Rules of the Game (8 page)

Now the crowd didn't quiet, but kept up a continual howl that echoed and reverberated as Parks came to bat. The pressure, Brooke thought, must be almost unbearable. Yet nothing showed in his face but that dangerous kind of concentration she'd seen once or twice before. She swallowed, aware that her heart was hammering in her throat. Ridiculous, she told herself once, then surrendered.

“Come on, damn it,” she muttered, “smack one out of here.”

He took the first pitch, a slow curve that just missed the corner. The breath that she'd been holding trembled out. The next he cut at, fouling it back hard against the window of the press box. Brooke clamped down on her bottom lip and mentally uttered a stream of curses. Parks coolly held up a hand for time, then bent to tie his shoe. The stadium echoed with his name. As if deaf to the yells, he stepped back into the box to take up his stance.

He hit it high and deep. Brooke was certain it was a repeat of his performance in her first game, then she saw the ball begin to drop just short of the fence.

“He's going to tag up. He'll tag up!” she heard Lee shouting as the center fielder caught Parks's fly at the warning track. Before Brooke could swear, the fans were shouting, not in fury but in delight. The moment the runner crossed the plate, players from the Kings' dugout swarmed out on the field.

“But Parks is out,” Brooke said indignantly.

“The sacrifice fly scored the run,” Lee explained.

Brooke gave him a haughty look. “I realize that—” only because she had crammed a few basic rules into her head “—but it hardly seems fair that Parks is out.”

Chuckling, Lee patted her head. “He earned another RBI and the fleeting gratitude of a stadium full of Kings fans. He was one for three today, so his average won't suffer much.”

“Brooke doesn't think much of rules,” Claire put in, rising.

“Because they're usually made up by people who don't have the least idea what they're doing.” A little annoyed with herself for becoming so involved, she stood, swinging her canvas bag over her shoulder.

“I don't know if Parks would agree with you,” Lee told her. “He's lived by the rules for most of his life. Gets to be a habit.”

“To each his own,” she said casually. She wondered if Lee was aware that Parks was also a man who could seduce and half undress a woman behind the fragile covering of a rock wall in the middle of a crowded, glitzy Hollywood party. It seemed to her Parks was more a man who made up his own rules.

“Why don't we go down to the locker room and congratulate him?” Genially, he hooked his arms through Claire's and Brooke's, steamrolling them through the still cheering crowd.

Lee worked his way into the stadium's inner sanctum with a combination of panache and clout. Reporters were swarming, carrying microphones, cameras or notepads. Each one was badgering or flattering a sweaty athlete in the attempt to get a quote. In the closed-in area, Brooke considered the noise level to be every bit as high as it had been in the open stadium. Lockers slammed, shouts reverberated, laughter flowed in a kind of giddy relief. Each man knew the tension would return soon enough during the play-offs. They were going to enjoy the victory of the moment to its fullest.

“Yeah, if I hadn't saved Biggs from an error in the seventh inning,” the first baseman told a reporter, deadpan, “it might have been a whole different ball game.”

Biggs, the shortstop, retaliated by heaving a damp towel at his teammate. “Snyder can't catch a ball unless it drops into his mitt. The rest of us make him look good.”

“I've saved Parks from fifty-three errors this season,” Snyder went on blandly, drawing the sweaty towel from his face. “Guess his arm must be going. Thing is, some of the hitters are so good they just keep smacking the ball right into Parks's mitt. If you watch the replay of today's game, you'll see what fantastic aim they have.” Someone dumped a bucket of water on his head, but Snyder continued without breaking rhythm. “You might notice how well I place the ball in the right fielder's mitt. That takes more practice.”

Brooke spotted Parks, surrounded by reporters. His uniform was filthy, streaked with dirt, while his face fared little better. The smudges of black under his eyes gave him a slightly wicked look. Without the cap his hair curled freely, darkened with sweat. But his face and body were relaxed. A smile lingered on his lips as he spoke. That battlefield intensity was gone from his eyes, she noted, as if it had never existed. If she hadn't seen it, hadn't experienced it from him, Brooke would have sworn the man wasn't capable of any form of ruthlessness. Yet he was, she reminded herself, and it wouldn't be smart to forget it.

“With only four games left in the regular season,” Parks stated, “I'll be satisfied to end up with a three eighty-seven average for the year.”

“If you bat five hundred in those last games—”

Parks shot the reporter a mild grin. “We'll have to see about that.”

“A little wind out there today and that game-winning sacrifice fly would've been a game-winning home run.”

“That's the breaks.”

“What was the pitch?”

“Inside curve,” he responded easily. “A little high.”

“Were you trying for a four-bagger, Parks?”

He grinned again, his expression altering only slightly when he spotted Brooke. “With one out and runners on the corners, I just wanted to keep the ball off the ground. Anything deep, and Kinjinsky scores . . . unless he wants the Lead Foot Award.”

“Lead Foot Award?”

“Ask Snyder,” Parks suggested. “He's the current holder.” With another smile, Parks effectively eased himself away. “Lee.” He nodded to his agent while running a casual finger down Brooke's arm. She felt the shock waves race through her, and only barely managed not to jerk away. “Ms. Thorton. Nice to see you again.” His only greeting to Brooke was a slow smile as he caught the tip of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. She thought again it was wise to remember he wasn't as safe as he appeared.

“Hell of a game, Parks,” Lee announced. “You gave us an entertaining afternoon.”

“We aim to please,” he murmured, still looking at Brooke.

“Claire and I are going out to dinner. Perhaps you and Brooke would like to join us?”

Before Brooke could register surprise at Claire having a date with Lee Dutton, or formulate an excuse against making it a foursome, Parks spoke up. “Sorry, Brooke and I have plans.”

Turning her head, she shot Parks a narrowed look. “I don't recall our making any plans.”

Smiling, he gave her a brief tug. “You'll have to learn to write things down. Why don't you just wait in your box? I'll be out in half an hour.” Without giving her a chance to protest, Parks strolled off toward the showers.

“What incredible nerve,” Brooke grumbled, only to be given a sharp but discreet elbow in the ribs by Claire.

“Sorry you can't join us, dear,” she said sweetly. “But then you're not fond of Chinese food in any case. And Lee's going to show me his collection first.”

“Collection?” Brooke repeated blankly as she was steered into the narrow corridor.

“We've a mutual passion.” Claire gave Lee a quick and surprisingly flirtatious smile. “For Oriental art. Can you find your way back to the seats?”

“I'm not a complete dolt,” Brooke muttered, while giving Lee a skeptical stare.

“Well then.” Casually, Claire tucked her hand into Lee's beefy arm. “I'll see you Monday.”

“Have a good time, kid,” Lee called over his shoulder as Claire propelled him away.

“Thanks a lot.” Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Brooke worked her way up, then out to the lower level, third-base box. “Thanks a hell of a lot,” she repeated and stared out at the empty diamond.

There were a few maintenance workers scooping up the debris in the stands with humming heavy-duty cleaners, but other than that the huge open area was deserted. Finding it strangely appealing, Brooke discovered her annoyance waning. An hour before, the air had been alive, throbbing with the pulse of thousands. Now it was serene, with only the faintest trace of the crowd—the lingering odor of humanity, a whiff of salted popcorn, a few discarded cardboard containers. She leaned back against the rail, more interested in the empty stadium than the empty field.

When had it been built? she wondered. How many generations had crammed themselves into the seats and aisles to watch the games? How many thousands of gallons of beer had traveled along the rows of seats? She laughed a little, amused by her own whimsy. When a player stopped playing, did he come here to watch and remember? She thought Parks would. The game, she concluded, would get into your blood. Even she hadn't been immune to it . . . or, she thought wryly, to him.

Brooke tossed her head back, letting her hair fall behind her. The shadows were lengthening, but the heat still had the sticky, sweltering capacity of high afternoon. She didn't mind—she hated being cold. Habitually, she narrowed her eyes and let herself visualize how she would approach the stadium on film. Empty, she thought, with the echo of cheers, the sound of a ball cracking off a bat, a banner left behind to flutter in the breeze. She'd use the maintenance workers, sucking up the boxes and cups and bags. She might title it
Afterthought
, and there'd be no telling if the home team had left the field vanquished or victorious. What mattered would be the perpetuity of the game, the people who played it and the people who watched.

Brooke sensed him before she heard him—only an instant, but the instant was enough to scatter her thoughts and to bring her eyes swerving toward him. Immediately, all sense of the scene she had been setting vanished from her mind. No one else had ever had the power to do that to her. The fact that Parks did baffled her nearly as much as it infuriated her. For Brooke, her work was the one stability in her life—nothing and no one was allowed to tamper with it. Defensively, she straightened, meeting his stare head-on as he walked down to her in the loose, rangy stride that masked over a decade of training.

She expected him to greet her with some smart remark. Brooke was prepared for that. She considered he might greet her casually, as if his lie in the locker room had been perfect truth. She was prepared for that, too.

She wasn't prepared for him to walk directly to her, bury his hands in her hair and crush her against him in a long, hotly possessive kiss. Searing flashes of pleasure rocketed through her. Molten waves of desire overpowered surprise before it truly had time to register. His mouth pressed against hers in an absolute command that barely hid a trace of desperation. It was that desperation, more than the authority, that Brooke found herself responding to. The need to be needed was strong in her—she had always considered it her greatest weakness. And she was weak now, with the sharp scent of his skin in her senses, the dark taste of his mouth on her tongue, the feel of his shower-damp hair on her fingers.

Slowly, Parks drew away, waiting for her heavy lids to lift. Though his eyes never left hers, Brooke felt as though he looked at all of her once, thoroughly. “I want you.” He said it calmly, though the fierce look was back on his face.

“I know.”

Parks ran a hand through her hair again, from the crown to the tips. “I'm going to have you.”

Steadying a bit, Brooke stepped out of his arms. “That I don't know.”

Smiling, Parks continued to caress her hair. “Don't you?”

“No,” Brooke returned with such firmness that Parks lifted a brow.

“Well,” he considered, “I suppose it could be a very pleasant experience to convince you.”

Brooke tossed her head to free her hair of his seeking fingers. “Why did you lie to Lee about our having plans tonight?”

“Because I'd spent nine long, hot innings thinking about making love to you.”

Again he said it calmly, with just a hint of a smile on his lips, but Brooke realized he was quite serious. “Well, that's direct and to the point.”

“You prefer things that way, don't you?”

“Yes,” she agreed, settling back against the rail again. “So let me do the same for you. We're going to be working together for several months on a very big project that involves a number of people. I'm very good at my job and I intend to see that you're very good at yours.”

“So?”

Her eyes flashed at his amused tone, but Brooke continued. “So personal involvements interfere with professional judgment. As your director, I have no intention of becoming your lover, however briefly.”

“Briefly?” Parks repeated, studying her. “Do you always anticipate the length of your relationships beforehand? I think,” he continued slowly, “you're more of a romantic than that.”

“I don't care what you think,” she snapped, “as long as you understand.”

“I understand,” Parks agreed, beginning to. “You're evading the issue.”

“I certainly am not!” Temper flared, reflecting in her stance and her eyes as well as her voice. “I'm telling you straight out that I'm not interested. If that bruises your ego, too bad.”

Parks grabbed her arm when she would have swept by him. “You know,” he began in a careful tone that warned of simmering anger, “you infuriate me. I can't remember the last time a woman affected me that way.”

“I'm not surprised.” Brooke jerked her arm out of his hold. “You've been too busy devastating them with your charm.”

“And you're too worried about being dumped to have any kind of a relationship.”

She made a quick, involuntary sound, as if she'd been struck. Cheeks pale, eyes dark, she stared at him before she shoved him aside to race up the stairs. Parks caught her before she'd made it halfway. Though he turned her back to face him firmly, his touch was gentle.

“Raw nerve?” he murmured, feeling both sympathy and guilt. It wasn't often he lost control enough to say something he'd have to apologize for. Eyes dry and hurting, Brooke glared at him. “I'm sorry.”