Rules of the Game (5 page)

A dizzying excitement raced through him. He could have her now—feel that long, willowy body beneath his, tangle himself in that wild mane of hair. But he wouldn't have all of her. He needed more time for that.

“Parks.” His name came throatily through her lips, arousing him further. “Kiss me.”

Gently, he pressed his lips to her shoulder. “I am.”

Her mouth felt as though it were on fire. She had thought she understood hunger, having felt it too often in the past. But she'd never known a hunger like this. “Really kiss me.”

He drew away far enough to see her eyes. There was no light in them now; they were opaque with desire. Her lips were parted in invitation, her breath shuddering through them. He bent close, but kept his lips an aching whisper from hers. “Next time,” he said softly.

Turning, he left her stunned and wanting.

Chapter 3

“Okay, Linda, try to look like you're enjoying this.” Brooke cast a look at her lighting director and got a nod. “E.J., sweep up, starting at her toes—take your time on the legs.”

E.J. gave her a blinding white grin from his smooth mahogany face. “My pleasure,” he said affably and focused his camera on the actress's pink painted toenails.

“It's so hot,” Linda complained, fussing with the strap of her tiny bikini. She was stretched out on a towel in the sand—long, blond and beautiful, with a rich golden tan that would hawk a popular suntan lotion. All Linda had to do was to look lush and lazy and purr that she had an
Eden
tan. The bikini would do the rest.

“Don't sweat,” Brooke ordered. “You're supposed to be glowing, not wet. When we roll, count to six, then bring up your right knee—slow. At twelve, take a deep breath, pass your right hand through your hair. Say your line looking straight at the camera and think sex.”

“The hell with sex, I'm roasting.”

“Then let's get it in one take. All right. Speed. Roll film, and . . . action.”

E.J. moved up from the manicured toenails, up the long, slender legs, over a rounded hip, golden midriff and barely confined bosom. He closed in on Linda's face—sulky mouth, pearly teeth and baby blues—then went back for a full shot.

“I've got an
Eden
tan,” Linda claimed.

“Cut.” Brooke swiped a hand over her brow. Though it was still morning, the beach was baking. She thought she could feel the sand burning through the soles of her sneakers. “Let's pump a little life into it,” she suggested. “We've got to sell this stuff on one line and your body.”

“Why don't you try it?” Linda demanded, falling onto her back.

“Because you're getting paid to and I'm not,” Brooke snapped, then clicked her teeth together. She knew better than to lose her temper, especially with this one. The trouble was that since her evening with Parks, she'd been on a perpetual short fuse. Taking a deep breath, Brooke reminded herself that her personal life, if that's what Parks Jones was, couldn't interfere with her work. She walked over and crouched beside the pouting model. “Linda, I know it's miserable out here today, but a job's a job. You're a pro or you wouldn't be here.”

“Do you know how hard I worked on this tan to get this lousy thirty-second spot?”

Brooke patted her shoulder, conveying sympathy, understanding and authority all at once. “Well then, let's make it a classic.”

It was past noon before they were able to load up their equipment. E.J. reached in the back of the station wagon he used and pulled two iced drinks out of a chest cooler. “Here ya go, boss.”

“Thanks.” Brooke pressed the cold bottle against her forehead before she twisted off the top. “What was with her today?” she demanded. “She can be a problem, but I've never had to drag one line out of her like that before.”

“Broke up with her man last week,” E.J. informed Brooke before he took a greedy swallow of grape soda.

Grinning, Brooke sat on the tailgate. “Anything you don't know, E.J.?”

“Not a thing.” He propped himself beside her, one of the few on the Thorton staff who wasn't leery of the Tiger-lady, as Brooke had been dubbed. “You're going to that fancy de Marco party tonight.”

“Yeah.” Brooke gave a slow, narrow-eyed smile that had nothing to do with the brilliance of the sun. The party would be her chance to cut Parks Jones down a few pegs. She could still remember how she had stood shaking on her porch in the moonlight after the echo of his engine had died away.

“It's going to be a kick working with Parks Jones.” E.J. downed the rest of his soda in one swallow. “The man's got the best glove in the league and a bat that won't quit smoking. Knocked in two more RBIs last night.”

Brooke leaned against the door frame and scowled. “Good for him.”

“Don't you like baseball?” E.J. grinned, tossing his empty bottle into the back of the wagon.

“No.”

“Ought to have some team spirit,” he mused and gave her knee a friendly squeeze. “The better he does, the more punch the campaign'll have. And if he gets into the series—”

“If he gets into the series,” Brooke interrupted, “we have to wait until the end of October before we can start shooting.”

“Well.” E.J. stroked his chin. “That's show biz.”

Brooke tried to glare, then chuckled. “Let's get back. I've got a shoot in the studio this afternoon. Want me to drive?”

“Naw.” E.J. slammed the tailgate then headed for the driver's seat. “I like living.”

“You're such a wimp, E.J.”

“I know,” he agreed cheerfully. “I've got this thing about traveling at the speed of light.” After adjusting mirror-lensed sunglasses on his face he coaxed the station wagon's engine into life. It sputtered and groaned temperamentally while he crooned to it.

“Why don't you buy a new car?” Brooke demanded. “You get paid enough.”

He patted the wagon's dash when the engine caught. “Loyalty. I've been cruising in this little darling for seven years. She'll be around when that flashy machine of yours is nuts and bolts.”

Brooke shrugged, then tilted back her head to drain the bottle. E.J. was the only one who worked under her who dared any intimacy, which was probably the reason she not only allowed it but liked him for it. She also considered him one of the best men with a camera on the West Coast. He came from San Francisco where his father was a high school principal and his mother owned and operated a popular beauty salon. She had met them once and wondered how two such meticulous people could have produced a freewheeling, loose-living man with a penchant for voluptuous women and B movies.

But then, Brooke mused, she'd never been able to understand families. Always she viewed them with perplexity and longing, as only one on the outside could fully understand. Settling back on the carefully patched seat, she began to plot out her strategy for her afternoon session.

“Heard you took in a Kings game the other night.” E.J. caught her swift, piercing look and began to whistle tunelessly.

“So?”

“I saw Brighton Boyd at a party a couple of nights ago. Worked with him on a TV special last year. Nice guy.”

Brooke remembered seeing the actor in the box next to hers and Claire's. She dropped her empty bottle on the already littered floor. “So?” she repeated coolly.

“Big Kings fan,” E.J. went on, turning the radio up loud so that he had to shout over the top 40 rock. “Raved about Jones's homer—on a two-out, two-strike pitch. The man's a hell of a clutch hitter.” While Brooke remained silent, E.J. tapped out the beat from the radio on the steering wheel. There was the glint of gold from a ring on his long dark fingers. “Brighton said Jones stared at you like a man who'd been hit with a blunt instrument. That Brighton, he sure does turn a phrase.”

“Hmm.” Brooke began to find the passing scenery fascinating.

“Said he came right over to your box chasing a foul. Had a few words to say.”

Brooke turned her head and stared into E.J.'s mirrored glasses. “Are you pumping me, E.J.?”

“Hot damn! Can't pull anything over on you, Brooke; you're one sharp lady.”

Despite herself she laughed. She knew a “no comment” would only cause speculation she'd like to avoid. Instead she stretched her legs out on the seat and treated it lightly. “He just wanted my name.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Where'd you go with him?”

The faintest frown creased her brow. “I didn't say I went anywhere with him.”

“He didn't ask your name because he was taking a census.”

Brooke gave him a cool, haughty look that would have discouraged anyone else. “You're a gossipy old woman, E.J.”

“Yep. You go to dinner with him?”

“Yes,” she said on a sigh of surrender. “And that's all.”

“Not as bright as he looks, then.” He patted her sneakered foot. “Or maybe he felt funny about starting something up with the lady who'll be directing him.”

“He didn't know,” Brooke heard herself say before she could stop herself.

“Oh?”

“I didn't tell him.”

“Oh.” This time the syllable was drawn out and knowing.

“I didn't think it was necessary,” Brooke said heatedly. “It was strictly a social meeting, and it gave me the opportunity to plan how best to film him.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She turned back in her seat and folded her arms. “Shut up and drive, E.J.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“As far as I'm concerned he can take his golden glove and smoking bat and sit on them.”

E.J. nodded wisely, enjoying himself. “You know best.”

“He's conceited and cold and inconsiderate.”

“Must have been some evening,” E.J. observed.

“I don't want to talk about it.” Brooke kicked at the empty bottle on the floor.

“Okay,” he said affably.

“He's the kind of man,” she went on, “who thinks a woman's just waiting to fall all over him just because he's moderately attractive and successful and has an average mind.”

“For a Rhodes scholar,” E.J. mused as he slowed down for his exit.

“A what?”

“He's a Rhodes scholar.”

Brooke's mouth fell open, then shut with a bang. “He is not.”

E.J. shrugged agreeably. “Well, that's what it said in
Sports View.
That was supposed to be the main reason he didn't start playing professional ball until he was twenty-two.”

“Probably just a publicity hype,” she muttered, but she knew better. She rode the rest of the way to the studio in frowning silence.

***

The de Marco California villa was an eyeful. Brooke decided that it had the dubious ability of making Claire's mansion look simple and discreet. It was huge, E-shaped and dazzling white with two inner courtyards. One held a grottolike pool complete with miniature waterfall, the other a sheltered garden rich with exotic scents.

When Brooke arrived, she could hear the high liquid sounds of harps and mixed conversation. People were ranged through the house, spilling outdoors and clustered in corners. Passing through the gold-toned parlor, she caught the mingling, heady scents of expensive perfumes and spiced food. There was the glitter of diamonds, swirl of silks and flash of tanned, pampered skin.

Brooke caught snatches of conversations as she strolled through, searching for the main buffet.

“But darling, he simply can't carry a series anymore. Did you see him at Ma Maison last week?”

“She'll sign. After that fiasco in England, she's itching to come back to Hollywood.”

“Can't remember a line if you feed it to him intravenously.”

“Left her for the wardrobe mistress.”

“My dear, have you ever seen
such
a dress!”

Hollywood, Brooke thought with halfhearted affection as she pounced on the remains of the pâté.

“I knew I'd find you here.”

Brooke turned her head as she speared a chunk of smoked beef. “Hello, Claire,” she managed over a mouthful of cracker. “Nice party.”

“I suppose, as you always judge them by the menu.” Claire gave her a long, appraising look. Brooke wore a buckskin jumpsuit, soft and smooth as cream, with a thick pewter belt cinched at her waist. She'd braided the hair at her temples and clipped it back over the flowing tousled mane, letting heavy pewter links dangle at her ears. Because she'd been distracted while applying it, she'd neglected her makeup and had only remembered to darken her eyes. As a result, they dominated her pale, sharp-featured face. “Why is it you can wear the most outlandish outfits and still look marvelous?”

Brooke grinned and swallowed. “I like yours, too,” she said, noting that Claire was, as always, stylishly neat in pale blue voile. “What have they got to drink in this place?”

With a sigh, Claire motioned to a roving, red-suited waiter and chose two tulip glasses of champagne. “Try to behave yourself. The de Marcos are very old-fashioned.”

“I'll be a credit to the company,” Brooke promised and lifted her hand in acknowledgment of a wave from a stand-up comic she'd directed in a car commercial. “Do you think I could get a plate?”

“Gorge later. Mr. Jones's agent is here, I want you to meet him.”

“I hate talking to agents on an empty stomach. Oh, damn, there's Vera. I should have known she'd be here.”

Brooke answered the icy smile from the slim honey-haired model who was the current embodiment of the American look. Their paths had crossed more than once, professionally and socially, and the women had taken an instant, lasting dislike to each other. “Keep your claws sheathed,” Claire warned. “De Marco's going to be using her.”

“Not with me,” Brooke said instantly. “I'll take the ballplayer, Claire, but someone else is going to hold the leash on that one. I don't like my poison in small doses.”

“We'll discuss it,” Claire muttered then beamed a smile. “Lee, we were just looking for you. Lee Dutton, Brooke Gordon. She's going to be directing Parks.” She placed a maternal hand on Brooke's arm. “My very best.”

Brooke lifted an ironic brow. Claire was always lavish with praise in public and miserly with it behind closed doors. “Hello, Mr. Dutton.”

Her hand was grabbed hard and pumped briskly. Discreetly, Brooke flexed her fingers while she made a swift survey. He was shorter than she was and rather round with thinning hair and startling black eyes. A creature of first impressions, she liked him on the spot.

“Here's to a long, successful relationship,” he announced and banged his glass exuberantly against hers. “Parks is eager to begin.”

“Is he?” Brooke smiled, remembering Parks's description of his venture into commercials. “We're just as eager to have him.”