Rules of the Game (19 page)

JONES SCORES . . . TWICE

“Cute,” he decided, “considering I didn't score but snagged a pop fly.” He twisted his head, skimming down the article which ran through the highlights of the game—critiques and praise. “Hmm. . . . ‘And Jones ended it with a race to the rail, snagging Hennesey's long foul out of the seats in one of the finest plays of the afternoon. As usual, the MVP makes the impossible look routine. He got his reward from the luscious redhead—'” here he shot Brooke a brief glance “‘—Brooke Gordon, a successful commercial director who's been seen with the third baseman on and off the set.'”

“I really hate that,” Brooke said with such vehemence that Parks looked up in surprise.

“Hate what?”

“Having my picture splashed around that way. And this—this half-baked speculation. This, and that silly business in the
Times
a couple days ago.”

“The one that called you a willowy, titian-haired gypsy with smoky eyes?”

“It's not funny, Parks.” Brooke shoved the paper aside.

“It's not tragic, either,” he pointed out.

“They should mind their own business.”

Leaning back, Parks nibbled on a fry. “You'd probably be the first to tell me that being in the public eye makes you public property.”

Brooke scowled at that, knowing they were precisely her words when they'd discussed the poster deal. “
You're
in the public eye,” she countered. “It's the way you make your living.
I
don't. I work behind the camera, and I have a right to my privacy.”

“Ever heard of guilty by association?” He smiled before she could retort. Instead of a curt remark, she let out a long sigh. “At least they're accurate,” he added. “I've often thought of you as a gypsy myself.”

Brooke picked up her cheeseburger, frowned, then bit into it. “I still don't like it,” she muttered. “I think . . .” She shrugged, not certain how foolish she was going to sound. “I've always been a little overly sensitive about my privacy, and now . . . what's happening between us is too important for me to want to share with anyone who has fifty cents for a paper.”

Parks leaned forward again and took her hand. “That's nice,” he said softly. “That's very nice.”

The tone of his voice had fresh emotion rising in her. “I don't want to hole up like a couple of hermits, Parks, but I don't want every move we make to be on the evening news, either.”

With a bit more nonchalance than he was feeling at the moment, he shrugged and began to eat again. “Romance is news. . . . So's divorce, when it involves public people.”

“It's not going to ease up with the de Marco campaign, either, or if you decide to take that part in the film.” She took another French fry out of its paper scoop and glared at it. “The hotter you are, the more the press will buzz around. It's maddening.”

“I could break my contract,” he suggested.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“There's another solution,” he considered, watching Brooke swallow the French fry and reach for another.

“What?”

“We could get married. Want some salt for those?”

Brooke stared at him, then found she had to search for her voice. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted some salt.” Parks offered her a tiny paper packet. “No?” he said when she neither answered nor moved. “I also said we could get married.”

“Married?” Brooke echoed stupidly. “You and me?”

“The press would ease off after a while. Quietly married couples don't make the news the same way lovers do. Human nature.” He pushed his sandwich aside and leaned toward her.

“What do you think?”

“I think you're crazy,” Brooke managed in a whisper. “And I don't think this is funny.”

Parks gripped her arm when she started to scoot out of the booth. “I'm not joking.”

“You—you want to get married so we won't get our picture in the paper?”

“I don't give a damn if we get our picture in the paper or not, you do.”

“So you want to get married to—to placate me.” She stopped struggling against his hold on her arm, but her eyes filled with fury.

“I've never had any intention of placating you,” he countered. “I couldn't placate you if I dedicated my life to it. I want to get married because I'm in love with you. I'm
going
to marry you,” he corrected, suddenly angry, “if I have to drag you, kicking and screaming.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that's exactly so. You might as well get used to it.”

“Maybe I don't want to get married.” Brooke shoved the food in front of them aside. “What about that?”

“Too bad.” He leaned back, eyeing her with the same simmering temper with which she eyed him. “
I
want to get married.”

“And that's supposed to be enough, huh?”

“It's enough for me.”

Brooke crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Kicking and screaming?”

“If that's the way you want it.”

“I can bite, too.”

“So can I.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs, but Brooke realized it wasn't from anger. No, it had nothing to do with anger. He was sitting there, across a laminated table littered with food from a twelve-year-old's fantasy, telling her he was going to marry her whether she liked it or not. Brooke discovered, somewhat to her own amazement, that she liked it just fine. But she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

“Maybe winning the series went to your head, Parks. It's going to take more than a temper tantrum to get me to marry you.”

“What do you want?” he demanded. “Candlelight and soft music?” Annoyed that he had scuttled his own plans, he leaned over again and grabbed her hands. “You're not the kind of woman who needs scenery, Brooke. You know just how easy it is to come by and how little it means. What the hell do you want?”

“Take two,” she said very calmly. “You know your motivation,” she began in her cool director's voice, “but this time tone down the force and try for a little finesse. Ask,” she suggested, looking into his eyes, “don't tell.”

He felt the anger, or perhaps it had been fear, slide out of him. The hands that held hers gentled. “Brooke—” he lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to his lips “—will you marry me?” Parks smiled over their joined hands. “How was that?”

Brooke laced the fingers with hers. “Perfect.”

Chapter 11

What was she doing?
In a sudden panic, Brooke stared at herself in the free standing long-length mirror. How could things be happening so fast and be so much out of her control? A year ago—no, even six months ago—she hadn't known Parks Jones existed. In something under an hour, she would be married to him. Committed. For life. Forever.

From somewhere deep inside her brain came a panicked call to run and run fast. Brooke hadn't realized she'd made a move until she was summarily jerked back into place.

“Be still, Ms. Gordon,” Billings ordered firmly. “There are two dozen of these little buttons if there's one.” She used a complaining tone, though privately she thought Brooke's choice of an ivory satin gown with its snug bodice and flowing skirt was inspired. A good, traditional wedding dress, she decided, not one of those flighty trouser suits or miniskirted affairs in scarlet or fuchsia. Billings continued to fasten the range of tiny pearl buttons in back.

“Stand still now,” she ordered again as Brooke fidgeted.

“Billings,” Brooke said weakly, “I really think I'm going to be sick.”

The housekeeper looked up at Brooke's reflection. Her face was pale, her eyes huge, made darker by the merest touch of slate-gray shadow. In Billings's staunch opinion, a bride was supposed to look ready to faint. “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Just a case of the flutters.”

“Flutters,” Brooke repeated, creasing her brow. “I never flutter. That's ridiculous.”

The Englishwoman smiled fleetingly as Brooke straightened her shoulders. “Flutters, jitters, nerves—every woman born has them on her wedding day.”

“Well, I don't,” she claimed as her stomach muscles quivered.

Billings only sniffed as she finished her fastening. “There now, that's the last one.”

“Thank God,” Brooke muttered, heading for a chair before Billings caught her.

“No, you don't. You're not putting creases in that skirt.”

“Billings, for heaven's sake—”

“A woman has to suffer now and again.”

Brooke's opinion was a short four-letter word. Lifting a brow, Billings picked up a hairbrush from the vanity. “A fine way for a blushing bride to talk.”

“I'm not a blushing bride.” Brooke swept away before Billings could apply the brush. “I'm twenty-eight years old,” she continued, pacing. “I must be crazy, I must be absolutely crazy. No sane woman agrees to marry a man in a fast-food restaurant.”

“You're getting married in Ms. Thorton's garden,” Billings corrected. “And it's quite a lovely day for it.”

The practical tone caused Brooke to scowl. “And I should never have let her talk me into that, either.”

“Hah!” The exclamation had Brooke's brows lifting. Billings gestured threateningly with the hairbrush. “Hah!” she said again, effectively closing Brooke's mouth. “No one talks you into anything. You're a hardheaded, stubborn, single-minded young woman, and you're shaking in your shoes because there's a hardheaded, stubborn, single-minded young man downstairs who's going to give you a run for your money.”

“I certainly am not shaking in my shoes,” Brooke corrected, insulted. Billings saw the faint pink flush rise to the pale cheeks.

“Scared to death.”

Brooke stuck both fists on her hips. “I am most certainly not afraid of Parks Jones.”

“Hah!” Billings repeated as she pulled over a footstool. Climbing on it, she began to draw the brush through Brooke's hair. “You'll probably stammer and quake when you take your vows, just like some silly girl who doesn't know her own mind.”

“I've never stammered in my life.” Enunciating each word precisely, Brooke glared at their twin reflections in the mirror. “And nothing makes me quake.”

“We'll just see about that, won't we?” Rather pleased with herself, Billings arranged Brooke's mane of hair into a cunningly tumbled mass. In this, she secured a delicate clip of pale pink-and-white hibiscus. She had fussed that lily of the valley or rosebuds would have been more suitable, but secretly thought the exotic flowers were stunning.

“Now, where are those lovely pearl drops Ms. Thorton gave you?”

“Over there.” Still fuming, Brooke pointed to the tiny jeweler's box that held Claire's gift.

They should have eloped as Parks had suggested, Brooke thought. What had made her think she wanted all this fuss and bother? What had made her think she wanted to get married in the first place? As her nerves started jumping again, she caught Billings's ironic stare. Brooke lifted her chin.

“Well, put them on,” the housekeeper ordered, holding the pink-blushed pearls in her palm. “It was very clever of Mr. Jones to send you flowers to match them.”

“If you like him so much, why don't you marry him?” Brooke muttered, fastening the earrings with fingers that refused to stop trembling.

“I suppose you'll do,” Billings said briskly, swallowing a lump in her throat. “Even without a proper veil and train.” She wanted badly to press a kiss to Brooke's cheek, but knew it would weaken both of them. “Come along, then,” she said instead. “It's time.”

I could still call it off, Brooke thought as she let Billings draw her down the hall. There's still time. No one can make me go through with this. The little skips of nerves in her stomach had increased to thumps. There's absolutely nothing that can make me walk out into that garden. What was the phrase? she wondered. Marry in haste, repent at leisure? This was certainly haste.

It had only been four days since Parks had asked her. Four days. Maybe the big mistake had been in telling Claire. Good God, she'd never seen anyone move so fast once they'd gotten the bit between their teeth. Brooke decided she must have been in a state of shock to have let Claire sweep her along with plans and arrangements. An intimate ceremony in her terraced garden, a champagne reception.
Elope?
Claire had brushed that aside with a wave of her hand. Elopements were for silly teenagers. And wouldn't a three-piece ensemble be lovely? Brooke had found herself caught up. And now she was just caught.

But no, Brooke corrected as she and Billings reached the foot of the stairs. All she had to do was turn around and head for the door. She could get into her car and just drive away. That was the coward's way. Straightening her shoulders, Brooke rejected it. She wouldn't run, she would simply walk outside and explain very calmly she had changed her mind. Yes, that's all it would take. I'm very sorry, she practiced mentally, but I've decided not to get married after all. She'd be very calm and very firm.

“Oh, Brooke, you look lovely.” And there was Claire, dressed in powder-blue silk with the sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Claire, I—”

“Absolutely lovely. I wish you'd let me have them play the wedding march.”

“No, I—”

“It doesn't matter, as long as you're happy.” Claire pressed her cheek to Brooke's. “Isn't it silly, I feel just like a mother. Imagine having your first pangs of motherhood at my age.”

“Oh, Claire.”

“No, no, I'm not going to get sloppy and sentimental and ruin my face.” Sniffling, she drew away. “It's not every day I'm maid of honor.”

“Claire, I want to—”

“They're waiting, Ms. Thorton.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Giving Brooke's hand a quick squeeze, she went out on the terrace.

“Now you, Ms. Gordon.” Brooke stood where she was, wondering if the coward's way wasn't basically sound. Billings put a firm hand on her back and pushed. Brooke found herself out on the terrace facing Parks.

He took her hand. He was firm as he brought hers to his lips. She noticed his eyes, smiling, sure. He was in a pearl-gray suit, more formal than anything she had seen him wear. But his eyes held that complete intensity she knew they had when he waited for a pitch. She found herself walking with him to the center of the terrace that was surrounded by flowers and the ornamental trees Claire loved.

Still time, Brooke thought as the minister began to speak in a calm, clear voice. But she couldn't open her mouth to stop what was already happening.

She'd remember the scent always. Jasmine and vanilla, and the sweet drift of baby roses. But she didn't see the flowers because her eyes were locked on Parks's. He was repeating the words the minister spoke, the traditional words spoken countless times by countless couples. But she heard them as if they were uttered for the first time.

Love, honor, cherish.

She felt the ring slip onto her finger. Felt, but again didn't see because she couldn't take her eyes from his. From the branches of a weeping cherry, a bird began to trill.

She heard her own voice, strong and assured, repeat the same promises. And her hand, with no trembling, placed the symbol of the promise on Parks's finger.

A pledge, a promise, a gift. Then their lips moved together, sealing it.

I was going to run, she remembered.

“I'd have caught you,” Parks murmured against her mouth.

Astonished and annoyed, Brooke drew back. He was grinning at her, his hands still caught in her hair. To the confusion of the others in the quiet, fragrant garden, Brooke cursed then threw her arms around his neck and laughed.

“Hey.” Snyder gave Parks a firm shove. “Give somebody else a chance.”

***

Claire's idea of a small gathering was the epitome of a producer's understatement. Though Brooke didn't bother to count heads, she knew there were well over a hundred “absolutely essential guests.” She found she didn't mind—the glitter was her gift to Claire. There was a bubbly fountain of champagne, a five-tiered pink-and-white cake and silver platters of food that for once Brooke had no interest in. Which turned out for the best, as she was swept from one person's arms to another, kissed, hugged and congratulated until it all became a blur of color and sound.

She met Parks's mother, a tiny, exquisite woman who kissed her cheek then burst into tears. His father crushed Brooke in a hug and murmured that now that Parks was married, he would stop the nonsense and come into the company. She found herself inheriting a family in a lump—a large, confusing family that didn't quite fit any of the imaginings of her youth. And through it all, she had barely more than glimpses of Parks as she was passed from cousin to cousin to be weighed, measured and discussed like a fascinating new acquisition.

“Leave the girl be a minute.” A sturdy, pewter-haired woman swept the others aside with an imperious wave of her hand. “These Joneses are a silly bunch.” She sighed, then summed Brooke up with one long look. “I'm your Aunt Lorraine,” she said and extended her hand.

Brooke accepted the handshake, knowing instinctively the gesture was somehow more sincere and more intimate than all the kisses she had received. Then with a flash of insight, she knew. “The gold piece.”

Lorraine smiled, pleased. “Told you about that, did he? Well, he's a good boy . . . more or less.” A straight, no-nonsense brow lifted. “And he won't bully you, will he?”

With a grin, Brooke shook her head. “No, ma'am, he won't.”

Lorraine nodded, giving Brooke's hand a quick pat. “Good. I'll expect a visit in six months. It takes a couple that long to work out the first kinks. Now, if I were you, I'd get my husband and sneak out of this rabble.” With this advice, she strode away. Brooke had her first twinge of genuine kinship.

Even so, it seemed like hours before they could slip away. Brooke had intended to steal back upstairs and change, but Parks had seen his opportunity and had pulled her outside, bundled her into his car and driven off. Now he stopped the car in the driveway of the A-frame and sighed.

“We made it.”

“It was rude,” Brooke mused.

“Yeah.”

“And very smart.” Leaning over, she kissed him. “Especially since you managed to cop a bottle of champagne on the way.”

“Quick hands,” he explained as he stepped from the car.

Brooke chuckled, but felt a fresh ripple of unease as they walked up the path. Parks's hand was closed over hers. She could feel the slight, unfamiliar pressure of her wedding ring against her skin. “One problem,” she began, pushing the feeling aside. “You dragged me out of there without my purse.” She glanced at the door, then back at Parks. “No keys.”

Parks reached in his pocket and drew out his own. A faint frown creased her brow as she remembered he had a key to the door now. A key to her life. Though he noticed her reaction, Parks said nothing, only slipping the key into the lock. It opened silently. He swept her up into his arms, and with her laughter, the subtle disharmony was forgotten.

“I hadn't realized you were such a traditionalist,” Brooke murmured, nuzzling at his neck, “but . . .” She trailed off at the sound of high, sharp yapping. Astonished, she looked down to see a small brown dog with a black muzzle racing around Parks's feet, making occasional dives for his ankles. “What's that?” she managed.

“Your wedding present.” With his toe, he nudged the puppy, sending him rolling over on his back. “Homely enough?”

Brooke stared down at the pushed-in mongrel face. “Oh, Parks,” she whispered, close to tears. “You fool.”

“E.J. should've dropped him off about an hour ago, if he was on schedule. Guy at the pound thought I was crazy when I told him I wanted something down-to-the-ground homely.”

“Oh, I love you!” Brooke squeezed his neck fiercely then wriggled out of his arms. In her satin wedding dress, she knelt on the floor to play with the puppy.

She looked young, Parks thought, too young, as she buried her face in the little dog's fur. Why would he constantly expose her vulnerabilities then be uncertain how to handle them? There was so much sweetness in her, and yet, was he somehow more comfortable with the vinegar she could serve him? It was the mix, Parks thought as he knelt to join her, the fascinating mix he couldn't resist.