Rules of the Game (12 page)

“Smooth as silk,” E.J. stated. “Wait till you get a load of Parks knocking that sucker over the fence.” He grinned reminiscently. “I won ten bucks off Brooke with that hit.” His selective memory allowed him to forget that it had been his ten dollars in the first place.

Claire settled into a chair with a quiet sigh. “Is Brooke in yet?”

“Haven't seen her.” E.J. began to whistle as he recalled Brooke leaving the location with Parks. Accustomed to his habits, Claire only lifted a brow.

“Are you set up, Dave?”

“Ready to run through it, Ms. Thorton. Want to see it from the top?”

“In a moment.” Even as Claire checked her watch, she heard Brooke's voice in the corridor.

“As long as you understand you have absolutely no say in what gets cut and what stays in.”

“I might have an intelligent comment to make.”

“Parks, I'm serious.”

His low chuckle rolled into the editing room just ahead of Brooke. “Morning,” she said to the group at large. “Coffee hot?”

“E.J.'s special,” Claire told her, watching Brooke over the rim of her mug as she sipped. She looked different, Claire thought, then slid her eyes to Parks. And there was the reason, she concluded with a small smile. “Good morning, Parks.”

Her face remained bland and friendly, but he recognized her thoughts. With a slight nod, he acknowledged them. “Hello, Claire,” he said, abandoning formality as smoothly as he reached for a cup for himself. “I hope you don't mind me sitting in on this.” Taking the pot, he poured Brooke's coffee, then his own. “Brooke has a few reservations.”

“Amateurs,” Brooke said precisely as she reached for the powdered cream, “have a tendency to be pains in the—”

“Yes, well I'm sure we're delighted to have Parks join us,” Claire interrupted over E.J.'s chuckle. “Run it through, Dave. Let's see what we've got.”

At her order, he flicked a series of buttons on the large control panel in front of him. Parks watched himself appear simultaneously on three monitors. He could hear Brooke's voice off camera, then the little man with the clapboard scooted in front of him announcing the scene and take.

“It's the third take that worked,” Brooke announced as she settled on the arm of Claire's chair. “Casey at the bat didn't like the first pitch.”

Her remark earned her a grin from Parks and a mild exclamation from Claire. “The lighting's very good.” Claire studied the second take through narrowed eyes.

“The new boy, Silbey. He's got a nice touch. The clothes sell it.” Brooke sipped while gesturing with her free hand. “Watch when he sets for the swing. . . . Yes.” She gave a nod of approval. “Nice moves, no apparent restriction. He looks comfortable, efficient, sexy.” Intent on the screen, Brooke didn't notice the look Parks tossed at her. “This is the one I want to use.” She waited, silently, watching the replay of Parks's home run. The test swings, the concentration, the connection and follow-through, the satisfied grin and the shrug.

“I want to keep in the last bit,” Brooke went on. “That geewhiz shrug. It sells the whole business. That natural cockiness is its own appeal.” Parks choked over his coffee, but Brooke ignored him. “As I see it, this segment is pretty clear-cut. The next I'm not so sure about. It's going to be effective. . . .”

Cupping his mug in both hands, Parks sat down. For the next two hours he watched himself on the screens of the monitors, listened to himself being weighed, dissected, judged. Though the latter disconcerted him initially, he found that watching himself didn't bring on the feeling of idiocy he'd been certain it would. He began to think he might find some enjoyment out of his two-year stint after all.

Though he'd heard himself picked apart and put back together countless times over the years—coaches, sports critics, other players—Parks couldn't find the same level of tolerance at hearing Brooke speak so matter-of-factly about his face and body, his gestures and expressions. All in all, he thought, it was as though he were the salable product, not the clothes he wore.

They ran the film back and forth, while Claire listened to input and made occasional comments. Yes, they would have to work in close-ups in the next shoot, his face was very good. It would be smart to fill another thirty-second spot with action to exploit the way he moved, showing the durability of the clothes as well as the versatility. They might try tennis shorts if his legs were any good.

At this Parks shot Brooke a deadly glance, half expecting her to offer her personal opinion. She caught it, then smothered a chuckle with a fit of coughing. Over Claire's head she gave him an innocent smile and an unexpectedly lewd wink. The quick response of his own body caused him to scowl at her. She was dressed like a waif, in baggy chinos and a sweater, her hair braided back and secured with a rubber band. From across the room he could smell the elusive, promising scent of her perfume.

“We taped his voice-over this morning,” she told Claire. “I think you'll find his voice is good, though how he'll handle real dialogue remains to be seen. Do we have the graphics for the tag-on, Lila?”

“Right here.” She flipped a series of switches. On the monitor now was the de Marco logo of a black-maned lion against a cool blue background. The signature line cartwheeled slowly onto the screen until it stopped below the cat. It held long enough for impact, then faded.

“Very classy,” Brooke approved. “Then it's agreed? The third take from the first segment, the fifth from the second.”

“We saved you guys from a lot of splicing,” E.J. commented as he toyed with an unlit cigarette. “You should be able to put this together with your eyes closed.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd keep them open,” Claire said as she rose. “Let me know when it's cut and dubbed. E.J., a splendid job, as always.”

“Thanks, Ms. Thorton.”

She handed him her empty mug. “On the camera work, too,” she added. The editors snickered as she turned toward the door. “Parks, I hope you didn't find all this too boring.”

“On the contrary . . .” He thought of the objective discussions on his anatomy. “It's been an education.”

She gave him a mild smile of perfect understanding. “Brooke, my office, ten minutes.” As an afterthought she glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear. Perhaps you'd like to join us for lunch, Parks.”

“I appreciate it, but I have a few things I have to do.”

“Well then.” Patting his arm, she smiled again. “Best of luck in the play-offs.” She slipped away, leaving Brooke frowning after her.

“I probably won't get any lunch now,” she muttered. “If you'd said yes, she'd have made reservations at Ma Maison.”

“Sorry.” Parks drew her out in the corridor. “Did that wink mean you approve of my legs?”

“Wink?” Brooke stared at him blankly. “I don't know what you're talking about. Winking during an editing session is very unprofessional.”

He glanced at the door she had closed behind her. “The way you all talked in here, I felt that I was the product.”

With a half laugh, Brooke shook her head. “Parks, you
are
the product.”

His eyes came back to hers, surprising Brooke with the flare of anger. “No. I wear the product.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again on a cautious sigh. “It's really a matter of viewpoint,” she said carefully. “From yours, from de Marco's, even from the consumers', the clothes are the product. From the viewpoints of your producer, your director, your cinematographer and so forth, you're as much the product as the clothes you wear because we have to see that both of you are salable. If I can't make you look good, what you're wearing might as well be flea market special.”

He saw the logic but didn't care for it. “I won't be a commodity.”

“Parks, you're a commodity every time you walk out on the diamond. This really isn't any different.” Exasperated, she lifted her hands palms up. “You sell tickets to Kings games, baseball cards and fielder's caps. Don't be so damned sanctimonious about this.”

“First it's temperamental, now it's sanctimonious,” he muttered disgustedly. “I suppose what it comes down to is we look at this little . . . venture from two different perspectives.”

Brooke felt a light flutter of fear inside her breast. “I told you,” she said quietly, “that it would be difficult.”

His eyes came back to her, recognizing the shield she was already prepared to bring down. Parks ran a finger down her cheek. “And I told you it would be fun.” Leaning closer, he brushed his lips over hers. “We're both right. I have some things to do. Can I meet you back here later?”

Relaxing, Brooke told herself she had imagined the fear. “If you like. I'll probably be tied up until around five.”

“Fine. You can cook me that dinner you promised me last night.”

Brooke lifted her chin. “I never promised to cook you dinner,” she corrected. “But perhaps I will.”

“I'll buy the wine.” Parks sent her a grin before he turned away.

“Wait.” After a moment, Brooke went after him. “You don't have your car.”

Parks shrugged. “I'll take a cab.” He saw her hesitate then struggle with a decision.

“No,” she said abruptly, digging in her bag. “You can use mine.”

Parks took the keys, and her hand. He knew enough about her to realize offering the use of her car, or anything else important to her, wasn't a casual gesture. “Thank you.”

Her color rose—the first truly self-conscious thing he had noticed about her. “You're welcome.” Quickly, she drew her hand from his and turned away. “See you at five,” she called over her shoulder without stopping.

Brooke felt a bit foolish as she rode the elevator to Claire's office. How could she have blushed over a simple thank-you for the loan of a car? She glanced up at the numbers flashing over the elevator door. Oh, he knew her too well, she realized, knew her too well when she'd hardly told him anything.

He didn't know she still had the copy of
Little Women
her second foster mother had given her. He didn't know that she had adored those temporary parents and had been devastated when a broken marriage had caused her to be placed in another foster home. He didn't know about the horrid little girl she had shared a room with during what she still considered the worst year of her life. Or the Richardsons, who had treated her more like a hired hand than a foster child. Or Clark.

With a sigh, Brooke rubbed her fingers over her forehead. She didn't like to remember—didn't like knowing that her growing feelings for Parks seemed to force her to face the past again. Oh, the hell with it, Brooke thought with a shake of her head. It
was
the past. And she was going to have enough trouble dealing with the present to dwell on it.

Steadier, she stepped out into the wide, carpeted corridor of Claire's floor. The receptionist, a pretty girl with lots of large healthy teeth, straightened in her chair at Brooke's approach. She'd worked on the top floor for over two years and was still more in awe of Brooke than of Claire.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Gordon.”

“Hello, Sheila. Ms. Thorton's expecting me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sheila wouldn't have contradicted her if her life had depended on it.

Unaware of the impression she made, Brooke strode easily down the corridor and through a set of wide glass doors. Here, two secretaries, known as the twins only because of identical desks, labored away on word processors. The outer office was huge, scrupulously modern and cathedral quiet.

“Ms. Gordon.” The first twin beamed a smile while a second one reached for the button on her intercom.

“She's expecting me,” Brooke said simply and breezed by them into Claire's office. The door opened silently. Brooke was halfway across the pewter-colored carpet before she realized Claire was sound asleep at her desk. Totally stunned, Brooke stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

The chair Claire sat in was high-backed pale gray leather. Her desk was ebony, gleaming beneath stacks of neat papers. The glasses Claire wore for reading were held loosely in her hand. A Chinese “literary painting” in color wash and ink hung on the wall to her right, while behind her L.A. sunshine poured through a plate-glass window. Unsure what to do, Brooke considered leaving as quietly as she had come, then decided it was best to stay. Walking to the squashy leather chair facing the desk, she sat, then gently cleared her throat. Claire's eyes snapped open.

“Morning,” Brooke said brightly and grinned at Claire's uncharacteristic confusion. “You'd do better on the sofa if you want a nap.”

“Just resting my eyes.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Ignoring the comment, Claire reached for the papers she had been reading before fatigue had won. “I wanted you to have a look at the script for the next de Marco spot.”

“Okay.” Brooke accepted the script automatically. “Claire, are you all right?”

“Don't I look all right?”

Deciding to take her literally, Brooke studied her. Except for the heavy eyes, she decided, Claire looked better than ever. Almost, Brooke mused, glowing. “You look marvelous.”

“Well then.” Claire smoothed her hair before she folded her hands.

“Didn't you sleep well last night?” Brooke persisted.

“As it happens, I was out late. Now the script.”

“With Lee Dutton?” The thought went through her mind and out her lips before she could stop it. Claire gave her a tolerant smile.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Brooke set the script back on the desk. “Claire,” she began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Your lunch, Ms. Thorton.” A tray was wheeled in by twin number one.

The scent of hot roast beef had Brooke rising. “Claire, I misjudged you.” Lifting the cover from a hot plate, she inhaled. “Forgive me.”