Rules of the Game (10 page)

“Ten bucks says he pulls one to left center.”

A brief nod was Brooke's acceptance of the bet. “Parks, when I say action, I want you to take your stance again, then those testing swings. Keep your eye on the mound—
don't
look at the camera. Just forget we're here.” With the first smile Parks had seen that morning, Brooke turned to the pitching coach. “Are you all set, Mr. Friedman?”

“All set, sweetheart. I'll try not to blow it by you, Jones.”

Parks gave a snort of laughter. “Just see if you can make it to the plate.” He gestured to his uncovered head. “And keep it low.”

Brooke took a last glance around, assuring herself everyone was in position. “Let's do one for time. Set?” She held up her hand, waiting for absolute silence. “Roll film, and . . . action.”

She watched Parks crouch into position, then take two loose swings. The deep blue silk of his shirt caught the light, accenting the play of muscles beneath. Hands on her hips, Brooke counted off the seconds and waited. Parks shifted his weight as the ball came toward him, tensed his muscles then checked his swing. The ball smashed into the pads behind him.

Just barely, Brooke controlled the need to swear. “Cut.” Battling her annoyance, she walked to him. “Is there a problem, Parks?”

“Pitch was outside.”

“Like hell,” Friedman called from the mound. “It caught the corner.”

Immediately the crew split themselves up, arguing in favor of the batter or the pitcher. Ignoring them for the moment, Brooke gave her attention to Parks. “This isn't the bottom of the ninth, you're just supposed to hit the ball. You'll notice,” she continued, gesturing behind her, “there aren't any fielders, no fans, no press.”

Parks set the bat, barrel down in the dirt, and leaned on the handle. “You want me to swing at a bad pitch?”

Brooke met the amused blue eyes levelly. “The quality of the pitch is immaterial,” she countered as the argument raged behind them. “Just hit the ball.”

With a shrug, he hefted the bat again. “You're the boss . . . at the moment.”

The look held, long and challenging, before Brooke turned back to the crew. “Take two,” she announced, effectively cutting off the debate.

This time Parks didn't check his swing but drilled the ball up the foul line at third. Without looking at E.J., Brooke held out her hand. “Time,” she requested as a ten-dollar bill was stuffed in her palm.

Parks noticed a tiny brunette with a stopwatch and clipboard. “Twelve and a half seconds, Brooke.”

“Good. All right, let's go for it.”

“This one's going over the fence,” E.J. pronounced in an undertone to Brooke. “Bet ten?”

“Take three,” she called out with a nod of assent. “Roll film, and . . . action!” A satisfied smile touched her lips as she studied Parks. He was either getting into the spirit of things, or his own competitive spirit was driving him. Either way, it was working for her. The look on his face as he crouched over the plate was exactly what she wanted—the steady intensity that bordered on fierceness. A pity she couldn't work in a close-up, she mused, then lost the thought as Parks took a full swing at the pitch.

Power.
The word rippled through her as he connected with the ball. She saw the instant the shirt strained over his shoulders, was aware of the bunching of muscles in his thighs beneath the soft, expensive material. It wasn't necessary to follow the path of the ball to know where it had gone. She knew the flash of grin on Parks's face had nothing to do with her direction. It was sheer pleasure. Brooke kept the film rolling as his eyes followed the ball out of the park. Still grinning, he turned to her, then gave a deprecatory shrug.

She should have been angry that he had looked at the camera against her directions, but the movement, the expression was perfect. Even as she dug in her pocket for E.J.'s ten dollars, she decided to keep it in.

“Cut.”

Spontaneous applause broke out, along with a few whistles. “Nice pitch, Friedman,” Parks commented.

The coach tossed another ball in the air. “Just making you look good, Jones. The Valiants' pitchers won't be so friendly.”

Brooke swiped the back of her wrist across her damp brow. “I'd like a couple more please. What was the time on that?”

“Fourteen seconds.”

“Okay. The light's shifting, check the reading. Mr. Friedman, I'd like to get a couple more.”

“Anything you say, sweetheart.”

“Parks, I need a full swing like last time. No matter where the ball goes, look up and out—don't forget the grin.”

Laying the bat on his shoulder, he drawled, “No, ma'am.”

Brooke ignored him and turned away. “Lights?”

The technician finished the adjustments, then nodded. “Set.”

Although she considered the third take close to perfect, Brooke ran through another three. Edited, this segment of the commercial would run twelve and a half seconds. That it took only three hours to set up and film showed that she ran a tight schedule.

“It's a wrap. Thanks,” she added as she accepted the cup of ice water from her assistant. “We'll set up in front of the restaurant in . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Two hours, Fred, double-check on the Rolls and the actress. E.J., I'll take the film into editing myself.” Even as she spoke, Brooke walked over to the mound. “Mr. Friedman.” With a smile, she held out her hand. “Thank you.”

He found her grip firm and her eyes soft. “My pleasure.” With a chuckle, he tossed a spare ball into his mitt. “You know, in my day ballplayers plugged razor blades or beer. We endorsed bats and gloves.” He cast a glance at Parks, who was signing a baseball for a technician. “No fancy designers would have asked us to sport his clothes.”

Brooke shifted her eyes to Parks. He was laughing now, shaking his head at E.J. as the cameraman ticked off some point on his fingers. The casually elegant clothes suited him, as did the dark wood bat in his hand. “I'd hate to have him know I said it, Mr. Friedman,” Brooke commented as she turned back to the coach, “but Parks is a natural.”

With a shout of laughter, Friedman patted her on the back. “He won't hear it from me, sweetheart. Last thing my pitchers need is a third baseman with a big head. One more thing,” he added before Brooke turned away. “I watched the way you run things.” He gave her an expansive grin that revealed good dentures. “You'd make a hell of a coach.”

“Thanks.” Pleased with the compliment, Brooke made her way toward the plate, and Parks. “You did very well.”

He regarded her extended hand with amusement, but accepted it. “For a rookie?” he countered.

When she started to remove her hand, Parks held it firmly, running a light fingertip over the inside of her wrist. He had the satisfaction of feeling her pulse jump then speed up. “I didn't anticipate any problems, as you were simply playing yourself.” Behind her, technicians were taking down lights and coiling cable. She heard E.J. describing the new lady he was seeing in glowing, if exaggerated, terms. Using all her willpower, Brooke concentrated on the background noises instead of the feel of Parks's finger tracing over her skin. “The next scene should be fairly easy. We'll go over it on location this afternoon. If you have any questions—”

“Just one,” Parks interrupted. “Come here a minute.” Without waiting for agreement, he drew her toward the dugout, stepped inside then just through the door that led to the locker rooms.

“What's the problem, Parks?” Brooke demanded. “I have to get into editing before the next shoot.”

“Are we finished here for now?”

With an impatient sigh, Brooke gestured to the equipment being packed. “Obviously.”

“Fine.” Pressing her back against the doorway, Parks covered her mouth with his.

It was a proprietary kiss with whispers of violence. The frustrations of the past hours seeped into it as he finally let them free. There was the annoyance of wanting her—of being too far away to touch for days, then being close enough, but not being permitted to. There was the exasperation of her cool professional treatment of him while he had fought an insistent growing desire. And there was the banked fury at being put in the position of taking orders from a woman who dominated his thoughts and denied his body.

Yet it was more agitating than soothing to press his body against the softness of hers. She filled him—the exotic scent, the ripe woman-taste of her mouth, the silken skin over the sharp, strong bones of her face. Almost desperately, he pressed closer, plunged deeper. He would
not
be filled. He would find that corner, that secret place that would open her for him so that he could have her at last—body and mind. To do that he needed the edge of control, over himself, and over Brooke. Her strength made it a challenge—his desire made it a necessity.

“Hey, Brooke, want a ride to the . . . Whoops.” E.J. poked his head into the dugout then retreated. As Parks's lips freed hers, she could hear the cameraman whistling gleefully as he strolled away. Furious that she had completely lost track of time and place, Brooke shoved against Parks's chest.

“Let go of me!”

“Why?”

Apparently her ice-pick stare more amused than wounded him. “Don't you
ever
pull something like that when I'm working,” she hissed, shoving a second time as Parks blocked her exit.

“I asked if we were finished,” Parks reminded her, then backed her into the wall again.

“When we're on the job,” Brooke said evenly, “I'm the director, you're the product.” He narrowed his eyes at her choice of words, but she continued, full steam. “You'll do
exactly
what I tell you.”

“The camera's not rolling, Brooke.”

“I won't have my crew speculating, circulating gossip that can undermine my authority or my credibility.”

His own temper rose in direct balance with need. She only aroused him more when she challenged. “Aren't you more afraid that you enjoy being touched by me? Doesn't it infuriate you that when I kiss you, you don't really give a damn who's in charge?” He bent his head so that his lips were only a breath from hers. “I took your orders all morning, Ms. Gordon. Now it's my turn.”

Her lancelike stare didn't falter as the quiet words fluttered over her lips. With the tip of his tongue he traced them, enjoying their taste and her own suppressed passion. Merging desire stung the air—they both felt it, they both tried to rise above it in the struggle for dominance. Yet they both became aware that it was the desire that would win over each of them.

His lips rubbed over hers, without pressure or force, taunting her to demand he stop, daring her to resist her own needs. Their eyes remained open and fixed on each other. Both pairs of irises darkened as passion tempted each of them to surrender.

“We have another shoot this afternoon,” Brooke managed as she fought to keep her voice steady.

“When we're filming, I'll do what you tell me.” He kissed her once, hard and quick. “Tonight,” he added, dealing with his own heated blood, “we'll see.”

Chapter 6

Brooke chose to shoot during the late-afternoon lull using day-for-night filters, rather than compete with the evening traffic. It was a quick scene, relatively simple and very glossy. The champagne-colored Rolls would drive up in front of the posh restaurant, Parks would alight, in the same outfit, but wearing a jacket—already sponged and pressed from the morning—then offer his hand to the sleekly dressed brunette. She would step from the car, showing considerable leg, then flash Parks a look before linking her arm through his. The scene would then fade out, with Parks's voice-over dubbed in, stating the motto for the campaign.

“De Marco. For the man who's going places.”

The visual would be another twelve seconds, so that combined with the stadium segment, the intro and the tag at the end, the commercial would round out at thirty seconds.

“I want a long shot of the Rolls, E.J., then come in on Parks as he steps out. We don't want to lose the impact that he's wearing the same outfit he played ball in. Don't get hung up on the lady,” she added dryly as she sent him a knowing look.

“Who me?” Pulling a Kings fielder's cap out of his back pocket, he offered it to Brooke. “Want to wear it? Team spirit?”

Placing one hand on her hip, Brooke stared at him without any change of expression. With a quick chuckle, E.J. fit the cap over his own modified Afro.

“Okay, boss, I'm ready when you are.”

As was her habit, Brooke rechecked the camera angle and the lighting before she signaled the first take. The Rolls cruised sedately to the curb. Brooke played the background music over in her head, trying to judge how it would fit. On cue, Parks climbed out, turning to offer his hand to the brunette still inside. Frowning, Brooke let the scene play out. It wasn't right. She saw why immediately but took the few minutes until the cut to work out how to approach Parks.

With a gesture, Brooke indicated that she would speak to Parks while the driver backed up the Rolls for the next take. Putting a hand on his arm, she led him away from the technicians. “Parks, you have to relax.” Because handling fidgety actors was second nature to her, Brooke's voice and manner were markedly different from the morning session. Parks noted it and bristled anyway.

“I don't know what you mean.”

She steered him well away from where a few interested pedestrians were loitering by a barricade. “Number one,” she began, “you're plugging a good product. Try to believe in it.”

“If I didn't think it was a good product, I wouldn't be doing this,” he retorted, frowning over her shoulder at the huddle of lights.

“But you're not comfortable.” When Brooke gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, Parks scowled at her. “If you insist on feeling like an idiot, it's going to show. Wait,” she ordered as he started to speak. “This morning, you felt more at ease—the stadium, a bat in your hand. After the first couple of minutes, you started to play the game. That's all I want you to do now.”

“Look, Brooke, I'm not an actor—”

“Who's asking you to act?” she countered. “God spare me from that.” She knew she'd insulted him, so she tempered the comment with a smile. “Listen, you're a winner, out on the town in a chauffeured Rolls with a gorgeous woman. All I want you to do is have a good time and look rather pleased with yourself. You can pull it off, Parks. Loosen up.”

“I wonder how you'd feel if someone asked you to field a line drive with twenty thousand people watching.”

Brooke smiled again and tried not to think about the minutes ticking away. “You do that routinely,” she pointed out, “because you concentrate on your job and forget those thousands of people.”

“This is different,” he muttered.

“Only if you let it be. Just let me see that same self-satisfied look on your face that you had when you hit that homer this morning. Pretend, Parks.” Brooke straightened the collar of his shirt. “It's good for you.”

“Did you know that Nina has the IQ of a soft-boiled egg?”

“Nina?”

“My date.”

Brooke gave in to a sigh. “Stop being so temperamental; nobody's asking you to marry her.”

Parks opened his mouth, then shut it again. No one had ever accused him of being temperamental. He'd never
been
temperamental. If his manager told him to take a three-and-one pitch, he took it. If the third base coach told him to steal home, he ran. Not because he was malleable, but because if he was signed with a team, he followed the rules. It didn't mean he always had to like them. With a quiet oath, he ran a hand through his hair and admitted that it wasn't so much what the orders were in this case, but who was laying them out. But then, the lights and cameras would eventually shut down.

“Fine, let's do it again.” He gave Brooke the slow smile she'd learned not to trust before he walked toward the Rolls. Suspicious of his easy capitulation, Brooke turned back to stand beside E.J.

Parks gave her no more cause to complain, though they were more than two hours shooting the segment. Brooke found that she had more trouble with the professional actress—and a couple of fans who recognized Parks—than she had with him. It took three takes before she convinced Nina that she wasn't looking for glowing and adoring, but for sleek and aloof. Brooke wanted the contrast and ran everyone through the twelve seconds until she was certain she had it.

Then there was the matter of two fans who sneaked through the barricade to get Parks's autograph while the camera was still rolling. Parks obliged them, and though Brooke simmered at the interruption, she noted that he dispatched the fans with the charm of a seasoned diplomat. Grudgingly, she had to admit she couldn't have done better herself.

“That's a wrap,” Brooke announced, arching her back. She'd been on her feet for over eight hours, bolting down a half a sandwich between segments. She felt pleased with the day's work, satisfied with Parks's progress and ravenous. “You can break down,” she told the crew. “Good job. E.J., I've scheduled the editing and dubbing for tomorrow. If you want to see what we're going to do to your film, you can come in.”

“It's Saturday.”

“Yeah.” She pulled the bill of the fielder's cap over his face. “We'll start working at ten. Nina . . .” Brooke took the actress's slim, smooth hand. “You were lovely, thank you. Fred, make sure the Rolls gets back in one piece, or you'll have to face Claire. Bigelow, what's the new kid's name?” Brooke jerked her head at a young technician who was busily packing up lights.

“Silbey?”

With a nod, Brooke made a mental note of it. “He's good,” she said briefly, then turned to Parks. “Well, you made it through the first one. We'll dub in the voice-over tomorrow. Any scars?”

“None that show.”

“Maybe I shouldn't tell you that this one is the easiest on the schedule.”

He met the humor in her eyes blandly. “Maybe you shouldn't.”

“Where's your car?”

“Out at the stadium.”

With a frown, Brooke checked her watch. “I'll give you a lift back there.” She toyed with the idea of going by Thorton's first to take a quick look at the film, then discarded the idea. It would be better to look at it fresh in the morning. “I have to call Claire. . . . Well.” Brooke shrugged. “That can wait. Any problems?” she asked to the crew in general.

“Tomorrow's Saturday,” an aggrieved E.J. stated again as he packed up his equipment. “Woman, you just don't give a man a break.”

“You don't have to come in,” she reminded him, knowing he would. “Good night.” With Parks beside her, Brooke started down the street.

“Do you make a habit of working weekends?” he asked, noting that after a long, hectic day she still moved as though she had urgent appointments to keep.

“When it's necessary. We're rushing this through to get it aired during the play-offs or, barring that, the series.” She shot him a look. “You'd better be in it.” Still walking, she began to dig in the purse slung over her shoulder.

“I'll try to accommodate you. Want me to drive?”

With the keys in one hand, Brooke looked up in surprise. “Have you been talking to E.J.?”

His brows drew together. “No. Why?”

“Nothing.” Dismissing the thought, Brooke paused beside her car. “Why do you want to drive?”

“It occurs to me that I may have had to stand in front of that stupid camera off and on all day, but you haven't stopped for over eight hours. It's a tough job.”

“I'm a tough lady,” she responded with a trace of defensiveness in her voice.

“Yeah.” He grazed his knuckles over her cheek. “Iron.”

“Just get in the car,” Brooke muttered. After rounding the hood, she climbed in, slamming the door only slightly. “It'll take a little while to get across town in this traffic.”

“I'm not in a hurry.” Parks settled comfortably beside her. “Can you cook?”

In the act of starting the car, Brooke frowned at him. “Can I what?”

“Cook. You know.” Parks pantomimed the act of stirring a pan.

She laughed, shooting out of traffic with an exuberance that made Parks wince. “Of course I can cook.”

“How about your place?”

Brooke zipped through a yellow light. “What about my place?” she asked cautiously.

“For dinner.” Parks watched her shift into third as she scooted around a Porsche. “It seems to me I'm entitled after feeding you a couple times myself.”

“You want me to cook for you?”

This time he laughed. She was going to fight him right down to the wire. “Yeah. And then I'm going to make love to you.”

Brooke hit the brakes, stopping the car inches away from another bumper. “Oh, really?”

“Oh, really,” he repeated, meeting her dagger-eyed stare equably. “We both just punched out on the time clock. New game.” He fingered the end of her braid. “New rules.”

“And if I have some objection?”

“Why don't we talk about it someplace quiet?” With his thumb, he traced her lips. “Not afraid, are you?”

The taunt was enough. When the light changed, Brooke hit the accelerator, weaving through Los Angeles traffic with grim determination.

“Did you know that you drive like a maniac?” Parks observed.

“Yes.”

“Just a passing comment,” he murmured, then settled back against the seat.

***

Despite the infuriated woman beside him, Parks had the same sensation of tranquility when Brooke zoomed up in her driveway, braking with a teeth-jarring jolt, that he had had the first time he had seen her house. There was a tang of fall in the air—that spicy, woodsy fragrance you never smelled in Los Angeles. Some of the leaves had turned so that splashes of red and amber and orange competed with the customary California green. The shadows of trees reflected in the glass of the windows as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Along the base of the house the flowers had been allowed to grow bushy and wild. Whether it had been by intent or lack of time, her unkempt garden was eye-catching and perfectly suited to the lonely mountain spot.

Without a word, Brooke slammed out of her side of the car. At a more leisurely pace, Parks followed suit. She was furious, Parks noted with a pleased grin. All the better. He didn't want an easy capitulation. From the first moment he had come into contact with her, he had looked forward to the struggle almost as much as he had looked forward to the outcome. He'd never had any doubt what that would be. When there was this much friction, and this much spark between a man and a woman, they became enemies or lovers. He had no intention of being Brooke's enemy.

Still keeping her stony silence, Brooke slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Walking inside, she left him to follow as he chose.

The fireplace caught his eye first. It was crafted from large stone, dominating one wall. The fire set was shiny brass, though dented and obviously old. Another wall was all glass, rising from either side of the door to the peak of the roof. Gazing at it, he felt not a loss of privacy but a basic sense of security. Rocking gently on his heels, he studied the rest of the main room.

A long armless sofa ranged in front of the fireplace, crowded with dozens of pillows. In lieu of a table a large, round hassock sat in front of it. Around this focal point a few chairs were scattered. All the colors were muted—ecrus, buffs, biscuits—set off by the surprising touches of huge, brilliant peacock feathers in a brass urn, a scarlet afghan tossed over the back of a chair, the vivid shades in the hooked rug on the planked floor.

A shelf had been built into the east wall. Ignoring Brooke's glare, Parks wandered to it. There was a small crystal butterfly that shivered in a rainbow of colors as the light struck it. There was a chipped demitasse set that had come from one of Brooke's yard sale jaunts along with a fat, grinning bear. Parks noted a piece of Wedgwood next to a pink monkey holding cymbals. It clapped them together gleefully when he flipped a switch. With a quick laugh, he flipped it off again. There were other treasures scattered haphazardly through the room, some priceless, some no more than department store whimsy.

Above his head, the second-floor balcony ran the length of the house. No closed-in spaces, he noted. He began to think the house itself would tell him more about Brooke than she would volunteer. The need for freedom of movement, the eclectic tastes, the combination of drab colors with the garish. It occurred to him that everything she owned would have been collected during the last ten years. But how much of the past had she brought with her?

Uncomfortable with Parks's silent, thorough survey, Brooke marched to a tiny corner cabinet to pull out a bottle. “You're free to take a tour,” she said abruptly. “I'm going to have a drink.”

“Whatever you're having's fine,” Parks said with infuriating amiability. “You can show me around later.” He proceeded to make himself at home on the low, spreading sofa. Leaning back, he glanced at the fireplace, observing by the ash that Brooke made good use of it. “Fire'd be nice,” he said casually. “Got any wood?”