Rules of the Game (13 page)

“Did you think I'd let you go hungry?” With a chuckle, Claire stood to move to the sofa. “Brooke, dear, I've known you too long. Bring me my salad and coffee like a good girl.”

Nibbling on a potato wedge, Brooke obeyed. “Claire, I really want to talk with you about Lee Dutton.”

“Of course.” Claire speared a radish slice. “Sit down and eat, Brooke, pacing's bad for my digestion.”

Plate in hand, Brooke approached the couch. She set it on the low coffee table, picked up half a roast beef sandwich and began. “Claire, are you actually dating Lee Dutton?”

“Does dating seem inappropriate to you for someone of my age, Brooke? Pass me that salt.”

“No!” Flustered, Brooke looked down at Claire's outstretched hand. She gave her the salt shaker then took a defiant bite of her sandwich. “Don't be ridiculous,” she muttered over it. “I can see you dating all manner of fabulous men. I have trouble seeing you out on the town with Lee Dutton.”

“Why?”

Brooke shifted her shoulders uncomfortably. This wasn't how she had intended it to go. “Well, he's nice enough, and certainly sharp, but he seems sort of . . . well.” Brooke sighed and tried again. “Let's put it this way: I can see Lee Dutton in the neighborhood bowling alley. I can't picture you there.”

“No . . .” Claire pursed her lips in thought. “We haven't tried that yet.”

“Claire!” Exasperated, Brooke rose and began to pace again. “I'm not getting through to you. Look, I don't want to interfere with your life—”

“No?” The mild smile had Brooke flopping back down on the couch.

“You matter to me.”

Claire reached over to squeeze her hand. “I appreciate that, Brooke, I've been taking care of myself for a long time. I've even handled a few men.”

A bit reassured, Brooke began to eat again. “I suppose if I thought you were really getting involved . . .”

“What makes you think I'm not?” At Brooke's gaping stare, Claire laughed.

“Claire, are you—are you . . .” She gestured, not quite certain she should put her thoughts into words.

“Sleeping with him?” Claire finished in her calm, cultured voice. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Brooke echoed numbly.

“Well, he hasn't asked me to.” Claire took another bite of salad and chewed thoughtfully. “I thought he would by now, but he's quite conservative. Very sweet and old-fashioned. That's part of his appeal for me. He makes me feel very feminine. You can lose that at times in this business.”

“Yes, I know.” Brooke picked up her iced tea and stared into it. “Do you—are you in love with him?”

“I think I am.” Claire settled back against the gray-and-rose patterned sofa. “I was only in love once before, really in love. I was your age, perhaps a bit younger.” Her smile was soft for a moment, a girl's smile. “In all the years in between, I've never met anyone I was attracted to enough, comfortable enough with, trusted enough, to think of marrying.”

Brooke took a long swallow of tea. She thought she understood Claire's phrasing all too well. “You're thinking of marriage?”

“I'm thinking I'm almost fifty years old. I've built this up—” she gestured to indicate Thorton “—I have a comfortable home, a nice circle of friends and acquaintances, enough new challenges to keep me from dying of boredom, and suddenly I've found a man who makes me want to curl up in front of a fire after a long day.” She smiled slowly and rather beautifully—not the girl's smile this time. “It's a good feeling.” She let her eyes slide to Brooke, who was watching her closely. “I'd hate to see you have to wait twenty more years for it. Parks is a great deal more than mildly attracted to you.”

For the third time, Brooke rose to pace the room. “We haven't known each other long,” she began.

“You're a woman who knows her own mind, Brooke.”

“Am I?” With a mordant smile, she turned back. “Perhaps I do know how I think, how I feel. I don't really know Parks, though. What if I give too much? What's to stop him from getting bored and moving on?”

Claire met her eyes steadily. “Don't compare him, Brooke. Don't make him pass tests for all those old hurts.”

“Oh, Claire.” Passing a hand through her hair, Brooke walked to stare out of the window. “That's the last thing I want to do.”

“What's the first thing?”

“It's always been to have my own. To have my own so that nobody can come along and say, ‘Whoops, you really only borrowed this, time to give it back.'” She laughed a little. “Silly, I suppose I've never really shaken that.”

“And why should you?” Claire demanded. “We all want our own. And to get it, you and I both know there are a few basic risks involved.”

“I'm afraid I'm falling in love with him,” Brooke said quietly. “And the closer I get, the more afraid I am that it's all going to crumble under my feet. I have a feeling I need this defense . . . that if I fall in love with him, I need this edge of control, this little pocket of power, to keep myself from getting demolished. Is that crazy?”

“No. You're not the kind of woman who gives herself completely without asking for something back. You did that once, but you were a child. You're a woman who needs a strong man, Brooke. One strong enough to take, strong enough not to take all.” She smiled as Brooke turned to face her. “Give yourself a little time,” she advised. “Things have a way of falling into place.”

“Do they?”

Claire's smile widened. “Sometimes it only takes twenty years.”

With a laugh, Brooke walked back to the sofa. “Thanks a lot.”

Chapter 8

Brooke sat cross-legged on the softly faded Oriental rug in Claire's den. Sometime during the fourth inning she'd given up trying to sit in a chair. To her right, Lee and Claire sat on a two-cushioned brocade sofa. Billings had outdone herself by preparing her specialty, beef Wellington, then had been mutely offended when Brooke had done little more than shift the food around on her plate. Though she chided herself for being nervous, Brooke had been able to do nothing but worry about the outcome of the play-offs since Parks had taken off for the Valiants' home stadium.

She'd been able to catch part of the first afternoon game on her car radio as she had driven to a location shoot. One of the production crew had thought ahead, bringing a portable radio with an earplug, and had kept up a running commentary between takes. Brooke had felt overwhelming relief when the Kings had taken the first game, then frustration and more nerves when they had lost the second. Now, she watched the third on the television set in Claire's small, elegant den.

“That man was out at second,” Brooke fumed, wriggling impotently on the faded royal-blue rug. “Anyone with two working eyes could see that.”

As she launched her personal attack, the Kings' manager, a squat man with the face of a dyspeptic elf, argued with the second base umpire. If she hadn't been quite so furious herself, Brooke might have admired the manager's theatrical gestures as he spun around, rolled his eyes to heaven and pointed an accusing finger in the umpire's face. The umpire remained unmoved and the call stood. With the Kings holding on to a thin one-run lead, a runner on second with one out boded ill.

When the next batter sent one sailing over the fence and the slim lead changed hands, Brooke groaned. “I can't stand it,” she decided, pounding her fists on the rug. “I just can't stand it.”

“Brooke's become involved in the game,” Claire murmured to Lee.

“So I've noticed.” He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. “You smell wonderful!”

The sensation of blood rising to her cheeks was pleasant. She had been romanced by suave masters of the game in the more than twenty-five years of her womanhood, but she couldn't remember one who had made her feel quite the way Lee Dutton could. If they had been alone, she would have snuggled closer, but remembering Brooke, she merely squeezed his hand. “Have some wine, dear,” she said to Brooke as she reached for the iced bottle beside her. “Good for the nerves.”

Because she was breathing a sigh of relief as the next batter struck out, Brooke didn't acknowledge the teasing tone. “That's three out,” she said as she took the cool glass from Claire.

“Two,” Lee corrected.

“Only if you believe a nearsighted umpire,” she countered, sipping. When he chuckled, she sent a grin over her shoulder. “At least I didn't call him a bum.”

“Give yourself a little time,” Lee advised, winking at Claire as she handed him a glass.

“You know, some of the players—” Brooke began, then broke off with a gasp as a smoking line drive was hit toward third. Her stomach muscles knotted instantly. Parks dove sideways, stretching his arm out toward the speeding ball. He nabbed it in the tip of his glove just before the length of his body connected with the hard Astroturf. Brooke thought she could feel the bone-rattling jolt herself.

“He got it!” Lee broke out of his casual pose with a jerk that nearly upset Claire's wine. “Look at that, look at that! He got it!” he repeated, pointing at the television image of Parks holding up the glove to show the catch while he still lay prone. “That young sonofa—” He caught himself, barely, and cleared his throat. “Parks is the best with a glove in the league,” he decided. “In
both
leagues!” He leaned forward to pound Brooke companionably on the back. “Parks robbed him, kid. Stole a base hit from him as sure as God made little green apples.”

Because she watched Parks stand up and brush himself off, Brooke relaxed. “I want to see it on replay,” she murmured. “Slow motion.”

“You'll see that play a dozen times before the night's through,” Lee predicted. “And again on the eleven-o'clock news. Hey, lookie here.” Grinning, he gestured to the set. “That's what I call classy timing.”

Brooke shifted her concentration to the de Marco commercial. Of course she'd seen it a dozen times in the editing room, and again on television, but each time she watched, she searched for flaws. She studied the graphics as Parks's cool clear voice spoke out to her. “It's perfect,” she said with a smile. “Absolutely perfect.”

“How's the next one coming?” Lee asked Claire.

“It's just waiting for Parks to be available. We hope to shoot next week.”

He settled back again, one arm around Claire. “I'm going to enjoy seeing that one play during the series.”

“They still have two games to win,” Brooke reminded him. “They're a run behind in this one, and—”

“The opera's not over till the fat lady sings,” Lee said mildly.

Brooke swiveled her head to look at him. Claire was snug beside him, a crystal glass in one hand. Lee's paunch strained against the buttons of his checked shirt. The ankle of one leg rested on the knee of the other while his foot bounced up and down to some personal tune. Abruptly, Brooke saw them as a perfect match. “I like you, Lee,” she said with a wide smile. “I really like you.”

He blinked twice, then his lips curved hesitantly. “Well, thanks, kid.”

She's just given us her blessing, Claire thought with an inward chuckle as she took Lee's hand in hers.

***

Brooke made her way through the airport crowd with steady determination. In addition to the usual flow of traffic at LAX, there were fans, mobs of fans, waiting to greet the incoming Kings team. Some carried handmade signs, others banners. There were, she noted with some amusement, a good number of truants in the Los Angeles school system that morning, not to mention a deficit in the workforce. After the twelve-inning victory, Brooke thought the players deserved a bit of adulation. She also wondered if she'd ever be able to fight her way through so that Parks would see her. The impulse to surprise him, she realized, had not been practical. A truant father hoisted a truant second-grader onto his shoulders. Brooke grinned. Maybe not practical, but it was going to be fun.

Pushing her sunglasses atop her head, Brooke narrowed her eyes against the sun and waited for the plane to touch down. As it stopped being a dot in the sky and took on form, she began to experience the first flicker of nerves. She fidgeted nervously with her bag while she stood, crushed shoulder to shoulder, with excited fans.

He'll be tired, she thought as dozens of conversations buzzed around her. He's probably looking forward to going home and sleeping for twenty-four hours. Brooke ran a hand through her hair. I should have told him I was coming. She shifted her weight to the other foot, curled her fingers around the chain link in front of her and watched the plane glide to a stop.

The moment the door opened, the cheering started, building, rising as the first men began to deplane. They waved back, looking tired and somehow vulnerable without their uniforms. Men, she thought. Simply men suffering from jet lag and perhaps a few hangovers. Then she smiled, deciding that the gladiators might have looked precisely the same the day after a bout.

As soon as she saw him, she felt warm. Beside Brooke, a teenager grabbed her companion and squealed.

“Oh, there's Parks Jones! He's bee-utiful.”

Brooke swallowed a laugh as she thought of how Parks would react to the adjective.

“Every time I watch him, my knees get weak.” The teenager pressed her lithe young body against the fence. “Did you see him in the commercial? When he smiled, it was like he was looking right
at
me. I nearly died.”

Though she didn't take her eyes off Parks, Brooke smiled inwardly. My plan exactly, she thought, pleased with herself. Why do I feel like a woman watching her man come home from the wars?

Though her sharp director's eye had seen a group of tense and tired men, the fans saw heroes. They cheered them. Some of the players merely waved and moved on, but most came up to the fence to exchange words, jokes, a touch of hands. Brooke watched Parks walk toward the barrier with a man she recognized as Snyder, the first baseman. She wondered, by the intensity of their discussion, if they were outlining infield strategy.

“It would only take twenty-five or thirty cans of shaving cream to fill his locker,” Snyder insisted.

“Takes too long and evaporates too fast,” Parks commented. “You've got to be practical, George.”

Snyder swore mildly and lifted his hand in acknowledgment to a shout in the crowd. “Got a better idea?”

“Carbon dioxide.” Parks scanned the crowd as they neared it. “Quick and efficient.”

“Hey, yeah!” Pleased, Snyder gave him a slap on the back. “Knew your brains were good for something, Einstein.”

“And as long as I help you work out the mechanics,” Parks added, “my locker doesn't get filled with the thinking man's shaving cream.”

“There's that, too,” Snyder agreed. “Would you look at these people?” His grin widened. “Fantastic.”

Parks started to agree, then spotted a mass of red hair touched with gold in the sunlight. The fatigue drained as though someone had pulled a cork. “Fantastic,” he murmured and walked straight toward Brooke.

The teenager beside her made a moaning, melting sound and took a death grip on her friend's arm. “He's coming over here,” she managed in a choked whisper. “Right over here. I know I'm going to die.”

Brooke tilted her chin up so that her eyes would stay level with his as he stopped on the other side of the fence. “Hi.” Parks's hand closed over hers on the metal wire. The simple contact was as intimate as anything she had ever known.

“Hi.” Brooke smiled slowly, accepting the flare of desire and the sense of closeness without question.

“Can I get a lift?”

“Anytime.”

He pressed his lips to the fingers still curled around the wire. “Meet me inside? I have to get my baggage.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke saw the two teenage girls gawking. “Great catch last night.”

He grinned before he stepped away. “Thanks.”

Snyder caught him by the arm as Brooke melted back into the crowd. “Hey, I like that catch better.”

“Off-limits,” Parks said simply, making his way down the line of fans and outstretched hands.

“Aw, come on, Parks, we're teammates. All for one and one for all.”

“Forget it.”

“The trouble with Parks,” Snyder began to tell a grandfatherly type behind the fence, “is he's selfish. I make his throws look good. I bite the bullet when he lines a hospital pitch at me. And what thanks do I get?” He sent Parks a hopeful smile. “You could at least introduce me.”

Parks grinned as he signed a snatch of paper a fan thrust through a hole in the fence. “Nope.”

It took him nearly thirty minutes to get away from the crowd and through the terminal. Impatience was growing in him. The simple touch of fingers outside had whetted his appetite for a great deal more. He'd never been lonely on the road before. Even if there was a rainout or an off day away from home, you were surrounded by people you knew. You became as close as a family—close enough to spend endless evenings together or opt to spend one alone without bruising feelings. No, he'd never been lonely. Until this time.

Parks couldn't count the times he had thought of her over the last four days, but he knew that everything had suddenly slipped back into focus the moment he had seen her standing there. Now he saw her again.

Brooke leaned back against a pillar near the baggage belt, Parks's suitcase at her feet. She smiled but didn't straighten as she saw him. She'd hate to have him know just how crazily her pulse was racing. “You travel light,” she commented.

He cupped her face in his hand and, oblivious to the people milling around them, brought her close for a long, hard kiss.

“I missed you,” he murmured against her mouth, then kissed her again.

There were enough of his teammates still loitering around to start up a chorus of approval.

“Excuse me.” Snyder tapped Parks on the shoulder and grinned engagingly at Brooke. “I believe you've made a mistake.
I'm
George Snyder. This is our aging batboy.” He gave Parks an affectionate pat.

“How do you do.” Brooke extended her hand and had it enveloped in a huge, hard palm. “Too bad about those two strikeouts last night.”

There were several jeers as Snyder winced. “Actually, I'm luring the Valiants into complacency.”

“Oh.” Amused, Brooke gave him a big smile. “You did very well.”

“Sorry, Snyder, time for your shot.” Parks signaled to two teammates, who agreeably hooked their arms through Snyder's to haul him away.

“Aw, come on, Jones, give me a break!” Good-naturedly, Snyder let himself be dragged away. “I just want to discuss my strategy with her.”

“Goodbye, George.” Brooke waved as Parks bent to retrieve his bag.

“Let's get out of here.”

With her fingers laced through his, Brooke had no choice but to follow. “Parks, you might have introduced me to your friends.”

“Dangerous men,” he stated. “All dangerous men.”

With a chuckle, she matched her pace to his. “Yes, I could see that. Especially the one holding a toddler on each hip.”

“There are a few exceptions.”

“Are you one?”

Parks caught her around the waist and drew her close against him. “Uh-uh.”

“Oh, good. Want to come home with me and tell me your strategy?”

“That's the best offer I've had today.” After tossing his bag in the rear of her car, Parks sprawled in the passenger seat. Accustomed to her driving pattern now, he relaxed and began to unwind by rambling about the previous day's game. Brooke said little, pleased to listen, glad that she had arranged to take the day off so that they could have a few hours together, alone.