Rules of the Game (11 page)

“Out back.” Ungraciously, she stuck a glass under his nose.

“Thanks.” After accepting it, Parks took her hand. “Sit down,” he invited with a pleasantness that put Brooke's teeth on edge. “You've been on your feet all day.”

“I'm fine,” she began, then let out a gasp of surprise as Parks yanked her down beside him. Realizing she should have been prepared for the move despite his outward mellowness only fanned her already strained temper. “Who do you think you are,” she began, “barging in here, expecting me to whip up dinner then fall into bed with you? If you—”

“Hungry?” Parks interrupted.

She sent him a searing look. “No.”

With a shrug, he draped his arm behind her, propping his feet on the hassock. “You're usually ill-tempered when you are,” he commented.

“I am
not
ill-tempered,” Brooke raged. “And I am
not
hungry.”

“Want some music?”

Brooke drew in a deep breath. How dare he sit there acting as though she were
his
guest? “No.”

“You should relax.” With firm fingers, he began to knead the base of her neck.

“I'm perfectly relaxed.” She pushed his hand aside, disturbed by the sensation of warmth creeping down her spine.

“Brooke.” Parks set his glass on the floor, then turned to her. “When you called me a few days ago, you accepted what you knew was going to happen between us.”

“I said I would see you,” she corrected and started to rise. Parks hand came back to her neck and held her still.

“Knowing what
seeing
me meant,” he murmured. His eyes met the fury in her gaze for a moment, then drifted down to focus on her mouth. “You might have refused to let me come here tonight . . . but you didn't.” Slowly, he brought his eyes back to hers in a long, intense look that had her stomach muscles quivering. “Are you going to tell me that you don't want me?”

She couldn't remember the last time she had felt the need to break eye contact. It took all her strength of will to keep from faltering. “I . . . I don't have to tell you anything. You might remember that this is my time, my house. And—”

“What are you afraid of?”

As he watched, the confusion in her eyes turned back to fury. “I'm not afraid of anything.”

“Of making love to me,” he continued quietly. “Or to anyone?”

Angry color flooded her cheeks as she bolted up from the sofa. She felt a combination of rage and hurt and fear that she hadn't experienced in more than a decade. He had no right to bring the insecurity tumbling back over her, no right to make her doubt herself as a woman. Tossing her head, Brooke glared at him. “You want to make love?” she snapped. “Fine.” She turned on her heel and marched to the stairs leading to the second floor. Halfway up, she threw an angry look over her shoulder. “Coming?” she demanded, then continued on without waiting for his reply.

The fury carried her across the balcony and into her bedroom, where she stood in the center of the room, seething. Her gaze landed on the bed, but she averted it quickly as she heard the sound of Parks's footsteps approaching. It was all very simple, she told herself. They would go to bed and work this attraction or animosity or whatever it was out of their systems. It would clear the air. She sent Parks another killing look as he walked into the room. Fear prodded at her again. In defense, Brooke hastily began to undress.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to stop, then Parks calmly followed her example. She was trembling and didn't even know it, he observed. For the moment, they would play it her way. As with the first night he had taken her out, Parks knew what Brooke expected. Though the angry fear urged him to comfort, he was aware that it would be refused. He didn't even glance over when she dropped her T-shirt into a heap on the floor. But he noticed that she had kept a small clutch of his hibiscus on her dresser.

Naked, Brooke stomped over to the bed and pulled off the quilt. Head high, brows arched, she turned to him. “Well?”

He looked at her. The surge of sharp desire caused him to go rigid to control it. She was long and softly rounded with fragile, china-doll skin. The proud almost challenging stance was only accented by the overall frailty—until one looked at her eyes. Stormy, they dared him to make the next move.

Parks wondered if she knew just how vulnerable she was and vowed, even as he planned to conquer, to protect. Taking his time, he walked to her until they stood face-to-face. Though her eyes never faltered, he saw the quick nervous swallow before she turned toward the bed. Parks caught her braid in his hand, forcing her to turn back. The fury in her eyes might have cooled the desire of most men. Parks smiled, comfortable with it.

“This time,” he murmured as he began to unbind the braid, “I'll direct.”

Brooke stood stiffly as he slowly freed her hair. Her skin tingled, as if waiting for his touch—but he never touched her. Deliberately, Parks drew out the process, working his way leisurely up the confined hair until Brooke thought she would burst. When he had finished, he spread it over her shoulders as if it were the only task he would ever perform.

“It's fabulous,” Parks murmured, absorbed in its texture, at the way the slanting sunlight brought out the hidden gold within the red. Lifting a strand from her shoulder, he buried his nose in it, wanting to absorb the fragrance. Brooke felt her knees weaken, her muscles go lax. Would he ever touch her?

She kept her eyes on his face, trying to avoid a dangerous fascination with the tawny skin of his chest, the mat of dark gold hair and cords of muscles she had glimpsed in his bare shoulders. If she allowed herself to look, would she be able to prevent herself from touching? But when she noticed the thin gold chain around his neck, curiosity drove her to follow it down to the small gold circle that dangled from it. Because of this, she didn't see him shift ever so slightly to press his lips against the curve of her shoulder. The touch was a jolt, a branding shock that had her jerking back even as his hands spanned her waist.

“Relax.” Fingers kneaded gently into flesh; warm lips nibbled it over his words. “I won't take you anywhere you don't want to go.” Slowly, he ran the whisper-soft kisses over her shoulder, loitering at her throat. His fingertips ran down to her hips then back up in a rhythmic caress that could never soothe, but only arouse. He knew what he did to her—she knew her response was no secret. In a last attempt to hold her own, Brooke pressed her hands against his chest, arching back.

Parks still held her waist, but made no attempt to draw her back. Over the desire in his eyes, Brooke caught the light of humor. “Want me to stop?” he asked quietly. There was a trace of challenge in the question. She realized abruptly that whatever response she gave, she would still lose.

“Would you?” she countered, fighting the urge to run her suddenly sensitive fingertips over his naked chest.

It was his slow, dangerous smile. “Why don't you ask me and see?” Even as she opened her mouth to form an answer, his fastened on it. The kiss was soft and deep, the sort she knew a woman could drown in. Brooke had only the vague realization that her hands had crept up his chest to link around his neck, only the faintest knowledge that her body was melting into his. Then she was falling—or perhaps she was drowning—until the cool sheets were under her back and his weight was on her.

She didn't question how her body seemed to have become liquid, only reveled in the unaccustomed freedom of motion and space. His hands were so sure, so unhurried, as if he wished and waited for her total fluidity. With a deft caress, a strategic brush of lips, he was unlocking every restriction she had placed on herself. This pleasure was thick, fluent. Brooke luxuriated in it, no longer caring what she gave up in order to receive. Weightless, helpless, she could only sigh as he took his mouth on a lazy journey down her body.

The flick of his tongue over her nipple brought a quick tug—not quite an ache—in her stomach. This pleasure was sharp, stunning. Then it was gone, leaving her dazed as he continued to range a moist trail over her.

His hands were never still, but moved so gently, almost magically, over her, that she could never pinpoint where the source of delight came from. It seemed to radiate through the whole of her, soothing, promising, luring. He caught the point of her breast between his teeth, causing a flash of heat to spring from her center out to her fingertips. But even as she gasped from it, arching, he moved on. He brushed his fingers over her inner thigh, almost absently, so that her skin was left heated then chilled. As fire and ice coursed through her, the sound of her own moan echoed in her head.

The quivering started—a drug wearing off. And the ache—unbearable, wonderful. She was no longer soothed, but throbbing and pleasure became exquisite torment. Suddenly her fingers were in his hair as she tried to press him closer. “Make love to me,” she demanded as her breath started to tremble.

He continued with the same mind-destroying caresses. “Oh, I am,” he murmured.

“Now.” Brooke reached for him only to have him grip her wrists. His head lifted so that their eyes met. Even through a haze of passion she could see his intense concentration—that fierce warrior look.

“It's not so simple.” He could feel her pulse hammering under his fingers, but he would give her no quick moment of pleasure. When he took her, she would never forget. Parks pressed his mouth to hers, not so gently. “I've only begun.”

Still holding her wrists, he began a new journey over her, with his mouth only. As he captured her breast again, taking it into the heated moistness of his mouth, she could only writhe beneath him in a frenzy that had nothing to do with a desire to escape. The breezy patience had left him to be replaced by a demand that would accept only one answer. It seemed he would feed on her skin, nipping, suckling, licking until she was half-mad from need so long suppressed. It seemed he would taste, and taste only, for hours, assuaging a steady greed she was powerless to refuse.

The heat suffused her, enervated her. Her skin trembled and grew moist from it. Down the hollow between her breasts, over the lean line of ribs to the subtle curve of hip he traced kisses until he felt her hands go limp and her pulse rage.

When his tongue plunged into the warm core of her, she shuddered convulsively, crying out with the first delirious peak. But he was relentless. Even as she struggled for breath, his hands began a new journey of possession.

With hers free, Brooke gripped his shoulders, hardly aware of the tensing of his muscles. There was no part of her body he hadn't explored, exploited, in his quest to have all of her. Now her surrender became agility and drive. Neither of them knew that her true capitulation came when she began her own demands.

Her hands sped over him, touching all she could reach while she twisted, wanting to taste—his mouth, his shoulder, the strong line of his jaw. Parks thought her scent intensified until it dominated all his senses—weakening and strengthening him at once. Her skin was moist and heated wherever his mouth nestled, bringing him another tantalizing image of white silk and forbidden passion. Husky murmurs and quick breathing broke the early-evening hush.

He was no longer thinking, nor was she. They had entered a place where thoughts were only sensations; sharp, aching, sweet and dark. Even as she fastened her mouth on his, Brooke trembled.

Then he was deep inside her, so swiftly that she dug her nails into his flesh in shock and pleasure. They merged, body to body, heart to heart, while all the sensations concentrated into one.

Chapter 7

Brooke luxuriated in the soft, warm security. As she hung between sleep and wakefulness she thought it was winter, and that she slept beneath a thick downy quilt. There was no need to get up, no need to face the cold. She could lie there for a whole lazy day and do nothing. She felt utterly peaceful, completely unburdened and pleasantly languid. Wanting to enjoy the sensations more, she struggled to shrug off sleep.

It wasn't winter, but early fall. There was no quilt, only a tangle of sheets that half covered her naked body as she curled into Parks. With sleep cleared from her mind, Brooke remembered everything—the first revelation of lovemaking, the surprise of having the secret door open without resistance, the hours of passion that had followed. There had been little talk, as the urgency to give and take had grown beyond the control of either of them. Time after time, fulfillment had led to rekindled desire, and desire to demand, until they had fallen asleep, wrapped tightly together.

Now, Brooke could remember her own insatiable thirst, the boundless energy and strength that had filled her. She remembered, too, Parks's ability to arouse her to desperation with patience . . . and that she had driven him beyond patience with a skill she had been unaware of possessing. But beyond the passion and pleasure, Brooke remembered one vital thing. She had needed him. This was something she had refused herself for years. To need meant dependence, dependence meant vulnerability. A woman who was vulnerable would always be hurt.

The night was behind her and dawn was breaking. In the misty gray light, Parks's face was relaxed, inches from hers, so that the warmth of his breath fluttered over her cheek. His arm was around her, his fingers curled into her hair, as if even in sleep he had to touch it. Her arm reached around to lock him close. They had slept, if only for a few hours, in a classic pose of possessing and possessed. But which one, Brooke thought hazily, was which?

With a sigh, Brooke closed her eyes. Not knowing was dangerous. The hours she had spent not caring put the independence she had taken for granted in jeopardy.

It was time to think again before it was too late, before emotions dominated her—those perilous emotions that urged her to burrow closer to Parks's warmth. If she were ever to stop the need for him from growing beyond her control, she had to do it now.

Brooke shifted in an attempt to separate her body from his. Parks tightened his hold and only brought her closer. “No,” he murmured without opening his eyes. With sleepy slowness he ran his hand down the length of her naked back. “Too early to get up.”

Brooke felt her breasts yield against his chest, felt the warmth in her stomach begin to smolder to heat. His lips were close—too close. The need to stay in the security of his arms was so strong it frightened her. Again Brooke tried to shift, and again Parks brought her back.

“Parks,” she said, then was silenced by his lips.

Brooke told herself to struggle against the deep, musky morning kiss, but she didn't. She told herself to resist the gentle play of fingertips on her spine, but she couldn't. The gray dawn suddenly took on a rosy hue. The air seemed to grow thick. Even as he touched her, her skin quivered to be touched again. Don't! her brain shouted. Don't let this happen. But she was already sinking, and sinking quickly. She made a sound of protest that became a groan of pleasure.

Parks shifted so that his body lay across hers. Burying his face in her hair, he took his hand down the length of her; the slight swell of the side of her breast, the firm line of ribs and narrow waist, a flare of hip and long smooth thigh. He could feel the struggle going on inside her, sense her desire to separate herself from what had begun to happen between them since that first meeting of eyes. His quick flash of anger was tinged with unexpected hurt.

“Regrets already?” Lifting his head, he looked at her. Her eyes were dark, heavy with kindling passion. Her breathing was unsteady. But he knew she fought herself just as fiercely as she fought him. Her hands were on his shoulders, poised to push him away.

“This isn't smart,” Brooke managed.

“No?” Controlling anger, ignoring the hurt, Parks brushed the hair from her cheek. “Why?”

Brooke met his eyes, because to look away would have admitted defeat. “It's not what I want.”

“Let's be accurate.” His voice was calm, his eyes steady. “It's not what you want to want.”

“All right.” Brooke shivered as his finger traced her ear. “It's not what I want to want. I have to be practical. We're going to be working together for quite a while. More technically, you'll be working for me. A solid professional relationship won't be possible if we're lovers.”

“We are lovers,” Parks pointed out, casually shifting so that the friction of his body on hers sent a shudder coursing through her.

“It won't be possible,” Brooke continued, concentrating on keeping her voice steady, “if we go on being lovers.”

Tilting his head, Parks smiled at her. “Why?”

“Because . . .” Brooke knew why. She knew dozens of logical reasons why, but no firm thought would form in her brain when he touched a light friendly kiss to her lips.

“Let me be practical a minute,” Parks said after another quick kiss. “How often do you let yourself have fun?”

Brooke drew her brows together in annoyed confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You can work eight, twelve hours a day,” Parks continued. “You can enjoy your job, be terrific at what you do, but you still need to throw a Frisbee now and again.”

“Frisbee?” This brought on a baffled laugh that pleased him. The hands on his shoulders relaxed. “What are you talking about?”

“Fun, Brooke. A sense of the ridiculous, laziness, riding Ferris wheels. All those things that make working worthwhile.”

She had the uncomfortable feeling she was being expertly led away from the subject at hand. “What does riding a Ferris wheel have to do with you and me making love?”

“Have you ever had a lover before?” Parks felt her stiffen but continued. “I don't mean someone you slept with, but someone you shared time with. I'm not asking you for any more than that.” Even as he said it, Parks knew it wouldn't be true for long. He would ask for more, and she would fight him every step of the way. But then he had lived his life playing to win. “Throw a few Frisbees with me, Brooke. Ride a few waves. Let's see where it takes us.”

Looking at him, she could feel her resistance melting. Before she could prevent it, her hand had lifted from his shoulder to brush at the hair that fell over his forehead. “You make it sound so simple,” she murmured.

“Not simple.” He took her other hand and pressed his lips to the palm. “Even fun isn't always simple. I want you . . . here.” And his eyes came back to hers. “Naked, warm, daring me to arouse you. I want to drive with you with the top down and the wind in your hair. I want to see you caught in the rain, laughing.” He ran whispering kisses over her face, then paused at her lips to drink long and deep. “I want to be with you, but I don't think it's going to be simple.”

Rolling over, Parks cradled her head on his chest, allowing her to rest and think while he brushed his hands through her hair. His words had touched her in tiny vulnerable places she couldn't defend. Was she strong enough, she wondered, to try things his way without losing control? Fun, she thought. Yes, they could give each other that. He challenged her. Brooke had to admit that she had come to enjoy even the friction. What had he said once? That they could be friends before they were lovers. Odd, she mused, that both had happened almost before she realized it. Only the niggling fear that she was already afraid of losing him kept her from relaxing completely.

“I can't afford to fall in love with you,” she murmured.

An odd way to put it, Parks reflected as he continued to stroke her hair. “Rule one,” he drawled. “Party A will not fall in love with party B.”

Making a fist, Brooke punched his shoulder. “Stop making me sound ridiculous.”

“I'll try,” he agreed amiably.

“Fun,” she murmured, half to herself.

“A three-letter word meaning amusement, sport or recreation,” Parks recited in a blandly didactic tone.

With a chuckle, Brooke lifted her head. “All right. I'll buy the Frisbee,” she said before she pressed her mouth to his.

Parks cupped the back of her neck in his hand. “It's still too early to get up,” he murmured.

Brooke's low laugh was muffled against his lips. “I'm not sleepy.”

With a reluctant sigh, he closed his eyes. “Acting,” he said thickly, “takes a lot out of you.”

“Aw.” Sympathetically, Brooke stroked his cheek. “I guess you'd better conserve your strength.” She pressed a kiss to his jaw, then his collarbone, before continuing down his chest. Her fingers tangled with the gold chain he wore. “What's this for?”

Parks opened one eye to stare at the five-dollar gold piece that dangled from the chain Brooke held up. “Luck.” He shut his eyes again. “My aunt gave it to me when I headed for the Florida training camp. She told my father he was a—” Parks reached back in his memory for the exact phrasing “—a stiff-necked old fool who thought in graphs and formulas, then gave me the gold piece and told me to go for it.”

Brooke turned the shiny circle over in her palm. So he carried a little piece of the past with him, too, she mused. “Superstition?” she asked as she dropped the chain and pressed her lips to his chest.

“Luck,” Parks corrected, enjoying the feel of her mouth on his skin, “has nothing to do with superstition.”

“I see.” She scraped her nails lightly down his side and heard his quick inhalation of breath. “Do you always wear it?”

“Mmm.” She flicked her tongue over his nipple, bringing a low, involuntary groan from him. A sense of power whipped through her—light, freeing, tempting. His hands were buried in her hair again, seeking the flesh beneath. Brooke slid her body down, bringing them both a rippling slice of pleasure.

His scent was different, she discovered as she ran her lips over his skin. Different, she realized, because hers had mingled with it during the night. That was intimacy, as tangible as the act of love itself.

As the power stayed with her, she experimented. His body was strong and muscled beneath hers, tasting of man. He was taut and lean, his skin golden in the early-morning light. The palms that moved over her back were hard, calloused from his profession. Like the man, the body was disciplined, a product of that odd combination of pampering and outrageous demands any athlete subjects it to. She brushed her lips over the hard, flat stomach and felt the firm muscles quiver. Beneath her own smooth palms she could feel the sinewy strength of his thighs.

The knowledge of the pure physical strength he possessed excited her. With light touches and caresses, she could make this man breathe as though he had run to the point of collapse. With feathering kisses she could make this hardened athlete shudder with an inner weakness she alone was aware of. Though she didn't fully understand it, Brooke knew that she had given him something more than her body the night before, something more complex than surrender or passion. Without even knowing what the gift was, she wanted Parks to offer it in return.

Slowly, enjoying every movement of his body beneath hers, savoring each subtly different taste, she roamed up until her lips fastened greedily on his. How soft his mouth was. How nectarous, with a dark, secret cachet. Brooke savored it on her tongue, feeling it intensify until the draining, liquefying pleasure crept into her. Knowing she would lose that slim edge of control, she tore her mouth from his to bury it at his throat.

She felt the vibration of his groan against her lips, but she couldn't hear it. Her heartbeat raged in her head until all of her senses were confused. If it was morning, how could she feel this sultry night pleasure? If she was seducing him, how was she so thoroughly seduced? Her body pressed against his, matching itself to the slow, tortuous rhythm he set even as she raced tormenting kisses along his flesh. The heat seeping into her only seemed to add to the delirium of power, yet it wasn't enough. She was still searching for something so nebulous she wasn't certain she would recognize it when it was found. And desire, sharp bolts of desire, were causing everything but the quest for fulfillment to fade.

Parks gripped her hair in one hand to pull her head up. She had only a brief glimpse of his face—the eyes half-shut but darker and more intense than she had ever seen them—before he brought her mouth down to his and devoured. All will, all sense was seeping out of her.

“Brooke . . .” His hands were on her hips, urging her. “Now.” The demand was wrenched from him, hoarse and urgent. She resisted, struggling to breathe, fighting to hold some part of herself separate. “I need you,” he murmured before their lips met again. “I need you.”

Then it was clear—for one breathless instant. She needed, and knew now she was needed in return. It was enough . . . perhaps everything. With a shuddering sound of relief and joy, she gave.

***

At nine fifty-five, Claire swept into the editing room. Neither the editors nor E.J. were surprised to see the head of Thorton Productions on the job on a Saturday morning. Anyone who had worked at Thorton more than a week knew that Claire wasn't a figurehead but an entity to be reckoned with. She wore one of her trim little suits, the color of crushed raspberries, and a trace of Parisian scent.

“Dave, Lila, E.J.” Claire gave all three a quick nod before heading toward the coffeepot. A newer member of the staff might have scurried to serve the boss, but those lounging near the control board knew better.

“Made it myself, Ms. Thorton,” E.J. told her as she poured. “It won't taste like the battery acid these two cook up.”

“I appreciate that, E.J.,” she said dryly. Just the scent of it revived her. Claire inhaled it, telling herself only an old fool thought she could dance until three and still function the next day. Ah, but how nice it was to feel like a fool again, she thought with a slow smile. “I'm told that the shoot went well, with no major problems.”