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Authors: Nora Roberts

Rules of the Game

BOOK: Rules of the Game
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Nora Roberts

 

Hot Ice

Sacred Sins

Brazen Virtue

Sweet Revenge

Public Secrets

Genuine Lies

Carnal Innocence

Divine Evil

Honest Illusions

Private Scandals

Hidden Riches

True Betrayals

Montana Sky

Sanctuary

Homeport

The Reef

River's End

Carolina Moon

The Villa

Midnight Bayou

Three Fates

Birthright

Northern Lights

Blue Smoke

Angels Fall

High Noon

Tribute

Black Hills

The Search

Chasing Fire

The Witness

Series

Irish Born Trilogy

Born in Fire

Born in Ice

Born in Shame

Dream Trilogy

Daring to Dream

Holding the Dream

Finding the Dream

Chesapeake Bay Saga

Sea Swept

Rising Tides

Inner Harbor

Chesapeake Blue

Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

Jewels of the Sun

Tears of the Moon

Heart of the Sea

Three Sisters Island Trilogy

Dance Upon the Air

Heaven and Earth

Face the Fire

Key Trilogy

Key of Light

Key of Knowledge

Key of Valor

In the Garden Trilogy

Blue Dahlia

Black Rose

Red Lily

Circle Trilogy

Morrigan's Cross

Dance of the Gods

Valley of Silence

Sign of Seven Trilogy

Blood Brothers

The Hollow

The Pagan Stone

Bride Quartet

Vision in White

Bed of Roses

Savor the Moment

Happy Ever After

The Inn BoonsBoro Trilogy

The Next Always

The Last Boyfriend

 

eBooks

 

The O'Hurleys

The Last Honest Woman

Dance to the Piper

Skin Deep

Without a Trace

 

The Donovan Legacy

Captivated

Entranced

Charmed

Enchanted

 

Cordina's Royal Family

Affaire Royale

Command Performance

The Playboy Prince

Cordina's Crown Jewel

 

The MacGregors

Playing the Odds

Tempting Fate

All the Possibilities

One Man's Art

For Now, Forever

The MacGregor Brides

The Winning Hand

The MacGregor Grooms

The Perfect Neighbor

Rebellion & In from the Cold

 

Night Tales

Night Shift

Night Shadow

Nightshade

Night Smoke

Night Shield

 

The Calhouns

Courting Catherine

A Man for Amanda

For the Love of Lilah

Suzanna's Surrender

Megan's Mate

 

Irish Legacy Trilogy

Irish Thoroughbred

Irish Rose

Irish Rebel

 

Best Laid Plans

Loving Jack

Lawless

Summer Love

Boundary Lines

Dual Image

First Impressions

The Law Is a Lady

Local Hero

This Magic Moment

The Name of the Game

Partners

Temptation

The Welcoming

Opposites Attract

Time Was

Times Change

Gabriel's Angel

Holiday Wishes

The Heart's Victory

The Right Path

Rules of the Game

Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb

 

Remember When

J. D. Robb

 

Naked in Death

Glory in Death

Immortal in Death

Rapture in Death

Ceremony in Death

Vengeance in Death

Holiday in Death

Conspiracy in Death

Loyalty in Death

Witness in Death

Judgment in Death

Betrayal in Death

Seduction in Death

Reunion in Death

Purity in Death

Portrait in Death

Imitation in Death

Divided in Death

Visions in Death

Survivor in Death

Origin in Death

Memory in Death

Born in Death

Innocent in Death

Creation in Death

Strangers in Death

Salvation in Death

Promises in Death

Kindred in Death

Fantasy in Death

Indulgence in Death

Treachery in Death

New York to Dallas

Celebrity in Death

 

Anthologies

 

From the Heart

A Little Magic

A Little Fate

 

Moon Shadows

(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

 

The Once Upon Series

(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

Once Upon a Castle

Once Upon a Rose

Once Upon a Star

Once Upon a Kiss

Once Upon a Dream

Once Upon a Midnight

 

Silent Night

(with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)

Out of This World

(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)

Bump in the Night

(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Dead of Night

(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Three in Death

Suite 606

(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

In Death

The Lost

(with Patricia Gaffney, Mary Blayney, and Ruth Ryan Langan)

The Other Side

(with Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

The Unquiet

(with Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)

Also
available
 . . .

 

The Official Nora Roberts Companion

(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia

(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa

Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

RULES OF THE GAME

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Harlequin Books edition / July 2009

InterMix eBook edition / December 2012

Copyright © 1984 by Nora Roberts.

Excerpt from
Calculated in Death
copyright © 2013 by Nora Roberts.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-56974-0

INTERMIX

InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Chapter 1

“A jock. Terrific.” Brooke took a long swallow of strong black coffee, tipped back in her glove-soft leather chair and scowled. “I love it.”

“No need to be sarcastic,” Claire returned mildly. “If de Marco wants to use an athlete for promotion, why should you object?” She gazed absently at the chunky gold ring on her right hand. “After all,” Claire continued in her dry voice, “you'll be making quite a bit directing the commercials.”

Brooke sent Claire a characteristic look. Direct, uncompromising gray eyes bored into the soft blue of the older woman's. One of Brooke's greatest talents, and her greatest weapons, was her ability to stare down anyone from a corporate president to a temperamental actor. She'd developed the knack early as a defense against her own insecurity and had since refined it to an art. It was an art, however, that didn't impress Claire Thorton. At forty-nine, she was the head of a multimillion-dollar company that she'd started with brains and guts. For nearly a quarter of a century, she had run things her way, and she intended to keep right on doing so.

She'd known Brooke for ten years—since Brooke had been an eighteen-year-old upstart who had wheedled her way into a job with Thorton Productions. Then she'd watched Brooke work her way up from gofer to gaffer, from gaffer to assistant cameraman and from there to director. Claire had never regretted the impulse that had led her to give Brooke her first fifteen-second commercial.

Intuition had been the basis for Claire's success with Thorton Productions, and intuitively she had sensed sharp talent in Brooke Gordon. In addition, Claire knew her, understood her, as few others did. Perhaps it was because they shared two basic traits—ambition and independence.

After a moment, Brooke gave up with a sigh. “A jock,” she muttered again as she gazed around her office.

It was one small room, the pale amber walls lined with prints of stills from dozens of her commercials. There was a two-cushion sofa—reupholstered in chocolate-colored corduroy—not comfortable enough to encourage long visits. The chair with a tufted back had been picked up at a yard sale along with a coffee table that leaned slightly to the left.

Brooke sat behind an old, scarred desk that had a drawer that wouldn't quite close. On it were piles of papers, a gooseneck lamp and assorted disposable pens and broken pencils. The pens and pencils were jammed in a Sevres vase. Behind her at the window, a dieffenbachia was slowly dying in an exquisitely worked pottery bowl.

“Damn, Claire, why can't they get an actor?” Brooke tossed up her hands in her one theatrical gesture, then dropped her chin on them. “Do you know what it's like to try to coax ballplayers and rock stars to say a line without freezing or hamming it up?” With a disgusted mutter that gave no room for comment, she pushed the pile of papers into a semiordered heap. “One call to a casting agent and I could have a hundred qualified actors parading through here itching for the job.”

Patiently, Claire brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of her rose linen suit. “You know it increases sales if a production's hyped by a recognizable name or familiar face.”

“Recognizable name?” Brooke tossed back. “Who's ever heard of Parks Jones?
Stupid
name,” she muttered to herself.

“Every baseball fan in the country.” The mild smile told Brooke it was useless to argue. Therefore, she prepared to argue further.

“We're selling clothes, not Louisville Sluggers.”

“Eight Golden Gloves,” Claire went on. “A lifetime batting average of three twenty-five. He's leading the league in RBIs this season. Jones has been at third base in the All-Star game for eight consecutive seasons.”

Brooke narrowed her eyes. “How do you know so much? You don't follow baseball.”

“I do my homework.” A cool smile touched Claire's round, pampered face. She'd never had a face-lift but was religious about her visits to Elizabeth Arden. “That's why I'm a successful producer. Now you'd better do yours.” She rose languidly. “Don't make any plans, I've got tickets for the game tonight. Kings against the Valiants.”

“Who?”

“Do your homework,” Claire advised before she closed the office door behind her.

With an exasperated oath, Brooke swiveled her chair around so that she faced her view of Los Angeles—tall buildings, glittering glass and clogged traffic. She'd had other views of L.A. during the rise in her career, but they'd been closer to street level. Now, she looked out on the city from the twentieth floor. The distance meant success, but Brooke didn't dwell on it. To do that would have encouraged thinking of the past—something Brooke meticulously avoided.

Leaning back in the oversized chair, Brooke toyed with the end of her braid. Her hair was the warm soft red shot with gold that painters attempted to immortalize. It was long and thick and unruly. Brooke was feminine enough not to want it cut to a more manageable length and practical enough to subdue it into a fat braid during working hours. It hung down the back of a thin silk blouse past the waistband of overworked blue jeans.

Her eyes as she mulled over Claire's words were thoughtful. They had misty gray irises, long lids and were surrounded by lashes in the same fragile shade as her hair. She rarely thought to darken them. Her skin was the delicate ivory-rose her hair demanded but the frailty stopped there. Her nose was small and sharp, her mouth wide, her chin aggressive. It was an unsettling face—beautiful one moment, austere the next, but always demanding. She wore a hasty dab of rose lipstick, enameled dimestore earrings and a splash of two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume.

She thought about the de Marco account—designer jeans, exclusive sportswear and soft Italian leather. Since they'd decided to move their advertising beyond the glossy pages of fashion magazines and into television, they had come to Thorton Productions, and so to her. It was a fat two-year contract with a budget that would give Brooke all the artistic room she could want. She told herself she deserved it. There were three Clios on the corner shelf to her right.

Not bad, she mused, for a twenty-eight-year-old woman who had walked into Thorton Productions with a high school diploma, a glib tongue and sweaty palms. And twelve dollars and fifty-three cents in her pocket, Brooke remembered; then she pushed the thought aside. If she wanted the de Marco account—and she did—she would simply have to make the ballplayer work. Grimly, she swung her chair back to face her desk. Picking up the phone, Brooke punched two buttons.

“Get me everything we have on Parks Jones,” she ordered as she shuffled papers out of her way. “And ask Ms. Thorton what time I'm to pick her up tonight.”

***

Less than six blocks away, Parks Jones stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled at his agent. “How did I ever let you talk me into this?”

Lee Dutton gave a smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth and a lot of charm. “You trust me.”

“My first mistake.” Parks studied Lee, a not quite homely, avuncular figure with a receding hairline, puckish face and unnerving black eyes. Yes, he trusted him, Parks thought, he even liked the shrewd little devil, but . . . “I'm not a damn model, Lee. I'm a third baseman.”

“You're not modeling,” Lee countered. As he folded his hands, the sun glinted on the band of his thin Swiss watch. “You're endorsing. Ballplayers have been doing it since the first razor blade.”

Parks snorted then walked around the tidy, Oriental-designed office. “This isn't a shaving commercial, and I'm not endorsing a mitt. It's clothes, for God's sake. I'm going to feel like an idiot.”

But you won't look like one, Lee thought as he drew out a fragrant, slim cigar. Lighting it, he studied Parks over the flame. The long, lanky body was perfect for de Marco's—as was the blond, unmistakably California look. Parks's tanned lean face, navy-blue eyes and tousled curling hair had already made him a favorite with the female fans, while his friendly, laid-back charm had won over the men. He was talented, easy to look at and personable. In short, Lee concluded, he was a natural. The fact that he was intelligent was at times as much a disadvantage as an advantage.

“Parks, you're hot.” Lee said it with a sigh that they both knew was calculated. “You're also thirty-three. How much longer are you going to play ball?”

Parks answered with a glare. Lee knew of his vow to retire at thirty-five. “What does that have to do with it?”

“There are a lot of ballplayers, exceptional ballplayers, who slip into oblivion when they walk off the diamond for the last time. You have to think of the future.”

“I
have
thought of the future,” Parks reminded him. “Maui—fishing, sleeping in the sun, ogling women.”

That would last about six weeks, Lee calculated, but he wisely kept silent.

“Lee.” Parks flopped into a Chinese-red chair and stretched out his legs. “I don't need the money. So why am I going to be working this winter instead of lying on the beach?”

“Because it's going to be good for you,” Lee began. “It's good for the game. The campaign will enhance the image of baseball. And,” he added with one of his puckish smiles, “because you signed a contract.”

“I'm going to get in some extra batting practice,” Parks muttered as he rose. When he reached the door, he turned back with a suspiciously friendly smile. “One thing. If I make a fool of myself, I'm going to break the legs on your Tang horse.”

***

Brooke screeched through the electronically controlled gates then swerved up the rhododendron-lined drive that led to Claire's mansion. Privately, Brooke considered it a beautiful anachronism. It was huge, white, multileveled and pillared. Brooke liked to imagine two black-helmeted guards, rifles on shoulders, flanking the carved double doors. The estate had originally belonged to a silent movie idol who had supposedly decked out the rooms in pastel silks and satins. Fifteen years before, Claire had purchased it from a perfume baron and had proceeded to redecorate it with her own passion for Oriental art.

Brooke stomped on the brake of her Datsun, screaming to a halt in front of the white marble steps. She drove at two speeds: stop and go. Stepping out of the car, she breathed in the exotic garden scents of vanilla and jasmine before striding up the stairs in the loose-limbed gait that came from a combination of long legs and preoccupation. In a crowd, her walk would cause men's heads to turn but Brooke neither noticed nor cared.

She knocked briskly on the door, then impatiently turned the handle. Finding it unlocked, she walked into the spacious mint-green hall and shouted.

“Claire! Are you ready? I'm starving.” A neat little woman in a tailored gray uniform came through a doorway to the left. “Hello, Billings.” Brooke smiled at her and tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Where's Claire? I haven't the energy to search through this labyrinth for her.”

“She's dressing, Ms. Gordon.” The housekeeper spoke in modulated British tones, responding to Brooke's smile with a nod. “She'll be down shortly. Would you care for a drink?”

“Just some Perrier, it's muggy out.” Brooke followed the housekeeper into the drawing room then slumped down on a divan. “Did she tell you where we're going?”

“To a baseball game, miss?” Billings set ice in a glass and added sparkling water. “Some lime?”

“Just a squirt. Come on, Billings.” Brooke's smoky contralto became conspiratorial. “What do you think?”

Billings meticulously squeezed lime into the bubbly water. She'd been housekeeper for Lord and Lady Westbrook in Devon before being prized away by Claire Thorton. On accepting the position, she had vowed never to become Americanized. Edna Billings had her standards. But she'd never quite been able to resist responding to Brooke. A naughty young girl, she'd thought a decade before, and the opinion remained unchanged. Perhaps that was why Billings was so fond of her.

“I much prefer cricket,” she said blandly. “A more civilized game.” She handed Brooke the glass.

“Can you see Claire sitting in the bleachers?” Brooke demanded. “Surrounded by screaming, sweaty fans, watching a bunch of grown men swing at a little ball and run around in circles?”

“If I'm not mistaken,” Billings said slowly, “there's a bit more to it than that.”

“Sure, RBIs and ERAs and putouts and shutouts.” Brooke heaved a long breath. “What the hell is a squeeze play?”

“I'm sure I have no idea.”

“Doesn't matter.” Brooke shrugged and gulped down some Perrier. “Claire has it in her head that watching this guy in action will give me some inspiration.” She ran a fingertip down a shocking-orange ginger jar. “What I really need is a meal.”

“You can get a hot dog and some beer in the park,” Claire announced from the doorway.

Glancing up, Brooke gave a hoot of laughter. Claire was immaculately dressed in buff-colored linen slacks and tailored print blouse with low alligator pumps. “You're going to a ball game,” Brooke reminded her, “not a museum. And I hate beer.”

“A pity.” Opening her alligator bag, Claire checked the contents before snapping it shut again. “Let's be on our way, then, we don't want to miss anything. Good night, Billings.”

Gulping down the rest of her drink, Brooke bolted to her feet and raced after Claire. “Let's stop to eat on the way,” she suggested. “It's not like missing the first act of the opera, and I had to skip lunch.” She tried her forlorn orphan's look. “You know how cranky I get if I miss a meal.”

“We're going to have to start putting you in front of the camera, Brooke; you're getting better all the time.” With a slight frown at the low-slung Datsun, Claire maneuvered herself inside. She also knew Brooke's obsession with regular meals sprang from her lean adolescence. “Two hot dogs,” she suggested, wisely buckling her seat belt. “It takes forty-five minutes to get to the stadium.” Claire fluffed her silver-frosted brunette hair. “That means you should get us there in about twenty-five.”

BOOK: Rules of the Game
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