Rules of the Game (20 page)

“Our first child.” Brooke chuckled when the puppy lay in exhausted slumber on the rug.

“He has your nose.”

“And your feet,” she retorted. “He's going to be enormous from the size of them.”

“Maybe you can cast him in a few dog food commercials,” he commented as he drew Brooke to her feet. Gently he kissed her cheek, then trailed his lips over her chin to the other one. He felt the sudden tremble of her breath on his skin. “Champagne's getting warm,” he murmured.

“I'm not thirsty.”

He was leading her slowly toward the stairs, still planting those soft, whispering kisses over her face on the journey, leaving her lips—her heating, seeking lips—subtly tormented. And they started to climb the stairs, without rush or hurry, while Parks began unfastening that long range of tiny buttons.

“How many are there?” he murmured against her mouth.

“Dozens,” Brooke answered, loosening his tie as they reached the halfway point.

His fingers were nimble. Before they reached the door of the bedroom, he had the gown loosened to her waist. Brooke pushed the jacket from his shoulder, and with her teeth nipping at his neck, tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants.

“Are you ever going to kiss me?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Mmm-hmm.” But he only drove her mad by running his lips over her shoulder as he nudged the satin aside. Then he drew it from her, running his hands slowly down her body until the material was only a pool of white at her feet. He toyed with the bits of lace she wore, tiny, filmy wisps designed to torment men. And even as they tormented him, Parks fought for control. There was always that last struggle for control before he found he was lost in her.

Her fingers slid down his naked ribs to brush over his stomach before she found the hook to his trousers. She heard his quick, indrawn breath before his hands became more demanding. Needing, wanting, she pulled him with her onto the bed.

Why should there be such desperation when they were now so securely bound to each other? Though neither of them understood it, they both felt it. The urgency to touch, taste. To possess. Gentleness was abandoned while hungry, primitive passion took its place. The teasing kisses stopped with a hard, burning pressure of mouth on mouth. Her hands sought, as skillfully as his, to find weaknesses. Every moan brought a fresh thrill of arousal, each sigh an increase of tortuous desire until neither knew if the sounds were from pleasure or desperation. And both refused to succumb to the fire.

He found her breast taut and firm. Greedily, his mouth sought it, sending a tearing thread of delight into the core of her. Even as she moaned in surrender, her hands pressed him closer, her body moving sinuously under his until he was lost in the taste of her.

Flesh heated against flesh. The pace quickened. Faster, faster until they were breathless and clinging but still not ready to yield. She ran her hands over his damp back, over the roping of muscles that accented his superior strength. But physical strength meant nothing in the inescapable quicksand of passion. They were both trapped in it, both equally incapable of freeing themselves.

With sudden strength, she shifted, so that they were tangled together, side by side. Her mouth fastened on his, devouring as eagerly as she was devoured, taking as mindlessly as she was taken. Her hair fell over them, curtaining their faces so that Parks couldn't breathe without breathing her. If he had been capable of thought, he might have imagined himself absorbed by her. But there was no thought for either of them, and the need had grown too great to be resisted.

She went willingly when he shifted her, drawing his mouth down to hers even as he entered her with something close to violence. Then there was only speed and heat, driving them beyond everything but each other.

***

“Should I need you more each time?” Brooke wondered aloud.

“Mmm.” Parks didn't want to move from the warm comfort of her body. It yielded under his, pressed deep into the mattress. “Just don't stop.”

It was dusk. The light filtering through the windows was soft—and soon it would be night. Her wedding night. Yet she still felt only like a lover. How would it be to feel like a wife? Lifting her hand, she stared at the band on her finger. It was encrusted with diamonds and sapphires that glowed softly in the room's twilight. “I don't want it to be different tomorrow,” she thought aloud. “I don't want it to change.”

Parks raised his head. “Everything changes. You'll get mad if I use all the hot water for my shower. I'll get mad if you've drunk the last of the coffee.”

Brooke laughed. “You have a way of simplifying things.”

“Those are the nuts and bolts of a relationship, Mrs. Jones,” he claimed and kissed her.

The eyes that had begun to close for the kiss opened wide. “Jones,” she repeated. “I'd forgotten about that part of it.” She considered for a minute. “It makes me think of your mother . . . though of course she was very nice.”

Parks gave a muffled chuckle. “Don't worry. Just remember she lives three hundred miles away.”

Brooke rolled over until she lay on top of him. “You have a very nice family.”

“Yeah, and we don't want to get tangled up with them any more than we have to.”

“Well . . .” Brooke laid her head on his chest. “No. At least not too soon,” she added, thinking of his aunt. She relaxed again as he began to lazily stroke her hair. “Parks?”

“Hmm?”

“I'm glad we decided to come here instead of flying off somewhere.”

“We'll go to Maui for a couple of weeks around Christmas. I want you to see my place there.”

Brooke thought of her schedule if she decided to take Claire up on the feature for cable. Somehow or other, she'd managed to get the two weeks. “I love you.”

His hand stopped a moment, then pressed her closer. They were three words she didn't say often. “Did I tell you how beautiful you looked when Billings shoved you out on the terrace?”

Brooke's head shot up. “You saw that?”

Grinning he traced her ear with his fingertip. “Funny, I didn't expect you to be as terrified as I was.”

Brooke regarded him a moment, then a smile curved on her lips. “Were you really?”

“A half hour before the wedding, I'd run up a list of all the reasons why we should call it off.”

She lifted a brow. “Were there many?”

“I lost count,” he told her, ignoring the narrowing of her eyes. “I could only think of one good reason to go through with it.”

“Oh, really?” Her chin came up as she tossed her head. “And what was that?”

“I love you.”

Brooke dropped her forehead onto his. “That's it, huh?”

“The only one I could think of.” He slid a hand down to her hip. “Though one or two others are beginning to occur to me.”

“Mmm. Like it being good for the campaign.” She began to nuzzle, just behind his ear.

“Oh, sure. That's top on my list.” He groaned when the first shudder rippled through him. “Right next to having somebody to sort my socks.”

“You can forget that one,” Brooke murmured, moving down to his shoulder. “But there's always having an in with the director when you do that part for cable.”

“Haven't decided to do it.” His legs tangled with hers as they altered positions. “Have you?”

“Not yet.” Her thoughts began to drift as he cupped her breast. “But you should.”

“Why?”

Lazily, her eyes opened to look into his. “I shouldn't tell you.”

Intrigued, he propped himself on his elbow and toyed with her hair. “Why not?”

She sighed a little, while managing to convey a shrug. “The last thing you need is someone feeding your ego.”

“Go ahead.” He kissed her nose. “I can take it.”

“Damn it, Parks, you're good.”

He stopped in the action of twining her hair around his finger and stared at her. “What did you say?”

Brooke shifted again. “Well, I don't mean you can
act
,” she began. “Don't start getting delusions.”

He grinned, enjoying her ironic lift of brow. “That's more like it.”

“You have good camera presence,” she went on. “Do you have any idea how many big stars stay big simply by playing themselves?” Parks grunted, more interested in the curve of her shoulder. “You know how to play yourself, Parks,” Brooke persisted, drawing him back for a moment. “And if you were to stick to parts, at least for a while, that suited you . . . well, when you really are ready to retire from baseball you could walk right into a movie career.”

He started to laugh, then stopped when he saw the look in her eyes. “You're not joking.”

Brooke stared at him, then let out a long breath. “I'm really going to hate myself when I've got to deal with you as a director in a couple of weeks, but you're very, very good, and you should think about it. And if you get a star complex when I tell you to run through some business on camera a half a dozen times, I'll . . .”

“What?” he challenged.

“Something,” Brooke said ominously. “Something despicable.”

He gave her a wicked grin. “Promise?”

Since she couldn't stop the laugh, she rolled him over forcibly so that she was lying across him again. “Yeah. And now I'm going to make love to you until your bones dissolve.”

“Is this in my contract?” he demanded.

“You better believe it.”

Chapter 12

Though it was November, Los Angeles was suffering from a heat wave that fried tempers and melted patience. Brooke's was no exception. She and Parks had had ten long, isolated days before she had begun work again—but they hadn't been trouble-free. Nothing's trouble-free, Brooke reminded herself as she knotted her blouse beneath her breasts. What fool thought a honeymoon would be? She had, she admitted ruefully as the camera crane was unloaded. But then how much thought had she really given to adjustments, to changes and, as Parks had termed it, the nuts-and-bolts business that made up a marriage?

She had accepted his name, and though she would keep her own professionally, it was Brooke Jones that she would sign to all legal documents. He had given up his apartment and moved into her house. She had his name, he had her key. Why did she feel she was tallying a balance sheet? Frustrated, Brooke wiped her forearm over her brow.

Was that what marriage was, she wondered, a series of checks and balances? With her marriage barely three weeks old, she should be blissfully happy, glowing. Instead, Brooke felt frustrated, annoyed and unsettled—perhaps more unsettled because she knew Parks was no more blissfully happy than she.

With a shake of her head, she told herself to put it aside. Bringing her personal problems to work wouldn't solve them—and more than likely it would make them worse, since she was directing Parks.

“Let's go up, E.J., I want to see the angle.” Sitting in the basket beside him, she gave the crane operator a nod to take them up.

Below them, the beach spread gold. The surf kicked up, white and frothy, catching the glint of the sun and rainbowing through the lens. She thought she could feel the heat steam from the metal casing of the camera. “All right, I'll want a wide shot when he starts, then zoom in, but not too tight. At this angle, we'll get a good profile of the horse. The palomino's a nice contrast with the jeans. Set the speed. I want it slow enough so they see every muscle ripple.”

“On Parks or the horse?” E.J. asked with a grin.

“On both,” Brooke answered curtly, nodding to be brought down. Wiping her palms on the seat of her pants, she strode over to where Parks waited. He wore nothing but snug, low-slung de Marco jeans. “We're ready for you.”

“All right.” Parks gave her a long, steady look as he hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. He wasn't sure why he was dissatisfied, or why he felt the need to annoy her. The friction had been growing between them for the past few days, building and shifting like some electric storm. But there'd been no boom of thunder, no slash of lightning to release the pressure. “What do you want?”

“You've seen the script,” she reminded him.

“Aren't you going to give me my motivation?”

“Don't be a smart aleck, Parks,” she snapped. “It's too damn hot.”

“Just want to make sure I've got the right mood so you won't make me do it a half dozen times.”

Temper flared in her eyes and was forcefully suppressed. She wouldn't let him taunt her into a public sniping. “You'll do it two dozen times if I feel it's necessary,” she said as calmly as possible. “Now get on the horse, gallop straight down the beach in the shallows. And enjoy it.”

“Is that an order?” he murmured, deceptively mild.

“It's a direction,” she returned evenly. “I'm the director, you're the talent. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Catching her close, he crushed her mouth with his. He felt the dampness of her blouse under his palm, the angry rigidity of her body and the yielding softness of her breasts. Why was he angry? he wondered even as his temper inched higher. Why did he feel he was dragging her close and shoving her away at the same time? “Got that?” he demanded as he turned and swung onto the horse.

She glared at him, a half-naked man astride a golden horse, as he smiled down at her with the cocky assurance she both loved and detested. Making him pay for that small victory would be a pleasure. Turning on her heel, Brooke strode back to her crew. “Take one,” she ordered, then waited, turning ideas for vengeance over in her mind. She took the bullhorn her assistant handed her. “Places!” Parks led the palomino into the surf. Brooke stared at him, forcing herself to put her personal feelings on hold while she thought and felt and saw only as a director. “Roll film, and . . . action!”

He's magnificent, Brooke thought with a twin surge of pride and irritation. He took the horse into an easy, rolling gallop, kicking up the surf so that the streams of water rose high. Beads glistened on his skin, darkly tanned so that he and the palomino merged into one golden form. Parks's hair and the horse's mane lifted in the wind the motion caused. Strength, an elegance of movement and the simplicity of two beautiful animals. Brooke didn't need special effects to show her how it would look in slow motion.

“Cut. E.J.?”

“Fantastic,” he called down. “Sales of de Marco jeans just went up ten percent.”

“Let's make sure.” Pulling her damp shirt away from her back, Brooke walked to where Parks waited, astride the horse. It had been fantastic, she mused, but not perfect. Spotting her, Parks broke off his conversation with the palomino's trainer.

“Well?”

“It looked pretty good. Let's do it again.”

“Why?”

Ignoring the question, she absently patted the gelding's smooth throat. “I want you to look down the beach as you ride . . . all the way down.” She didn't want that comfortable, freewheeling sexuality this time, but a dash of aloofness, the solitary-man appeal flavored with the sensuality any female over twelve would recognize.

He shifted in the saddle, his eyes never leaving hers. “Why?”

“Ride the horse, Parks,” she countered. “Let me sell the jeans.”

Very slowly, he dismounted. The trainer quickly remembered something he had to do somewhere else. Behind them, the crew became very busy. Parks held the reins in one hand while he and Brooke measured each other. “Ever considered asking?” he said quietly.

“Ever considered following directions?” she tossed back.

He felt the salt spray drying on his skin. “Too bad you've never been a team player, Brooke.”

“This isn't a ball game,” she retorted, firing up. “We all have our jobs to do. Yours is whatever I tell you it is.”

The flash of anger in his eyes suited her mood. She wanted a fight, a rip-roaring screamer that would tear through the tension of their last few days together. Planting her feet, Brooke prepared to attack and defend.

“No,” he said with a sudden deadly calm that put her at a disadvantage, “it's not. My job is to endorse de Marco.”

“And that's what I'm telling you to do.” She forced herself to match his tone, though she badly wanted to shout. “If you want to be a prima donna, wait until after we wrap. Take your complaints and talk to your agent.”

His hand snaked out to grab her arm before she could stalk away. “I'm talking to my wife.”

Heart hammering in her throat, she looked down at the hand that held her. “Your director,” Brooke icily corrected, meeting his eyes. “My crew's hot, Parks. I'd like to finish this before someone faints from heat exhaustion.”

His grip tightened. But he saw that her face was flushed from the heat and damp with sweat. “We're not finished with this,” he told her as he released her arm. “This time, you're going to take a good hard look at the rules.” Swinging onto the horse, Parks rode away before she could think of an appropriate comment.

Brooke frowned after him as she stalked back to the crane. “Take two.”

***

He could have given no logical, succinct explanation for his anger. Parks only knew he was furious. He had only one motivation as he stalked down the corridors to Brooke's office—to have it out with her. He wasn't certain what
it
was, but he would have had it out with her on location if she hadn't been gone before he'd realized it. Though he wasn't thrilled about coming to terms with her in her office, he'd had plenty of experience in meeting a challenge on the opposition's home field. All it meant was that he would take the offensive first.

Brushing by her secretary without a word, Parks pushed open the door to Brooke's office. Empty.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Jones.” The secretary hurried up to him, warned by the dangerous light in his eye. “Ms. Gordon . . . Mrs. Jones isn't in.”

“Where?” Parks demanded curtly.

“I—Perhaps Ms. Thorton's office. If you'll wait, I'll check for you. . . .” But he was already heading out with a long, determined stride that had her chewing on the nail of her forefinger. It looked like Brooke was in trouble. And some people have all the luck, the secretary mused before she went back to her desk.

In less than five minutes, Parks walked by the twins in Claire's outer office and opened her door without knocking. “Where's Brooke?” he demanded, not bothering to greet Claire or his agent.

“Good afternoon, Parks,” Claire said easily. “Tea?” She continued to pour Lee's cup as if a furious man weren't at that moment glaring at her.

Parks gave the classic little tea service a brief glance. “I'm looking for Brooke.”

“You've missed her, I'm afraid.” Claire sipped her tea, then offered Lee a plate of macaroons. “She was in and out a half an hour ago. Would you like a cookie, Parks?”

“No. . . .” He managed to get a tenuous hold on his manners. “Thanks. Where did she go?”

Claire nibbled on a macaroon, then dusted her fingers on a pink linen napkin. “Didn't she say she was going home, Lee?”

“Yep. And she wasn't in any better mood than Parks is.” He sent his client a bland smile before he wolfed down a cookie.

“No, she wasn't, was she?” Claire folded her hands on her lap. “Tell me, dear, are you two having a tiff?”

“No, we're not having a tiff,” Parks muttered, not certain what they were having. It occurred to him suddenly how cozy his agent and his producer were on the small two-cushioned sofa. “What are you two having?” he countered.

“Tea.” Claire smiled her dry smile.

“Why don't you have a seat and cool off,” Lee invited. “You look like you've just played nine full innings.”

“We were shooting on the beach,” Parks murmured. Did Lee Dutton have his arm around Claire Thorton, or was he seeing things?

“It went well?” Claire asked, noting his expression, amused by the reason for it.

“Apparently Brooke was satisfied.”

“Apparently,” Claire murmured, then shot him a level stare. “When are you and Brooke going to relax and enjoy yourselves?”

Parks's speculative look changed to a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I've never in my life seen two people spend so much time poking at each other.”

“Is that what you call it?” Parks muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“For want of a better term.” Claire set her teacup carefully in its saucer. “I realize, of course, that the power game is a founding part of your relationship, and provides its own stimulation, but don't you think it's time you became a family as well as opponents?” Keeping her eyes level, Claire settled into the crook of Lee's arm.

Parks stared at her for nearly a full minute. Power game, he repeated silently. Well yes, it was an intricate part of what they were to each other. They had both looked for strength, challenge, and would have walked the other way if they hadn't found the combination. But as for the rest—a family . . . Was that what was niggling at the back of his mind?

Wasn't it true that he couldn't resolve himself to the fact that they were living in
her
house, surrounded by
her
things? He still felt uncomfortably like a guest. Even as fresh annoyance grew, he remembered their discussing a trip to Maui. He had told Brooke he wanted her to see
his
place. But . . . Even as he searched for an excuse, he knew he wouldn't find one.

Turning, Parks paced to the window and scowled out. “I don't think Brooke's ready for a family relationship.” The brief, undignified answer Claire gave him had Parks turning back, half-amused. Lee merely reached forward and snatched another cookie.

“She's looked for one all of her life. If you know anything about her, you know that.” Suddenly angry, Claire rose. “Is it possible for two people to live together and not understand the other's needs, the other's hurts? How much has she told you about how she grew up?”

“Barely anything,” Parks began. “She—”

“How much did you ask?” Claire demanded. “Don't tell me you didn't want to pry,” she said quickly, cutting him off. “You're her husband, it's your business to pry. You can be civilized enough to respect her privacy and never touch on what she really needs from you.”

“I know that she needs to know she can make her own place,” he tossed back. “I know that it doesn't matter if it's a chipped cup or a Hepplewhite table, as long as it's hers.”

“Things!” Claire raged. “Yes, she needs things. God knows she never had them as a child, and the child in her still hurts because of it. But they're only a symbol of what she really wants. Brooke walked in here, an eighteen-year-old adult with nothing more than a few dollars in her pocket and a lot of guts. Someone she thought she loved had taken everything from her, and she wasn't ever going to let that happen again.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes frosting over at the memory. “It's your job to show her that it won't.”

“I don't want to
take
anything from her,” Parks retorted heatedly.

“But you want her to give,” Claire shot back.

“Of course I do, damn it. I love her.”

“Then listen to me. Brooke's struggled all her life to have something of her own, to have some
one
of her own. She has the things. She's earned them. If you want to share them with her, share her life, you'd better have something pretty special to offer in return. Love isn't enough.”