Rules of the Game (14 page)

“The commercial aired during each play-off game, you know,” she commented as they headed out of town.

“How'd it look?” Parks laid his head back against the seat. God, it was good to know he didn't have to go anywhere or do anything for twenty-four hours.

“Fantastic.” As the road opened up, so did the Datsun's throttle. “And I have it from the source that it plays very well.”

“Hmm?”

“A teenager girl in that mob today.” With near perfect mimicry, Brooke related the girl's comments. She caught Parks's automatic grimace at the term
bee-utiful
but swallowed a chuckle as she continued.

“Nice to know I devastate sixteen-year-old girls,” he said dryly.

“You'd be surprised at the buying power of sixteen-year-old girls.” With experienced ease, Brooke negotiated the curves on the narrowing road. “Not so much directly, certainly, but indirectly through their parents. And since they'd like their teenage boyfriends to make their knees weaken, too, they'll push them toward de Marco jeans, shirts, belts,
ad infinitum.
” Tossing her hair back, she slid her eyes to his. “And you do have a great smile.”

“Yeah.” He gave a modest sigh. “I do.”

Brooke stopped in her driveway with a deliberate jerk that had him swearing. Wisely slipping from the car before he could retaliate, she headed up the path.

“Just for that,” Parks began as he dragged his bag out of the back, “I'm not going to give you the present I bought you.”

At the door, Brooke turned, her grin changing to a look of bewilderment. “You bought me a present?”

Because she looked like a child who expected to be handed a brightly wrapped empty box, Parks treated it lightly. “I did. But I'm seriously considering keeping it myself now.”

“What is it?”

“Are you going to open the door?”

Brooke shrugged, trying to pretend indifference as she turned the key. “There's a fire laid,” she said as she breezed inside. “Why don't you light it while I get us some coffee?”

“Okay.” Setting his bag down, Parks stretched travel-cramped muscles. With a wince, he pressed his fingers to the ribs still sore from their contact with Astroturf.

She'd brought some of her garden inside, he noted, spotting the bowl of vibrant mums and zinnias on the side table across the room. The table, he observed, was Queen Anne; the bowl, dimestore special. Grinning, he went to the hearth. The combination suited her—the exquisite and the practical.

Parks struck a match and set it to the carefully rolled paper beneath the kindling. Dry wood caught with a crackle and a
whoosh.
He inhaled the smell that brought back flickering images of the past; evenings in the cozy parlor of his family home, camping trips with his uncle and cousins, weekends in England at the home of a college friend. He wanted to add to the pictures now with the memory of Brooke lying in his arms in front of the simmering fire while they made slow, endless love.

When he heard her returning, Parks stood, turning to face her as she entered with a tray holding a bottle and two glasses. “I thought you might want wine instead.”

Smiling, Parks took the tray from her. “Yes.” After setting the tray on the hassock, Parks lifted the bottle, examining the label with a lifted brow. “Is this a celebration?”

“A precelebration,” Brooke countered. “I expect you to win tomorrow.” She picked up both glasses, holding them out. “And if you don't, we'll have had the wine in any case.”

“Seems fair.” Parks poured pale gold liquid into the stemmed glasses. Taking one from her, he clinked the rims together. “To the game?” he asked with a slow smile.

Brooke felt the quick nervous flutter in her stomach and nodded. “To the game,” she agreed and drank. Her eyes widened but remained steady when he reached out to take a handful of her hair.

“I saw this in the sunlight,” he murmured. “Even in that mob of people at the airport, I'm not sure what I would have done if that fence hadn't been in the way.” He let it sift through his fingers. “It was a long four days, Brooke.”

She nodded, taking his hand to draw him onto the sofa beside her. The curves of her body seemed to fit naturally against the lines of his. “You're tense,” she said quietly.

“Postseason games.” He drew her closer, knowing the nerves would gradually drain before they built again the next day. “Maybe the lucky ones are the players raking leaves in their backyards in October.”

“But you don't really think so.”

Parks laughed. “No, I don't really think so. The play-offs pump you up until you're ready to explode, but the series . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head. He didn't want to let his mind run that far ahead. The rules were three out of five—they weren't there yet. For now he didn't want to think of it, but of the woman beside him, the quiet afternoon and the long evening ahead. He thought that he'd remember her this way, a little pensive, with the smell of woodsmoke and fall flowers mixing with her own perfume. His mind drifted lazily, comfortably, as he sipped the iced wine and watched the flames dance.

“Have you been busy?”

Brooke tilted her head in absent agreement. She didn't want to think of work any more than Parks did. “The usual,” she said vaguely. “E.J. talked me into seeing a perfectly dreadful movie where the cast pranced around in mythological costumes and shot lightning bolts.”

“Olympian Revenge?”

“It had a talking three-head dragon.”

“That's the one. I caught it in Philadelphia last month when we had a rainout.”

“I saw the mike in the frame three times.”

Parks chuckled at her professional disdain. “Nobody else did,” he assured her. “They were all asleep.”

“Gross ineptitude keeps me awake.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. It occurred to her how empty her home had been for the last few days, and how cozy it felt again. Brooke had never felt the need to share it before. In fact, she had always had a strong proprietary feeling about what was hers. Now, sitting quietly on the sofa, she realized she had already begun to give up her privacy, willingly and with total unawareness. Turning her head, she studied Parks's profile. “I missed you,” she said at length.

He turned his head as well so that their lips were close, not quite touching. “I'd hoped you would.” Then he shifted so that his mouth grazed her cheek. She trembled. Not yet, he told himself as the heat flared inside him. Not quite yet. “Maybe I'll give you that present after all.”

Brooke's lips curved against his throat. “I don't believe you bought me anything at all.”

Recognizing the ploy but willing to play, Parks rose. “You'll have to apologize for that,” he said soberly as he walked to his suitcase. He flipped open the case then rummaged inside. When he stood again, Parks had a white box in his hands. Brooke regarded it curiously but with some of the wariness he had noted outside.

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out,” he suggested, dropping it into her lap.

Brooke turned it over, examining the plain white box, testing it for weight. She wasn't a woman accustomed to spontaneous gifts and in the short time he had known her, Parks had already given her two. “You didn't have to—”

“You
have
to give your sister a Christmas present,” he said mildly, sitting beside her again. “You're not my sister and it isn't Christmas.”

Brooke frowned. “I'm not sure I understand the logic in that,” she murmured then opened the lid. Packed in wads of tissue paper was a fat pink ceramic hippo with heavily lashed eyes, a flirtatious grin and varicolored polka dots. With a laugh, Brooke drew it out. “She's gorgeous!”

“She reminded me of you,” Parks commented, pleased with the laugh and the look of humor in her eyes when she turned them to him.

“Is that so?” She held the hippo up again. “Well, she does have rather fetching eyes.” Touched, she stroked the wide ceramic flank. “She really is sweet, Parks. What made you think of it?”

“I thought she'd fit into your menagerie.” Seeing the puzzled look on her face, he gestured toward the shelf that held her monkey and bear. “Then there's that pig on the front door, the little carving of a jackrabbit in your bedroom, the china owl on the windowsill in the kitchen.”

Comprehension came slowly. There were animals of varying types and materials scattered all through the house. She'd been collecting them for years without having the slightest idea what she was doing. But Parks had seen. Without an instant of warning to either of them, Brooke burst into tears.

Stunned, then alarmed, Parks reached for her, not having a clue what he would offer comfort for. Still, he'd seen enough tears from his sisters to know that logic often had nothing to do with tears. Ashamed, and unable to stem the flow, Brooke evaded his arms and rose. “No, no, please. Give me a minute. I
hate
to do this.”

Even as he told himself to respect her wishes, Parks was going to her. Despite her resistance, he pulled her against him. “I can't stand to
see
you do it,” he muttered; then, with a hint of exasperation, “Why are you doing it?”

“You'll think I'm stupid. I hate being stupid.”

“Brooke.” Firmly, he cupped a hand under her chin and lifted it. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Knowing no other remedy, he kissed her—the soft lips, the wet cheeks, the damp eyelids. What began as a blind effort to comfort grew to smoldering passion.

He could feel it build in him as his mouth sought hers again. His hands moved through her hair like those of a man making his tentative way through bolts of silk. She trembled against him—sobs or desire Parks was no longer sure as the kiss went deeper and deeper. She opened for him, more giving than he could remember. Her defenses were down, he reminded himself, fighting the impatience to fill his own needs quickly. His murmurs were quiet-pitched to soothe, his hands gently stroking to arouse.

Even recognizing her own vulnerability, Brooke didn't resist. She wanted to drift into that smoky, weightless world where every movement seemed to be in slow motion. She wanted to feel that fire and flash that left you breathless. She wanted the down-soft contentment that would lull you to sleep and linger in the morning.

As he lowered her to the floor, the scent of woodsmoke grew stronger. Brooke could hear the pop and hiss of the logs as flames ate at them. His long patient kisses held her suspended—half in the reality of the wool rug beneath her back, the red flickers of firelight and sun on her closed lids, half in the world of dreams only lovers understand. While her mind floated, flirting with each separate sensation, he undressed her.

Parks took infinite care with the tiny round buttons of her blouse, as if he could wait until the seasons changed outside the tall windows. There was no time here, no winter, no spring, only one everlasting moment. Brooke slipped her hands under his shirt, fingertips gliding over the warmth and the strength. As patient as he, she drew the material up, over his shoulders, then discarded it.

Flesh against flesh, they lay before the fire while the sun streamed through the massive windows and pooled over them. Kisses grew longer, interrupted only for sighs, for murmurs. She tasted the mellow warmth of wine on his tongue and was intoxicated.

Slowly, his mouth never leaving hers, Parks began to explore her body. Tiny, needlelike chills ran over her flesh, chasing the path of his hands. Feeling the light graze of his knuckles against the side of her breast, Brooke moaned, a liquid sound of pleasure. He took his tongue deeper into her mouth, gently exploiting this small weakness until the drug took full effect. She was limp, languid, utterly his. Then and only then did he give his lips the freedom to taste her skin again. It was as pungent as her scent, and somehow more erotic.

With moist, openmouthed kisses he savored her, entranced her. Then the quick pressure of his teeth on some sensitive spot would bring her sharply aware, gasping with the change. His lips would soothe again, lulling her back into pliancy. Again and again he yanked her toward the flame, then guided her back to the clouds, until Brooke was no longer certain which she most desired.

She felt him draw her slacks down over her hips while he pressed those soul-wrenching kisses along her stomach. A mindless excitement filled her, rendering her helpless to do any more than move as he requested. His breath was warm on her intimate flesh so that the long muscles in her thighs trembled then went lax.

Still his mouth moved slowly. The hands that had already discovered every secret point of pleasure continued to caress and linger, keeping her trapped beneath a thin sheet of silken passion. The power she had experienced before moved through her, but her mind was too dazed to recognize it. She felt herself balanced on a slender edge—desire's tightrope—and wanted to continue to walk it as much as she longed to fall headlong into the wild, churning sea below. Then he was above her again, his eyes looking down into hers for a long, long, moment before his lips descended. He was waiting, and she understood. Their mouths still clinging, Brooke guided him inside her.

Her moan melted into his mouth, hot and passionate. Though she was clinging to him now with a sudden, fierce strength, Parks moved slowly. Brooke felt herself fill, fill to the desperate point of explosion. Then the shudders, racking, convulsive, until she seemed to slide back down some smooth cool path to the torrent again. Like a swimmer trapped in rushing white water, she was swept from peak to peak while he moved with tortuous slowness. She could feel the tight, tense control in him, hear it in the quick labored breaths that merged with hers as he prolonged the pleasure, and the agony. Then he murmured something—a prayer, a plea, an oath—and took them both tumbling off the tightrope.

***

He must have slept. Parks thought he had closed his eyes for only an instant, but when he opened them again, the slant of the sun was different. Brooke was beside him, her hair wrapping them to each other. Her eyes were wide and aware as she stared into his. She'd been watching him for nearly an hour. Parks smiled and pressed his mouth to her shoulder.