Rules of the Game (21 page)

“What is?” Parks tossed back, furious at being lectured by someone half his size.

“You'd better figure it out.”

Parks measured her another moment. “All right,” he said coolly and left without another word.

Lee rose from the sofa to stand beside Claire. Her pampered skin was flushed with temper, her faded blue eyes icy. “You know,” he mused as he studied her, “I've never seen you in full gear before.”

“I don't often lose my temper.” Claire fluffed at her hair. “Young people,” she stated, as if the two words explained everything.

“Yeah.” Taking her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “They don't know a good thing when they've got it.” His puckish round face creased with a grin. “How'd you like to spend the rest of your life with an overweight theatrical agent?”

The ice melted from Claire's eyes, but the flush remained. “Lee, I thought you'd never ask.”

***

Parks was fighting his way through L.A. traffic when he heard the first report of the fire. His anger at Claire, his frustration that she had spoken no more than the truth, was switched off instantly as he caught the tail end of a news broadcast reporting brush fires in Liberty Canyon—less than an hour away from Brooke's isolated A-frame. No, there wasn't anger now, but a sick sense of fear that had his palms slipping damply on the wheel.

Had she gone home? he wondered frantically as he sped around a cruising Ferrari. Would she have the television set on, the radio, or would she be in one of her solitary moods? After a hot, enervating day on location, she would often simply shower and sleep for an hour. Recharging, he had called it jokingly. Now the idea terrified him.

As he drove higher, he began to scent the fragrance of dry leaves burning. A faint haze of smoke rose into the sky to the east. Thirty minutes, Parks estimated as he pressed his foot on the accelerator. Forty, if they were lucky. It would take him nearly half that to get there.

There was no wind to hurry the fire along, he reminded himself, fighting to keep calm. They weren't calling it a firestorm . . . not yet. Brooke was probably already packing up her most important things—he might even meet her on the road on her way down. Any minute she could come zipping around one of the curves in the road leading back down the mountain. They'd get a hotel, talk this business out. Claire was right, he hadn't dug deep enough. Once he had promised himself he would learn the whole woman. It was long past time to make good on the promise.

Parks could almost taste the smoke now, the thick black smoke that led the way for the fire. He saw a pack of small animals—rabbits, raccoons, a fox—race down the road on the other side in their migration to lower elevation. It was close, then, he thought, too close. Why in God's name wasn't she speeding down the road toward safety? He drove the last fifteen miles in a blur of speed and fear.

Parks only took the time to register that Brooke's car was in the driveway before he was out of his own and racing toward the house. She had to be asleep, he decided, not to know the fire was closing in. Even without the radio on, the haze of smoke and smell of burning brought the news. He burst through the front door, calling her name.

The house was silent. There was no sound of hurried movement, of drawers slamming, nothing to indicate frantic packing. Parks was racing up the stairs two at a time when he heard the dog barking. He swore, but kept going. He'd forgotten the dog completely in his fear for Brooke. And the fear grew again when he saw the bed was empty. He was racing through the second floor, still calling, when a movement outside the window caught his eye.

Rain? he thought, pausing long enough to stare. No, water—but not rain. Going to the window, he saw her. Relief was immediately overlapped by irritation, and irritation by fury. What the hell was she doing standing in the backyard watering the lawn when the smoke was thick enough to block out the trees to the east?

With a quick jerk, he pulled up the window and shouted through the screen. “Brooke, what the hell are you doing?”

She jolted, then looked up. “Oh, Parks, thank God! Come down and help, there isn't much time. Close the window!” she shouted. “The sparks could get inside.
Hurry!
”

He moved, and moved quickly, intending on shaking her until she rattled then dragging her to the car. Halfway down the stairs, he leaped over the banister and headed to the back door. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded again. Then, instead of shaking her, he found he was holding her tight enough to make her bones crack. If he hadn't heard the radio, if she'd been sleeping . . .
If.
A thousand ifs ran through his mind as his mouth came down frantically on hers.

It was the sudden howl of wind that brought him back. A sudden ripple of terror ran down his spine. The wind would speed the fire and feed the flames. Brush fire became firestorm. “We've got to get out of here.”

He had dragged her nearly two feet before he realized she was fighting him. “No!” With a show of pure strength, Brooke broke away from him then picked up the hose she had dropped.

“Damn it, Brooke, we can't have more than fifteen minutes.”

He took her arm again and again she broke away. “I know how much time there is.” She aimed the spray of water toward the house again, soaking the wood. The sound drummed in the air over the growing fierceness of the wind.

For the first time, Parks noticed that she was wet and filthy and wearing only a bathrobe. She'd just been stepping from the shower when the special report on the radio had warned her of the approaching fire. He looked at the dirt and grass stains on the silk of her robe and realized what she'd been doing. The land around the house had been cleared. She'd done it with her hands. He saw the scratches and dried blood on them and on her legs and ankles. Now, with the puppy barking frantically around her, she was wetting down the house.

“Are you crazy!” he demanded as the first flash of admiration was drowned in fresh fury. Parks grabbed her arm again, ripping the shoulder seam of her robe. “Do you know what a firestorm is?”

“I know what it is.” Her elbow connected with his ribs as she struggled away. “If you won't help, stay out of my way; half the house hasn't been wetted down yet.”

“You're getting out of here.” Parks pulled the hose out of her hand and started dragging her. “If I have to knock you unconscious.”

Brooke shocked them both by planting her fist solidly on his jaw. The blow was enough to free her so that she stumbled back, losing her balance and landing on all fours.

“I said stay out of my way,” she hissed, then choked as the smoke clogged her lungs.

Parks dragged her to her feet. His eyes were as wild with fear and fury as hers. “You idiot, are you going to fight a firestorm with a garden hose? It's wood and glass!” he shouted as he shook her. “Wood and glass,” he repeated, coughing as he threw a hand toward the house. “Is it worth dying for?”

“It's worth fighting for!” she shouted back against smoke and wind as the tears started to flow. “I won't give in to the fire, I
won't!
” She began fighting him again, more desperately than before.

“Damn it, Brooke, stop!” He took her shoulders until his fingers bit into her flesh. “There isn't time.”

“The fire won't have it. Not our home, don't you understand?” Her voice rose, not in hysteria but in fierce determination. “Not
our
home.”

Parks stopped shaking her, again finding that his arms had wrapped around to hold her close. Understanding flooded through him, and in its wake came every emotion he'd ever experienced. Is that what Claire had meant, he wondered, when she'd said love wasn't enough? Love was enough for beginning, but sustaining took every feeling a human being was capable of.
Our home
, she had said. And with the two words Brooke had cemented everything.

He drew her away. The tears were streaming, her breath was labored. Her eyes were rimmed with red but steady. He knew he had never felt more for another, and never would. And suddenly he knew that questions and answers weren't necessary for him to know the whole woman. Without speaking, he let her go and picked up the hose himself. Brooke stayed where she was while he turned the water onto the house. With the back of her wrist, she wiped the stinging tears from her face.

“Parks . . .”

He turned, smiling the grim gladiator smile. “It's worth fighting for.” Brooke let out a shuddering sigh as she closed her hand over his. “We'll need towels to breathe through, a couple of blankets. Get them while I hose down the rest of the house.”

It seemed like hours passed while they worked together, soaking the wood and each other, the dog, again and again while the smoke grew thicker. The wind screamed, threatening to rip the blanket Parks had tossed over her out of her hands. The heat, Brooke thought. She wouldn't be able to bear the heat. But the flames still held off. There were moments she almost believed the fire would veer away, then she would be choking on the smoke and taking her turn with the hose until she couldn't think at all. There was only one goal—to save the house she'd shared with Parks—the symbol of everything she had ever needed. Home, family, love.

With the towels pressed to their faces, they worked their way around and around the house, soaking the roof, the sides, all the surfaces the heat seemed to dry again so quickly. They no longer spoke, but worked systematically. Two pairs of arms, two sets of legs, working with one mind—to protect what was theirs.

Parks saw the flames first, and was almost too awed to move. It wasn't a furnace, he thought, or an oven. It was hell. And it was racing toward them. Great, greedy towers of fire belched out of the main body like spears. And in the midst of unbearable heat, he felt the icy sweat of human fear.

“No more.” In a quick move, he grabbed Brooke's arm and scooped up the puppy.

“What are you doing? We can't leave now.” Stumbling and choking, Brooke fought to free herself.

“If we don't leave now, we could be dead.” He pushed Brooke into his car and shoved the puppy into her arms. “Damn it, Brooke, we've done all we can.” His hands were slick with sweat as he turned the key. “Nothing you can buy is worth dying for.”

“You don't understand!” With the back of her hand she smeared grime and tears together on her face. “Everything—everything I have is back there. I can't let the fire take it all—everything that means anything to me.”

“Everything,” he repeated in a murmur. Parks stopped the car to stare at her with red-rimmed, stinging eyes. “All right, if that's how you feel, I'll go back and do what I can.” His voice was curiously flat and emotionless. “But, by God, you stay here. I won't risk you.”

Before she could take in what he'd said or what he was doing, he was gone. For a moment, the hysteria had complete control. She trembled with it, unable to move or think. The fire was going to take her home, all her possessions. She'd be left with nothing, just as she had been so many times before. How could she face it again after all the years of struggling, of work, of wanting?

The puppy squirmed in her arms and whimpered. Blankly, Brooke stared down at him. What was she doing sitting there when her house was in danger? She had to go back, go back and save . . . Parks.

Fear froze her, then had her springing from the car and racing through the smoke. She'd sent him back—he'd gone back for her. For what? she thought desperately. What was she trying to save? Wood and glass—that's what he'd called it. It was nothing more. He was her home, the real home she'd searched for all her life. She shouted for him, sobbing as the smoke blocked everything from view.

She could hear the fire—or the wind. Brooke was no longer certain one was separate from the other. All that was clear now was that if she lost him now, she truly lost everything. So she shouted his name again and again, fighting her way through the smoke to get to him.

For an instant she could no longer breathe, no longer be certain where she was or where to run. An image flashed through her mind, one of herself as a young girl approaching a small two-story house where she would spend a year of her life. She couldn't remember the names of the people who would be her parents for those twelve months, only that sense of disorientation and loneliness. She'd always felt as lonely going in as she had coming out. She'd always been separate, always an outsider, until she'd met Parks.

She saw him racing back to her, misted through the curtain of smoke. Before she could separate one image from another, she was in his arms.

“What happened?” he demanded. “I heard you shouting, I thought—” He buried his face against her neck a moment as the fear ebbed. “Damn it, Brooke, I told you to stay in the car.”

“Not without you. Please, let's go.” She was dragging on his arm, pulling him back down the road toward the car.

“The house—”

“Means nothing,” she said fiercely. “Nothing does without you.” Before he could react, Brooke was climbing into the driver's seat herself. The moment Parks was beside her, she started down the twisting road.

After nearly a mile, the smoke thinned. It was then Brooke felt the reaction set in with shudders and fresh tears. Pulling off the road, she laid her head on the steering wheel and wept.

“Brooke.” Gently, he brushed a hand over her wet, tangled hair. “I'm sorry. I know the house was important to you. We don't know yet that it's gone or beyond repair. We can—”

“Damn the house!” Lifting her head, she looked at him with eyes that were both angry and desolate. “I must've been crazy to act that way. To send you back there when . . .” Trailing off, she swore and slammed out of the car. Slowly, Parks got out and followed her.

“Brooke.”

“You're the most important thing in my life.” She turned to him then, taking deep breaths to keep the tears back. “I don't expect you to believe that after the way I behaved, but it's true. I couldn't let go of the house, the things, because I'd waited so long to have them. I needed the identity they gave me.” Because the words were painful, she swallowed. “For so long everything I had was only mine on loan. All I could think of was that if I didn't keep that house, those things, I'd be lost again. I don't expect you to understand—”