Good. I’ll see you Friday.”
***
The trick to being a good director, Brooke had always thought, was to be precise without being too technical, brisk without losing sympathy, then to split yourself up into several small parts so that you could be everywhere at once. It was a knack she had developed early on—on the job—without the formalized training of many of her colleagues. Perhaps because she had worked so many of the other aspects of filming, from timing a script to setting the lights to mixing sound, she was fiercely precise. Nothing escaped her eye. Because she knew actors were often overworked and insecure, she had never quite lost her sympathy for them even when she was ready to rage at a consistently flubbed line. Her early experience at waiting tables had taught her the trick of moving fast enough to all but be in two places at once.
On a set or in a studio, she had complete self-confidence. Her control was usually unquestioned because it came naturally. She never thought about being in charge or felt the need to remind others of it; she simply was in charge.
With a copy of the script in one hand, she supervised the final adjustments on the lights and reflectors. The ball diamond, she had noted immediately, had an entirely different feel at home plate than it had from the stands. It was like being on an island, cupped amid the high mountain of seats, with the tall green wall skirting the back. The distance from plate to fence seemed even more formidable from this perspective. Brooke wondered how men with sticks in their hands could continually hit a moving ball over that last obstacle.
She could smell the grass, freshly trimmed, the dusty scent of dirt that had dried in the sun and a whiff of E.J.’s blatantly macho cologne. “Give me a reading,” she ordered the lighting director as she glanced up at the thick clouds in the sky. “I want a sunny afternoon.”
“You got it.” The lights were focused as Brooke stepped behind camera one to check for shadows on the plate.
Parks loitered at the tunnel entrance a moment, watching her. This was a different woman from the one who he had treated to tacos—different still from the one he had held in his arms at the de Marco party. Her hair was trained back in one long braid, nothing like the flowing, gypsylike mane he was used to seeing. She wore jeans that were white at the stress points, a plain T-shirt the color of scrambled eggs, dusty tennis shoes and winking sapphires at her ears.
But it wasn’t her hairstyle or the apparel that denoted the difference. It was the assurance. He’d seen it before, but each time it had been underlying. Now she sparked with it, gesturing, ordering while men and women set about giving her exactly what she demanded. No one questioned her. And, he considered, it was patently obvious that she wouldn’t have permitted it.
Grimacing, he tugged at the sleeve of the thin silk shirt he wore. Who the hell would play ball in an outfit like this? he wondered with a glance at the creaseless cream slacks. The rules of this game were hers, he reminded himself, then stepped into the light.
“Bigelow, get these cables secure before somebody breaks a leg. Libby, see if you can scrounge up some ice water, we’re going to need it. Okay, where’s . . .” Turning at that moment, Brooke spotted Parks. “Oh, there you are.” If she felt any personal pleasure at seeing him, she hid it well, Parks thought wryly as she turned to shout an order at her assistant. “I’m going to want you to stand at the plate so we can check the lighting and camera angles.”
Without a word, Parks complied. You might as well get used to it, he told himself. You’ve got yourself locked into hawking somebody else’s clothes for the next two years. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, cursed Lee briefly and stood in the batter’s box. Someone stuck a light meter next to his face.
“You gonna wipe out the Valiants in the play-offs?” the technician demanded.
“That’s the plan,” Parks returned easily.
“I’ve got fifty bucks on it.”
This time Parks grinned. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“Detrick.” Brooke gave the technician a jerk of her head to send him on his way as she approached Parks. “Okay, this is the easy part,” she began. “No dialogue, and you’re do
ing what you’re best at.”
“What’s that?”
Brooke lifted a brow at the loaded question but continued smoothly. “Swinging a bat. Since the pitching coach has agreed to throw you a few, you should feel comfortable.”
“Ever stood in the box without a helmet?” he countered.
“It wouldn’t go with your outfit,” she said mildly. She gave him a deliberately slow study—eyes sweeping up, then down, then back up again. “And it looks good.”
“I like yours, too.” His smile was quick and dangerous. “I’m going to like unbinding your hair.”
“Makeup!” she called abruptly. “Give him a dusting, he’s going to glow.”
“Wait a minute,” Parks began, deftly catching the wrist of the woman with the powder.
“No sweating on camera,” Brooke drawled, pleased with his reaction. “All I want you to do is what you usually do when you’re in uniform. Take your regular stance,” she continued. “A couple of those test swings. After you hit the ball, I want one of those grins before you toss the bat aside.”
“What grins?” Reluctantly, Parks released the makeup artist’s wrist and suffered the powder.
With humor dancing in her eyes, Brooke gave him a singularly sweet smile. “One of those boy-on-the-beach grins. Quick, lots of teeth, crinkles at the corners of the eyes.”
He narrowed them dangerously. “I’m going to get you for this.”
“Try to keep the strikes to a minimum,” she went on blithely. “Every strike’s a take. You don’t have to hit it out of the park, just look like you have. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Annoyed, he nodded to the pitching coach as he walked by.
“You look real cute, Jones.”
“Just try to get it near the plate,” Parks retorted. “Do I get a bat?” he demanded of Brooke. “Or do I just pretend?”
For an answer, Brooke turned and shouted to her assistant. “Let’s have the bat, E.J., are you set? Just roll the film—no sweeps, no pans, no close-ups. Remember, we’re selling the clothes.”
“This is aluminum.”
Distracted, Brooke turned back to Parks. “What?”
“This bat is aluminum.”
When he held it out, Brooke automatically took it from him. “Yes, it appears to be.” As she started to pass it back to him, Parks shook his head.
“I use wood. A two seventy-seven A.”
She started to come back with a curt remark, then stopped herself. If she was accustomed to anything, it was temperament. “Get Mr. Jones the bat he prefers,” she told her assistant, tossing the first one to him. “Anything else?”
For a moment, he regarded her keenly. “Does everybody jump when you say?”
“Damn right. Keep that in mind for the next couple of hours, and we shouldn’t have any problems.”
His look sharpened fractionally. “While the cameras are on,” he returned in a voice only she could hear.
Turning, she walked to stand behind the camera. Automatically, E.J. stepped back so that she could check the angle herself. Brows drawn together, Brooke stared at Parks through the lens as her assistant handed him another bat. “Okay, Parks, would you take your stance?” Her frown deepened as he leaned slightly over the plate, feet planted, knees bent, shoulders lined toward the mound. The frown vanished. “Good,” she decided, moving back so that E.J. could take her place.
“Ten bucks says he pulls one to left center.”
A brief nod was Brooke’s acceptance of the bet. “Parks, when I say action, I want you to take your stance again, then those testing swings. Keep your eye on the mound—don’t look at the camera. Just forget we’re here.” With the first smile Parks had seen that morning, Brooke turned to the pitching coach. “Are you all set, Mr. Friedman?”
“All set, sweetheart. I’ll try not to blow it by you, Jones.”
Parks gave a snort of laughter. “Just see if you can make it to the plate.” He gestured to his uncovered head. “And keep it low.”
Brooke took a last glance around, assuring herself everyone was in position. “Let’s do one for time. Set?” She held up her hand, waiting for absolute silence. “Roll film, and . . . action.”
She watched Parks crouch into position, then take two loose swings. The deep blue silk of his shirt caught the light, accenting the play of muscles beneath. Hands on her hips, Brooke counted off the seconds and waited. Parks shifted his weight as the ball came toward him, tensed his muscles then checked his swing. The ball smashed into the pads behind him.
Just barely, Brooke controlled the need to swear. “Cut.” Battling her annoyance, she walked to him. “Is there a problem, Parks?”
“Pitch was outside.”
“Like hell,” Friedman called from the mound. “It caught the corner.”
Immediately the crew split themselves up, arguing in favor of the batter or the pitcher. Ignoring them for the moment, Brooke gave her attention to Parks. “This isn’t the bottom of the ninth, you’re just supposed to hit the ball. You’ll notice,” she continued, gesturing behind her, “there aren’t any fielders, no fans, no press.”
Parks set the bat, barrel down in the dirt, and leaned on the handle. “You want me to swing at a bad pitch?”
Brooke met the amused blue eyes levelly. “The quality of the pitch is immaterial,” she countered as the argument raged behind them. “Just hit the ball.”
With a shrug, he hefted the bat again. “You’re the boss . . . at the moment.”
The look held, long and challenging, before Brooke turned back to the crew. “Take two,” she announced, effectively cutting off the debate.
This time Parks didn’t check his swing but drilled the ball up the foul line at third. Without looking at E.J., Brooke held out her hand. “Time,” she requested as a ten-dollar bill was stuffed in her palm.
Parks noticed a tiny brunette with a stopwatch and clipboard. “Twelve and a half seconds, Brooke.”
“Good. All right, let’s go for it.”
“This one’s going over the fence,” E.J. pronounced in an undertone to Brooke. “Bet ten?”
“Take three,” she called out with a nod of assent. “Roll film, and . . . action!” A satisfied smile touched her lips as she studied Parks. He was either getting into the spirit of things, or his own competitive spirit was driving him. Either way, it was working for her. The look on his face as he crouched over the plate was exactly what she wanted—the steady intensity that bordered on fierceness. A pity she couldn’t work in a close-up, she mused, then lost the thought as Parks took a full swing at the pitch.
Power. The word rippled through her as he connected with the ball. She saw the instant the shirt strained over his shoulders, was aware of the bunching of muscles in his thighs beneath the soft, expensive material. It wasn’t necessary to follow the path of the ball to know where it had gone. She knew the flash of grin on Parks’s face had nothing to do with her direction. It was sheer pleasure. Brooke kept the film rolling as his eyes followed the ball out of the park. Still grinning, he turned to her, then gave a deprecatory shrug.
She should have been angry that he had looked at the camera against her directions, but the movement, the expression was perfect. Even as she dug in her pocket for E.J.’s ten dollars, she decided to keep it in.
“Cut.”
Spontaneous applause broke out, along with a few whistles. “Nice pitch, Friedman,” Parks commented.
The coach tossed another ball in the air. “Just making you look good, Jones. The Valiants’ pitchers won’t be so friendly.”
Brooke swiped the back of her wrist across her damp brow. “I’d like a couple more please. What was the time on that?”
“Fourteen seconds.”
“Okay. The light’s shifting, check the reading. Mr. Friedman, I’d like to get a couple more.”
“Anything you say, sweetheart.”
“Parks, I need a full swing like last time. No matter where the ball goes, look up and out—don’t forget the gr
in.”
Laying the bat on his shoulder, he drawled, “No, ma’am.”
Brooke ignored him and turned away. “Lights?”
The technician finished the adjustments, then nodded. “Set.”
Although she considered the third take close to perfect, Brooke ran through another three. Edited, this segment of the commercial would run twelve and a half seconds. That it took only three hours to set up and film showed that she ran a tight schedule.
“It’s a wrap. Thanks,” she added as she accepted the cup of ice water from her assistant. “We’ll set up in front of the restaurant in . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Two hours, Fred, double-check on the Rolls and the actress. E.J., I’ll take the film into editing myself.” Even as she spoke, Brooke walked over to the mound. “Mr. Friedman.” With a smile, she held out her hand. “Thank you.”