Rules of the Game (9 page)

“Just let me go.”

“Brooke.” He wanted to pull her into his arms and comfort, but knew she wouldn't accept it. “I am sorry. I don't make a habit of punching women.”

It wasn't charm, but sincerity. After a moment, Brooke let out a long breath. “All right. I usually take a punch better than that.”

“Can we take off the gloves—at least for the rest of the day?” How deep was the hurt? Parks wondered. And how long would it take to win her trust?

“Maybe,” Brooke returned cautiously.

“How about dinner?”

She responded to the smile before she realized it. “My weakness.”

“We'll start there, then. How do you feel about tacos?”

She allowed him to take her hand. “Who's buying?”

***

They sat outdoors at a busy fast-food franchise with tiny metal tables and hard stools. Sounds of traffic and blaring car radios rolled over them. Brooke relaxed when she ate, Parks noted, wondering if she were consciously aware of the dropping of guards. He didn't think so. The relaxation was the same when she sat in an elegant restaurant with wine and exotic food as it was in a greasy little takeout with sloppy tacos and watered-down sodas in paper cups. After handing her another napkin, Parks decided to do some casual probing.

“Did you grow up in California?”

“No.” Brooke drew more soda through her straw. “You did.”

“More or less.” Remembering how skilled she was in evading or changing the subject, Parks persisted. “Why did you move to L.A.?”

“It's warm,” she said immediately. “It's crowded.”

“But you live miles out of town in the middle of nowhere.”

“I like my privacy. How did your family feel about you choosing baseball over Parkinson Chemicals?”

He smiled a little, enjoying the battle for control. “Stunned. Though I'd told them for years what I intended to do. My father thought, still thinks, it's a phase. What does your family think about you directing commercials?”

Brooke set down her cup. “I don't have any family.”

Something in her tone warned him this was a tender area. “Where did you grow up?”

“Here and there.” Quickly, she began to stuff used napkins into the empty cups. Parks caught her hand before she could rise.

“Foster homes?”

Eyes darkening with anger, Brooke stared at him. “Why are you pressing?”

“Because I want to know who you are,” he said softly. “We could be friends before we're lovers.”

“Let go of my hand.”

Instead of obliging, Parks gave her a curious look. “Do I make you nervous?”

“You make me furious,” she tossed back, evading one truth with another. “I can't be around you for more than ten minutes without getting mad.”

Parks grinned. “I know the feeling. Still, it's stimulating.”

“I don't want to be stimulated,” Brooke said evenly. “I want to be comfortable.”

With a half laugh, Parks turned her hand over, brushing his lips lightly over the palm. “I don't think so,” he murmured, watching her reaction over their joined hands. “You're much too alive to settle for comfortable.”

“You don't know me.”

“Exactly my point.” He leaned a bit closer. “Who are you?”

“What I've made myself.”

Parks nodded. “I see a strong, independent woman with lots of drive and ambition. I also see a woman who chooses a quiet, isolated spot for her home, who knows how to laugh and mean it, who forgives just as quickly as she angers.” As he spoke Parks watched her brows lower. She wasn't angry now, but thoughtful and wary. He felt a bit like a man trying to gain the confidence of a dove who might fly away at any time or choose to nestle in the palm of his hand. “She interests me.”

After a moment, Brooke let out a long breath. Perhaps if she told him a little, she considered, he'd leave it at that. “My mother wasn't married,” she began briskly. “I'm told that after six months she got tired of lugging a baby around and dumped me on her sister. I don't remember a great deal about my aunt, I was six when she turned me over to social services. What I do remember is being hungry and not very warm. I went into my first foster home.” She shrugged then pushed away the debris that littered the table. “It wasn't too bad. I was there for little more than a year before I got shuffled to the next one. I was in five altogether from the age of six to seventeen. Some were better than others, but I never belonged. A lot of that may have been my fault.”

Brooke sighed, not pleased to remember. “Not all foster parents take in children for the money. Some of them—most of them,” she amended, “are very kind, loving people. I just never felt a part, because I always knew it would be temporary, that my sister or brother of the moment was real and I was . . . transient. As a result I was difficult. Maybe I challenged the people whose home I was placed in to want me—for me, not out of pity or social obligation or the extra dollars my living with them would bring in.

“My last two years in high school I lived on a farm in Ohio with a nice couple who had an angelic son who would yank my hair when his mother's back was turned.” A quick grimace. “I left as soon as I graduated from high school, worked my way cross-country waiting tables. It only took me four months to get to L.A.” She met Parks's quiet, steady look and suddenly flared. “Don't feel sorry for me.”

The ultimate insult, he mused, taking her rigid hand in his. “I wasn't. I was wondering how many people would have had the guts to try to make their own life at seventeen, and how many would have the strength to really do it. At the same age I wanted to head for the Florida training camps. Instead I was on a plane heading for college.”

“Because you had an obligation,” Brooke countered. “I didn't. If I had had the chance to go to college . . .” She trailed off. “In any case, we've both had a decade in our careers.”

“And you can have several more if you like,” Parks pointed out. “I can't. One more season.”

“Why?” she demanded. “You'll only be . . .”

“Thirty-five,” he finished with a wry smile. “I promised myself ten years ago that's when I'd stop. There aren't many of us who can play past forty like Mays.”

“Yes, it's obvious you play like an old man,” she returned dryly.

“I intend to stop before I do.”

Taking a straw, she began to pleat it while she studied him. “Quit while you're ahead?”

“That's the idea.”

That she could understand. “Does giving it up with half your life ahead of you bother you?”

“I intend to do something with the second half, but at times it does. Other times I think about all those summer evenings I'll have free. Do you like the beach?”

“I don't get there often, but yes.” She thought about the long, hot commercial she'd just filmed. “With occasional exceptions,” she added.

“I have a place on Maui.” Unexpectedly he leaned over, caressing her cheek with fingers that were whisper soft and undeniably possessive. “I'm going to take you there one day.” He shook his head as Brooke started to speak. “Don't argue, we do that too much. Let's go for a drive.”

“Parks,” Brooke began as they rose, “I meant what I said about not getting involved.”

“Yeah, I know.” Then he kissed her long and lingeringly while she stood with her hands filled with paper plates and cups.

Chapter 5

It was three days before Brooke heard from Parks. She was aware that the last four-game series in the regular season would be played out of town. She knew, too, from what she told herself was simply a casual glimpse at the sports section, that Parks had knocked in three more RBIs in the first two games. In the meantime, she was busy looking over the storyboard for his first block of commercials.

The word had come down that the first thirty-second spot would be filmed before the league play-offs, in order to capitalize on Parks's exposure in the competition. That left Brooke little time to prepare, with an already demanding schedule of studio and location shoots, editing and preproduction meetings. But challenge, like food, was vital to her.

Closed off in her office, with a half an hour's leeway before she was due at the studio, Brooke ran over the final script for the initial de Marco commercial. Casually slick, she thought, approving. It had minimal dialogue and soft sell—Parks at the plate, swinging away while dressed in de Marco's elegant sports clothes, then a slow dissolve to the next scene with him dressed in the same suit, stepping out of a Rolls with a slinky brunette on his arm.

“Clothes for anytime—anywhere,” Brooke muttered. The timing had been checked and rechecked. The audio, except for Parks's one-line voice-over, was already being recorded. All she had to do was to guide Parks through the paces. The salesmanship hinged on her skill and his charm. Fair enough, she thought and reached for her half cup of cold coffee as a knock sounded at her door. “Yeah?” Brooke turned the script back to page one, running through the camera angles.

“Delivery for you, Brooke.” The receptionist dropped a long white florist's box on her cluttered desk. “Jenkins said to let you know the Lardner job's been edited. You might want to check it out.”

“Okay, thanks.” Curiously, Brooke frowned over the top of the script at the flower box. Occasionally, she received a grateful phone call or letter from a client when they were particularly pleased with a commercial—but not flowers. Then there'd been that actor in the car spot last year, Brooke remembered. The one who was on his third wife. He'd alternately amused and annoyed Brooke by sending her batches of red roses every week. But six months had passed since she had convinced him that he was wasting her time and his money.

More likely it was one of E.J.'s practical jokes, she considered. She'd probably find a few dozen frog legs inside. Not one to spoil someone's fun, Brooke pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.

There were masses of hibiscus. Fragrant, dew-soft pink-and-white petals filled the box almost to overflowing. After the first gasp of surprise, Brooke dove her hands into them, captivated by their purely feminine scent and feel. Her office suddenly smelled like a tropical island: heady, exotic, richly romantic. With a sound of pleasure, she filled her hands with the blooms, bringing them up to her face to inhale. In contrast to the sultry scent, the petals seemed impossibly fragile. A small white card fluttered down to her littered desk.

Letting the flowers drift back into the box, Brooke reached for the envelope and tore it open.

I thought of your skin.

There was nothing else, but she knew. She shuddered, then chided herself for acting like a mooning teenager. But she read the line three times. No one had ever been able to affect her so deeply with such simplicity. Though Parks was a thousand miles away, she could all but feel those lean, strong fingers trace down her cheek. The flood of warmth, the flash of desire told her she wasn't going to escape him—had never truly wanted to. Without giving herself any time for doubts or fears, Brooke picked up the phone.

“Get me Parks Jones,” she said quickly. “Try Lee Dutton, he'll have the number.” Before she could change her mind, Brooke hung up, burying her hands in the flowers again.

How was it he knew just what buttons to push? she wondered, then discovered at that moment she didn't care. It was enough to be romanced—and romanced in style. Lifting a single bloom, she trailed it down her cheek. It was smooth and moist against her skin—as Parks's first kiss had been. The ringing phone caught her dreaming.

“Yes?”

“Parks Jones on line two. You've got ten minutes before they need you in the studio.”

“All right. Hunt me up a vase and some water, will you?” She glanced at the box again. “Make that two vases.” Still standing with the blossom in her hand, Brooke punched the button for line two. “Parks?”

“Yes. Hello, Brooke.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

She hesitated, then let herself speak her first thought. “I feel like a teenager who just got her first corsage.”

Dropping flat on his back on the bed, he laughed. “I'd like to see you with some of them in your hair.”

Experimentally she held one up over her ear. Unprofessional, she thought with a sigh, and contented herself with the scent of them. “I've a shoot in the studio in a few minutes; I don't think the lights would do them much good.”

“You have your practical side, don't you, Brooke?” Parks flexed the slight ache in his shoulder and closed his eyes.

“It's necessary,” she muttered but couldn't quite bring herself to drop the blossom back in the box. “How are you? I wasn't sure you'd be in.”

“I got in about half an hour ago. They cut us down five to two. I went oh for three.”

“Oh.” She frowned, not quite sure what she was supposed to say. “I'm sorry.”

“I didn't seem to have any rhythm—it'll pass.” Before the play-offs, he added silently. “I thought of you, maybe too much.”

Brooke felt an odd twist of pleasure that was difficult to pass off. “I wouldn't want to be responsible for a slump, particularly when I remember some of the remedies.” His chuckle sounded faint and weary. “Are you tired?”

“A bit. You'd think with the division wrapped up we'd glide through this last series. Last night we went eleven innings.”

“I know.” She could have bitten off her tongue. “I caught the highlights on the late news,” she said breezily. “I'll let you sleep, then. I just wanted to thank you.”

Her inadvertent admission had his lips twitching, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. With them closed, he had no trouble bringing her face into focus. “Will I see you when I get back?”

“Of course. We'll be shooting the first segment on Friday, so—”

“Brooke,” he interrupted firmly, quietly. “Will I see you when I get back?”

She hesitated, then looked down at the mass of pink-and-white hibiscus on her desk. “Yes,” she heard herself saying. Pressing the flower to her cheek, she sighed. “I think I'm going to make a very big mistake.”

“Good. I'll see you Friday.”

***

The trick to being a good director, Brooke had always thought, was to be precise without being too technical, brisk without losing sympathy, then to split yourself up into several small parts so that you could be everywhere at once. It was a knack she had developed early on—on the job—without the formalized training of many of her colleagues. Perhaps because she had worked so many of the other aspects of filming, from timing a script to setting the lights to mixing sound, she was fiercely precise. Nothing escaped her eye. Because she knew actors were often overworked and insecure, she had never quite lost her sympathy for them even when she was ready to rage at a consistently flubbed line. Her early experience at waiting tables had taught her the trick of moving fast enough to all but be in two places at once.

On a set or in a studio, she had complete self-confidence. Her control was usually unquestioned because it came naturally. She never thought about being in charge or felt the need to remind others of it; she simply
was
in charge.

With a copy of the script in one hand, she supervised the final adjustments on the lights and reflectors. The ball diamond, she had noted immediately, had an entirely different feel at home plate than it had from the stands. It was like being on an island, cupped amid the high mountain of seats, with the tall green wall skirting the back. The distance from plate to fence seemed even more formidable from this perspective. Brooke wondered how men with sticks in their hands could continually hit a moving ball over that last obstacle.

She could smell the grass, freshly trimmed, the dusty scent of dirt that had dried in the sun and a whiff of E.J.'s blatantly macho cologne. “Give me a reading,” she ordered the lighting director as she glanced up at the thick clouds in the sky. “I want a sunny afternoon.”

“You got it.” The lights were focused as Brooke stepped behind camera one to check for shadows on the plate.

Parks loitered at the tunnel entrance a moment, watching her. This was a different woman from the one who he had treated to tacos—different still from the one he had held in his arms at the de Marco party. Her hair was trained back in one long braid, nothing like the flowing, gypsylike mane he was used to seeing. She wore jeans that were white at the stress points, a plain T-shirt the color of scrambled eggs, dusty tennis shoes and winking sapphires at her ears.

But it wasn't her hairstyle or the apparel that denoted the difference. It was the assurance. He'd seen it before, but each time it had been underlying. Now she sparked with it, gesturing, ordering while men and women set about giving her exactly what she demanded. No one questioned her. And, he considered, it was patently obvious that she wouldn't have permitted it.

Grimacing, he tugged at the sleeve of the thin silk shirt he wore. Who the hell would play ball in an outfit like this? he wondered with a glance at the creaseless cream slacks. The rules of this game were hers, he reminded himself, then stepped into the light.

“Bigelow, get these cables secure before somebody breaks a leg. Libby, see if you can scrounge up some ice water, we're going to need it. Okay, where's . . .” Turning at that moment, Brooke spotted Parks. “Oh, there you are.” If she felt any personal pleasure at seeing him, she hid it well, Parks thought wryly as she turned to shout an order at her assistant. “I'm going to want you to stand at the plate so we can check the lighting and camera angles.”

Without a word, Parks complied. You might as well get used to it, he told himself. You've got yourself locked into hawking somebody else's clothes for the next two years. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, cursed Lee briefly and stood in the batter's box. Someone stuck a light meter next to his face.

“You gonna wipe out the Valiants in the play-offs?” the technician demanded.

“That's the plan,” Parks returned easily.

“I've got fifty bucks on it.”

This time Parks grinned. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”

“Detrick.” Brooke gave the technician a jerk of her head to send him on his way as she approached Parks. “Okay, this is the easy part,” she began. “No dialogue, and you're doing what you're best at.”

“What's that?”

Brooke lifted a brow at the loaded question but continued smoothly. “Swinging a bat. Since the pitching coach has agreed to throw you a few, you should feel comfortable.”

“Ever stood in the box without a helmet?” he countered.

“It wouldn't go with your outfit,” she said mildly. She gave him a deliberately slow study—eyes sweeping up, then down, then back up again. “And it looks good.”

“I like yours, too.” His smile was quick and dangerous. “I'm going to like unbinding your hair.”

“Makeup!” she called abruptly. “Give him a dusting, he's going to glow.”

“Wait a minute,” Parks began, deftly catching the wrist of the woman with the powder.

“No sweating on camera,” Brooke drawled, pleased with his reaction. “All I want you to do is what you usually do when you're in uniform. Take your regular stance,” she continued. “A couple of those test swings. After you hit the ball, I want one of those grins before you toss the bat aside.”

“What grins?” Reluctantly, Parks released the makeup artist's wrist and suffered the powder.

With humor dancing in her eyes, Brooke gave him a singularly sweet smile. “One of those boy-on-the-beach grins. Quick, lots of teeth, crinkles at the corners of the eyes.”

He narrowed them dangerously. “I'm going to get you for this.”

“Try to keep the strikes to a minimum,” she went on blithely. “Every strike's a take. You don't have to hit it out of the park, just
look
like you have. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Annoyed, he nodded to the pitching coach as he walked by.

“You look real cute, Jones.”

“Just try to get it near the plate,” Parks retorted. “Do I get a bat?” he demanded of Brooke. “Or do I just pretend?”

For an answer, Brooke turned and shouted to her assistant. “Let's have the bat, E.J., are you set? Just roll the film—no sweeps, no pans, no close-ups. Remember, we're selling the clothes.”

“This is aluminum.”

Distracted, Brooke turned back to Parks. “What?”

“This bat is aluminum.”

When he held it out, Brooke automatically took it from him. “Yes, it appears to be.” As she started to pass it back to him, Parks shook his head.

“I use wood. A two seventy-seven A.”

She started to come back with a curt remark, then stopped herself. If she was accustomed to anything, it was temperament. “Get Mr. Jones the bat he prefers,” she told her assistant, tossing the first one to him. “Anything else?”

For a moment, he regarded her keenly. “Does everybody jump when you say?”

“Damn right. Keep that in mind for the next couple of hours, and we shouldn't have any problems.”

His look sharpened fractionally. “While the cameras are on,” he returned in a voice only she could hear.

Turning, she walked to stand behind the camera. Automatically, E.J. stepped back so that she could check the angle herself. Brows drawn together, Brooke stared at Parks through the lens as her assistant handed him another bat. “Okay, Parks, would you take your stance?” Her frown deepened as he leaned slightly over the plate, feet planted, knees bent, shoulders lined toward the mound. The frown vanished. “Good,” she decided, moving back so that E.J. could take her place.