by Nora Roberts
“It won’t be possible,” Brooke continued, concentrating on keeping her voice steady, “if we go on being lovers.”
Tilting his head, Parks smiled at her. “Why?”
“Because . . .” Brooke knew why. She knew dozens of logical reasons why, but no firm thought would form in her brain when he touched a light friendly kiss to her lips.
“Let me be practical a minute,” Parks said after another quick kiss. “How often do you let yourself have fun?”
Brooke drew her brows together in annoyed confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You can work eight, twelve hours a day,” Parks continued. “You can enjoy your job, be terrific at what you do, but you still need to throw a Frisbee now and again.”
“Frisbee?” This brought on a baffled laugh that pleased him. The hands on his shoulders relaxed. “What are you talking about?”
“Fun, Brooke. A sense of the ridiculous, laziness, riding Ferris wheels. All those things that make working worthwhile.”
She had the uncomfortable feeling she was being expertly led away from the subject at hand. “What does riding a Ferris wheel have to do with you and me making love?”
“Have you ever had a lover before?” Parks felt her stiffen but continued. “I don’t mean someone you slept with, but someone you shared time with. I’m not asking you for any more than that.” Even as he said it, Parks knew it wouldn’t be true for long. He would ask for more, and she would fight him every step of the way. But then he had lived his life playing to win. “Throw a few Frisbees with me, Brooke. Ride a few waves. Let’s see where it takes us.”
Looking at him, she could feel her resistance melting. Before she could prevent it, her hand had lifted from his shoulder to brush at the hair that fell over his forehead. “You make it sound so simple,” she murmured.
“Not simple.” He took her other hand and pressed his lips to the palm. “Even fun isn’t always simple. I want you . . . here.” And his eyes came back to hers. “Naked, warm, daring me to arouse you. I want to drive with you with the top down and the wind in your hair. I want to see you caught in the rain, laughing.” He ran whispering kisses over her face, then paused at her lips to drink long and deep. “I want to be with you, but I don’t think it’s going to be simple.”
Rolling over, Parks cradled her head on his chest, allowing her to rest and think while he brushed his hands through her hair. His words had touched her in tiny vulnerable places she couldn’t defend. Was she strong enough, she wondered, to try things his way without losing control? Fun, she thought. Yes, they could give each other that. He challenged her. Brooke had to admit that she had come to enjoy even the friction. What had he said once? That they could be friends before they were lovers. Odd, she mused, that both had happened almost before she realized it. Only the niggling fear that she was already afraid of losing him kept her from relaxing completely.
“I can’t afford to fall in love with you,” she murmured.
An odd way to put it, Parks reflected as he continued to stroke her hair. “Rule one,” he drawled. “Party A will not fall in love with party B.”
Making a fist, Brooke punched his shoulder. “Stop making me sound ridiculous.”
“I’ll try,” he agreed amiably.
“Fun,” she murmured, half to herself.
“A three-letter word meaning amusement, sport or recreation,” Parks recited in a blandly didactic tone.
With a chuckle, Brooke lifted her head. “All right. I’ll buy the Frisbee,” she said before she pressed her mouth to his.
Parks cupped the back of her neck in his hand. “It’s still too early to get up,” he murmured.
Brooke’s low laugh was muffled against his lips. “I’m not sleepy.”
With a reluctant sigh, he closed his eyes. “Acting,” he said thickly, “takes a lot out of you.”
“Aw.” Sympathetically, Brooke stroked his cheek. “I guess you’d better conserve your strength.” She pressed a kiss to his jaw, then his collarbone, before continuing down his chest. Her fingers tangled with the gold chain he wore. “What’s this for?”
Parks opened one eye to stare at the five-dollar gold piece that dangled from the chain Brooke held up. “Luck.” He shut his eyes again. “My aunt gave it to me when I headed for the Florida training camp. She told my father he was a—” Parks reached back in his memory for the exact phrasing “—a stiff-necked old fool who thought in graphs and formulas, then gave me the gold piece and told me to go for it.”
Brooke turned the shiny circle over in her palm. So he carried a little piece of the past with him, too, she mused. “Superstition?” she asked as she dropped the chain and pressed her lips to his chest.
“Luck,” Parks corrected, enjoying the feel of her mouth on his skin, “has nothing to do with superstition.”
“I see.” She scraped her nails lightly down his side and heard his quick inhalation of breath. “Do you always wear it?”
“Mmm.” She flicked her tongue over his nipple, bringing a low, involuntary groan from him. A sense of power whipped through her—light, freeing, tempting. His hands were buried in her hair again, seeking the flesh beneath. Brooke slid her body down, bringing them both a rippling slice of pleasure.
His scent was different, she discovered as she ran her lips over his skin. Different, she realized, because hers had mingled with it during the night. That was intimacy, as tangible as the act of love itself.
As the power stayed with her, she experimented. His body was strong and muscled beneath hers, tasting of man. He was taut and lean, his skin golden in the early-morning light. The palms that moved over her back were hard, calloused from his profession. Like the man, the body was disciplined, a product of that odd combination of pampering and outrageous demands any athlete subjects it to. She brushed her lips over the hard, flat stomach and felt the firm muscles quiver. Beneath her own smooth palms she could feel the sinewy strength of his thighs.
The knowledge of the pure physical strength he possessed excited her. With light touches and caresses, she could make this man breathe as though he had run to the point of collapse. With feathering kisses she could make this hardened athlete shudder with an inner weakness she alone was aware of. Though she didn’t fully understand it, Brooke knew that she had given him something more than her body the night before, something more complex than surrender or passion. Without even knowing what the gift was, she wanted Parks to offer it in return.
Slowly, enjoying every movement of his body beneath hers, savoring each subtly different taste, she roamed up until her lips fastened greedily on his. How soft his mouth was. How nectarous, with a dark, secret cachet. Brooke savored it on her tongue, feeling it intensify until the draining, liquefying pleasure crept into her. Knowing she would lose that slim edge of control, she tore her mouth from his to bury it at his throat.
She felt the vibration of his groan against her lips, but she couldn’t hear it. Her heartbeat raged in her head until all of her senses were confused. If it was morning, how could she feel this sultry night pleasure? If she was seducing him, how was she so thoroughly seduced? Her body pressed against his, matching itself to the slow, tortuous rhythm he set even as she raced tormenting kisses along his flesh. The heat seeping into her only seemed to add to the delirium of power, yet it wasn’t enough. She was still searching for something so nebulous she wasn’t certain she would recognize it when it was found. And desire, sharp bolts of desire, were causing everything but the quest for fulfillment to fade.
Parks gripped her hair in one hand to pull her head up. She had only a brief glimpse of his face—the eyes half-shut but darker and more intense than she had ever seen them—before he brought her mouth down to his and devoured. All will, all sense was seeping out of her.
“Brooke . . .” His hands were on her hips, urging her. “Now.” The demand was wrenched from him, hoarse and urgent. She resisted, struggling to breathe, fighting to hold some part of herself separate. “I need you,” he murmured
before their lips met again. “I need you.”
Then it was clear—for one breathless instant. She needed, and knew now she was needed in return. It was enough . . . perhaps everything. With a shuddering sound of relief and joy, she gave.
***
At nine fifty-five, Claire swept into the editing room. Neither the editors nor E.J. were surprised to see the head of Thorton Productions on the job on a Saturday morning. Anyone who had worked at Thorton more than a week knew that Claire wasn’t a figurehead but an entity to be reckoned with. She wore one of her trim little suits, the color of crushed raspberries, and a trace of Parisian scent.
“Dave, Lila, E.J.” Claire gave all three a quick nod before heading toward the coffeepot. A newer member of the staff might have scurried to serve the boss, but those lounging near the control board knew better.
“Made it myself, Ms. Thorton,” E.J. told her as she poured. “It won’t taste like the battery acid these two cook up.”
“I appreciate that, E.J.,” she said dryly. Just the scent of it revived her. Claire inhaled it, telling herself only an old fool thought she could dance until three and still function the next day. Ah, but how nice it was to feel like a fool again, she thought with a slow smile. “I’m told that the shoot went well, with no major problems.”
“Smooth as silk,” E.J. stated. “Wait till you get a load of Parks knocking that sucker over the fence.” He grinned reminiscently. “I won ten bucks off Brooke with that hit.” His selective memory allowed him to forget that it had been his ten dollars in the first place.
Claire settled into a chair with a quiet sigh. “Is Brooke in yet?”
“Haven’t seen her.” E.J. began to whistle as he recalled Brooke leaving the location with Parks. Accustomed to his habits, Claire only lifted a brow.
“Are you set up, Dave?”
“Ready to run through it, Ms. Thorton. Want to see it from the top?”
“In a moment.” Even as Claire checked her watch, she heard Brooke’s voice in the corridor.
“As long as you understand you have absolutely no say in what gets cut and what stays in.”
“I might have an intelligent comment to make.”
“Parks, I’m serious.”
His low chuckle rolled into the editing room just ahead of Brooke. “Morning,” she said to the group at large. “Coffee hot?”
“E.J.’s special,” Claire told her, watching Brooke over the rim of her mug as she sipped. She looked different, Claire thought, then slid her eyes to Parks. And there was the reason, she concluded with a small smile. “Good morning, Parks.”
Her face remained bland and friendly, but he recognized her thoughts. With a slight nod, he acknowledged them. “Hello, Claire,” he said, abandoning formality as smoothly as he reached for a cup for himself. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting in on this.” Taking the pot, he poured Brooke’s coffee, then his own. “Brooke has a few reservations.”
“Amateurs,” Brooke said precisely as she reached for the powdered cream, “have a tendency to be pains in the—”
“Yes, well I’m sure we’re delighted to have Parks join us,” Claire interrupted over E.J.’s chuckle. “Run it through, Dave. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
At her order, he flicked a series of buttons on the large control panel in front of him. Parks watched himself appear simultaneously on three monitors. He could hear Brooke’s voice off camera, then the little man with the clapboard scooted in front of him announcing the scene and take.
“It’s the third take that worked,” Brooke announced as she settled on the arm of Claire’s chair. “Casey at the bat didn’t like the first pitch.”
Her remark earned her a grin from Parks and a mild exclamation from Claire. “The lighting’s very good.” Claire studied the second take through narrowed eyes.
“The new boy, Silbey. He’s got a nice touch. The clothes sell it.” Brooke sipped while gesturing with her free hand. “Watch when he sets for the swing. . . . Yes.” She gave a nod of approval. “Nice moves, no apparent restriction. He looks comfortable, efficient, sexy.” Intent on the screen, Brooke didn’t notice the look Parks tossed at her. “This is the one I want to use.” She waited, silently, watching the replay of Parks’s home run. The test swings, the concentration, the connection and follow-through, the satisfied grin and the shrug.
“I want to keep in the last bit,” Brooke went on. “That geewhiz shrug. It sells the whole business. That natural cockiness is its own appeal.” Parks choked over his coffee, but Brooke ignored him. “As I see it, this segment is pretty clear-cut. The next I’m not so sure about. It’s going to be effective. . . .”
Cupping his mug in both hands, Parks sat down. For the next two hours he watched himself on the screens of the monitors, listened to himself being weighed, dissected, judged. Though the latter disconcerted him initially, he found that watching himself didn’t bring on the feeling of idiocy he’d been certain it would. He began to think he might find some enjoyment out of his two-year stint after all.
Though he’d heard himself picked apart and put back together countless times over the years—coaches, sports critics, other players—Parks couldn’t find the same level of tolerance at hearing Brooke speak so matter-of-factly about his face and body, his gestures and expressions. All in all, he thought, it was as though he were the salable product, not the clothes he wore.
They ran the film back and forth, while Claire listened to input and made occasional comments. Yes, they would have to work in close-ups in the next shoot, his face was very good. It would be smart to fill another thirty-second spot with action to exploit the way he moved, showing the durability of the clothes as well as the versatility. They might try tennis shorts if his legs were any good.
At this Parks shot Brooke a deadly glance, half expecting her to offer her personal opinion. She caught it, then smothered a chuckle with a fit of coughing. Over Claire’s head she gave him an innocent smile and an unexpectedly lewd wink. The quick response of his own body caused him to scowl at her. She was dressed like a waif, in baggy chinos and a sweater, her hair braided back and secured with a rubber band. From across the room he could smell the elusive, promising scent of her perfume.
“We taped his voice-over this morning,” she told Claire. “I think you’ll find his voice is good, though how he’ll handle real dialogue remains to be seen. Do we have the graphics for the tag-on, Lila?”
“Right here.” She flipped a series of switches. On the monitor now was the de Marco logo of a black-maned lion against a cool blue background. The signature line cartwheeled slowly onto the screen until it stopped below the cat. It held long enough for impact, then faded.
“Very classy,” Brooke approved. “Then it’s agreed? The third take from the first segment, the fifth from the second.”
“We saved you guys from a lot of splicing,” E.J. commented as he toyed with an unlit cigarette. “You should be able to put this together with your eyes closed.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep them open,” Claire said as she rose. “Let me know when it’s cut and dubbed. E.J., a splendid job, as always.”
“Thanks, Ms. Thorton.”
She handed him her empty mug. “On the camera work, too,” she added. The editors snickered as she turned toward the door. “Parks, I hope you didn’t find all this too boring.”
“On the contrary . . .” He thought of the objective discussions on his anatomy. “It’s been an education.”
She gave him a mild smile of perfect understanding. “Brooke, my office, ten minutes.” As an afterthought she glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear. Perhaps you’d like to join us for lunch, Parks.”
“I appreciate it, but I have a few things I have to do.”
“Well then.” Patting his arm, she smiled again. “Best of luck in the play-offs.” She slipped away, leaving Brooke frowning after her.
“I probably won’t get any lunch now,” she muttered. “If you’d said yes, she’d have made reserv
ations at Ma Maison.”
“Sorry.” Parks drew her out in the corridor. “Did that wink mean you approve of my legs?”
“Wink?” Brooke stared at him blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Winking during an editing session is very unprofessional.”
He glanced at the door she had closed behind her. “The way you all talked in here, I felt that I was the product.”
With a half laugh, Brooke shook her head. “Parks, you are the product.”
His eyes came back to hers, surprising Brooke with the flare of anger. “No. I wear the product.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again on a cautious sigh. “It’s really a matter of viewpoint,” she said carefully. “From yours, from de Marco’s, even from the consumers’, the clothes are the product. From the viewpoints of your producer, your director, your cinematographer and so forth, you’re as much the product as the clothes you wear because we have to see that both of you are salable. If I can’t make you look good, what you’re wearing might as well be flea market special.”
He saw the logic but didn’t care for it. “I won’t be a commodity.”
“Parks, you’re a commodity every time you walk out on the diamond. This really isn’t any different.” Exasperated, she lifted her hands palms up. “You sell tickets to Kings games, baseball cards and fielder’s caps. Don’t be so damned sanctimonious about this.”
“First it’s temperamental, now it’s sanctimonious,” he muttered disgustedly. “I suppose what it comes down to is we look at this little . . . venture from two different perspectives.”
Brooke felt a light flutter of fear inside her breast. “I told you,” she said quietly, “that it would be difficult.”
His eyes came back to her, recognizing the shield she was already prepared to bring down. Parks ran a finger down her cheek. “And I told you it would be fun.” Leaning closer, he brushed his