by Nora Roberts
new job, making hardly more than she had waiting tables, but with fresh ambition. She was going places. The one thing her betrayal by Clark had taught her was that she could depend on only one person: herself. No one was ever going to make her believe, or make her cry again.
Ten years later, Brooke drew a narrow black dress from her closet. It was a severely sophisticated outfit she had bought mainly for the cocktail circuit that went hand in hand with her profession. She fingered the silk, then nodded. It should do very well for her evening with Parks Jones.
***
As Parks drove through the hills above L.A. he considered his actions. For the first time in his career he had allowed a woman to distract him during a game—and this one hadn’t even tried. For the first time, he had called a virtual stranger from three thousand miles away to make a date, and she didn’t even know who the hell he was. For the first time, he was planning on taking out a woman who made him absolutely furious without having said more than a handful of words. And if it hadn’t been for the road series that had followed that night game at Kings Stadium, he would have called her before this. He’d looked up her number at the airport on his way to catch a plane to New York.
He downshifted for the incline as he swung around a curve. All during the flight home, he had thought of Brooke Gordon, trying to pigeonhole her. A model or an actress, he had concluded. She had the face for it—not really beautiful, but certainly unique. Her voice was like something whispering through layers of smoke. And she hadn’t sounded overly bright on the phone that morning, he reminded himself with a grimace as he stepped on the gas. There was no law that said brains had to go with intriguing looks, but something in her eyes that night . . . Parks shook off the feeling that he’d been studied, weighed and measured.
A rabbit darted out in front of him then stopped, hypnotized by his beams. Parks braked, swerved and swore as it raced back to the side of the road. He had a weakness for small animals that his father had never understood. Then, his father had understood little about a boy who chose to play ball rather than assume a lucrative position of power in Parkinson Chemicals.
Parks slowed to check his direction, then turned down the darkened back road that led to Brooke’s tidy wooded property. He liked it instantly—the remoteness, the melodious sound of crickets. It was a small slice of country thirty-five minutes from L.A. Perhaps she wasn’t so slow-witted after all. He pulled his MG behind her Datsun and looked around him.
Her grass needed trimming, but it only added to the rural charm of the house. It was a small, A-frame structure with lots of glass and a circular porch. He heard the tinkle of water from the narrow stream that ran behind the house. There was a scent of summer—hot, heavy blossoms he couldn’t identify, and an inexplicable aura of peacefulness. He found himself wishing he didn’t have to drive back down to a crowded restaurant and bright lights. In the distance a dog began to bark frantically, sending out echos to emphasize the openness. Parks climbed out of the car, wondering what sort of woman would choose a house so far from city comforts.
There was an old brass knocker in the shape of a hog’s head at the right of the door. It made him grin as he let it bang. When she opened the door, Parks forgot all the doubts that had plagued him on his drive through the hills. This time he thought she looked like a seductive witch—fair skin against a black dress, a heavy silver amulet between her breasts. Her hair was pulled back at the temples with two combs, then left to fall wildly down to her hips. Her eyes were as misty as hellsmoke, the lids darkened by some subtle, glittering shadow. Her mouth was naked. He caught a drift of scent that brought him a picture of East Indian harems, white silk and dusky female laughter.
“Hello.” Brooke extended her hand. It took every ounce of willpower to complete the casual gesture. How was she to have known her heart would start thudding at the sight of him? It was foolish, because she had already imagined what he would look like in sophisticated clothes. She’d had to if she was to plan how to film him. But somehow his body looked rangier, even more male in a suit coat and slacks—and somehow his face was even more attractive in the shadowed half-light of her front porch. Her plans to ask him in for a drink were aborted. The sooner they were in a crowd the better. “I’m starving,” she said as his fingers closed over hers. “Shall we go?” Without waiting for his answer, she shut the door at her back.
Parks led her to the car then turned. In heels, she was nearly eye level with him. “Want me to put the top up?”
“No.” Brooke opened the door herself. “I like the air.”
She leaned back and shut her eyes as he started back down toward the city. He drove fast, but with the studied control she had sensed in him from the beginning. Since speed was one of her weaknesses, she relaxed and enjoyed.
“What were you doing at the game the other night?”
Brooke felt the smile tug at her mouth but answered smoothly, “A friend had some tickets. She thought I might find it interesting.”
“Interesting?” Parks shook his head at the word. “And did you?”
“Oh, yes, though I’d expected to be bored.”
“I didn’t notice any particular enthusiasm in you,” Parks commented, remembering her calm, direct stare. “As I recall, you didn’t move through nine innings.”
“I didn’t need to,” she returned. “You did enough of that.”
Parks shot her a quick look. “Why were you staring at me?”
Brooke considered for a moment, then opted for the truth. “I was admiring your build.” She turned to him with a half smile. The wind blew the hair into her face, but she didn’t bother to brush it aside. “It’s a very good one.”
“Thanks.” She saw a flash of humor in his eyes that pleased her. “Is that why you agreed to have dinner with me?”
Brooke smiled more fully. “No. I just like to eat. Why did you ask me?”
“I liked your face. And it’s not every day I have a woman stare at me as if she were going to frame me and hang me on her wall.”
“Really?” She gave him an innocent blink. “I’d think that pretty typical in your profession.”
“Maybe.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to meet hers. “But then you’re not typical, are you?”
Brooke lifted a brow. Did he know he’d given her what she considered the highest compliment? “Perhaps not,” she murmured. “Why don’t you think so?”
“Because, Brooke Gordon, I’m not typical either.” He burst out of the woods and onto the highway. Brooke decided that she’d better tread carefully.
The restaurant was Greek, with pungent foods, spicy scents and violins. While Parks poured her a second glass of ouzo, Brooke listened to a waiter in a grease-splattered apron sing lustily as he served souvlaki. As always, atmosphere pulled at her. Caught up, she watched and absorbed while managing to put away a healthy meal.
“What are you thinking?” Parks demanded. Her eyes shifted to his, disconcerting in their directness, seducing in their softness.
“That this is a happy place,” she told him. “The sort you imagine a big family running. Momma and Poppa in the kitchen fussing over sauces, a pregnant daughter chopping vegetables while her husband tends bar. Uncle Stefos waits tables.”
The image made him smile. “Do you come from a large family?”
Immediately the light went out of her eyes. “No.”
Sensing a boundary, Parks skirted around it. “What happens when the daughter has her baby?”
“She pops it in a cradle in the corner and chops more vegetables.” Brooke broke a hunk of bread in half and nibbled.
“Very efficient.”
“A successful woman has to be.”
Leaning back, Parks swirled his drink. “Are you a successful woman?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, watching the candlelight play on her skin. “At what?”
Brooke sipped, enjoying the game. “At what I do. Are you a successful man?”
“At th
e moment.” Parks flashed a grin—the one that gave his face a young, rather affable charm. “Baseball’s a fickle profession. A ball takes a bad hop—a pitcher blows a few by you. You can’t predict when a slump will start or stop—or worse, why.”
It seemed a bit like life to her. “And do you have many?”
“One’s too many.” With a shrug, he set his drink back on the table. “I’ve had more than one.”
With her first genuine curiosity, Brooke leaned forward. “What do you do to get out of one?”
“Change bats, change batting stances.” He shrugged again. “Change your diet, pray. Try celibacy.”
She laughed, a warm, liquid sound. “What works best?”
“A good pitch.” He, too, leaned forward. “Wanna hear one?”
When her brow rose again, he lifted a finger to trace it. Brooke felt the jolt shiver down to her toes. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Where do you come from?” he murmured. His fingertip drifted down her cheek, then traced her jawline. He’d known her skin would feel like that. Milkmaid soft.
“No place in particular.” Brooke reached for her glass, but his hand closed over hers.
“Everyone comes from somewhere.”
“No,” she disagreed. His palm was harder than she had imagined, his fingers stronger. And his touch was gentler. “Not everyone.”
From her tone, Parks realized she was speaking the truth as she saw it. He brushed a thumb over her wrist, finding her pulse fast but steady. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Brooke laughed but spoke with perfect truth. “I don’t tell anyone everything.”
“What do you do?”
“About what?”
He should have been exasperated, but found himself grinning. “About a job, for starters.”
“Oh, I make commercials,” she said lightly, knowing he would conclude she worked in front of the cameras. The game had a certain mischievous appeal for her.
“I’ll be doing that myself soon,” he said with a quick grimace. “Do you like it?”
“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”
He sent her a narrowed look, then nodded. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“You don’t sound as though you’re looking forward to trying it,” Brooke commented, slipping her hand from his. Prolonged contact with him, she discovered, made it difficult to concentrate, and concentration was vital to her.
“Not when I have to spout some silly lines and wear somebody else’s clothes.” Idly, he toyed with a lock of her hair, wrapping it around his finger while his eyes remained on hers. “You’ve a fascinating face; more alluring than beautiful. When I saw you in the stands, I thought you looked like a woman out of the eighteenth century. The sort who had a string of anxious lovers.”
With a low sound of humor, Brooke leaned closer. “Was that the first pitch, Mr. Jones?”
Her scent seemed intensified by the warmth of the candle. He wondered that every man in the room wasn’t aware of it, and of her. “No.” His fingers tightened briefly, almost warningly, on her hair. “When I make my first one, you won’t have to ask.”
Instinctively, Brooke retreated, but her eyes remained calm, her voice smooth. “Fair enough.” She would definitely put him on film with women, she decided. Sultry brunettes for contrast. “Do you ride?” she asked abruptly.
“Ride?”
“Horses.”
“Yeah,” he answered with a curious laugh. “Why?”
“Just wondered. What about hang gliding?”
Parks’s expression became more puzzled than amused. “It’s against my contract, like skiing or racing.” He didn’t trust the light of humor in her eyes. “Should I know what game you’re playing?”
“No. Can we have dessert?” She flashed him a brilliant smile he trusted less.
“Sure.” Watching her, Parks signaled the waiter.
Thirty minutes later, they walked across the parking lot to his car. “Do you always eat like that?” Parks demanded.
“Whenever I get the chance.” Brooke dropped into the passenger seat then stretched her arms over her head in a lazy, unconsciously sensual movement. No one who hadn’t worked in a restaurant could fully appreciate eating in one. She’d enjoyed the food . . . and the evening. Perhaps, she mused, she’d enjoyed being with Parks because they’d spent three hours together and still didn’t know each other. The mystery added a touch of spice.
In a few months, they would know each other well. A director had no choice but to get to the inside of an actor—which is what Parks would be, whether he liked it or not. For now, Brooke chose to enjoy the moment, the mystery and the brief companionship of an attractive man.
When Parks sat beside her, he reached over to cup her chin in his hand. She met his eyes serenely and with that touch of humor that was beginning to frustrate him. “Are you going to let me know who you are?”
Odd, Brooke mused, that he would have the same understanding of the evening she did. “I haven’t decided,” she said candidly.
“I’m going to see you again.”
She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Yes.”
Wary of the smile, and her easy agreement, Parks started the engine.
He didn’t like knowing that she was playing him . . . any more than he liked knowing he’d have to come back for more. He’d known a variety of women—from icy sophisticates to bubbly groupies. There were infinite shadings in between, but Brooke Gordon seemed to fit none of them. She had both a haughty sexuality and a soft vulnerability. Though his first instinct had been to get her to bed, he now discovered he wanted more. He wanted to peel off the layers of her character and study each one until he understood the full woman. Making love to her would only be part of the discovery.
They drove in silence while an old, soft ballad crooned on the radio. Brooke had her head thrown back, face to the stars, knowing it was the first time in months she’d fully relaxed on a date and not wanting to analyze why. Parks didn’t find it necessary to break a comfortable silence with conversation, nor had he found it necessary to slip in those predictable hints about how he’d like to end the evening. She knew there wouldn’t be a wrestling match on the side of the road or an embarrassing, infuriating argument when they reached the front door. He was safe, Brooke decided, and closed her eyes. It seemed things were going to work very well after all. Her thoughts began to drift toward her schedule for the next day.
The motion of the car woke her, or rather the lack of motion. Brooke opened her eyes to find the MG parked in her drive, the engine quiet. Turning her head, she saw Parks sprawled in his seat, watching her.
“You drive very well,” she murmured. “I don’t usually trust anyone enough to fall asleep in a car.”
He’d enjoyed the moments of quiet while he’d watched her sleep. Her skin looked ethereal in the moonlight, ghostly pale with a hint of flush in her cheeks. The wind had tossed her hair so that Parks knew how it would look spread on a pillow after a wild night of loving. Sooner or later he’d see it that way, he determined. After his hands had tangled it.
“This time you’re staring,” Brooke pointed out.
And he smiled—not the quick grin she’d come to expect, but a slow, unsettling smile that left his eyes dark and dangerous. “I guess we’ll both have to get used to it.”
Leaning over, he opened her door. Brooke didn’t stiffen or shift away from the brush of his body against hers; she simply watched. As if, Parks mused, she were considering his words very carefully. Good, he thought as he stepped from the car. This time she’d have something to think about.
“I like this place.” He didn’t touch her as they walked up the path to her house, though Brooke had expected him to take her hand or her arm. “I had a house in Malibu once.”
“Not anymore?”
“Got too crowded.” He shrugged as they walked up the porch steps. Their footsteps echoed into the night. “If I’
m going to live out of the city, I want a place where I’m not forever stumbling over my neighbor.”
“I don’t have that problem here.” Around them the woods were dark and quiet. There was only the bubbling sound of the stream and the music of tireless crickets. “There’s a couple who live about a quarter mile that way.” Brooke gestured to the east. “Newlyweds who met on a television series that folded.” Leaning back against the door, she smiled. “We don’t have any trouble keeping out of each other’s way.” She sighed, comfortably sleepy and relaxed. “Thanks for dinner.” When she offered her hand, she wondered if he would take it or ignore it and kiss her. Brooke expected the latter, even wondered with a drowsy curiosity what the pressure of his lips on hers would be like.
Parks knew what she expected, and her lips, as they had from the first, tempted him. But he thought it was time this woman had something unexpected. Taking her hand, Parks leaned toward her. He saw from her eyes that she would accept his kiss with her own sultry reserve. Instead, he touched his lips to her cheek.
At the brush of his open mouth on her skin, Brooke’s fingers tightened in his. Usually she viewed a kiss or embrace distantly, as from behind a camera, wondering dispassionately how it would appear on film. Now she saw nothing, but felt. Low, turbulent waves of sensation swept through her, making her tense. Something seemed to ripple along her skin, though he never touched her—just his hand over hers, just his lips on her cheek.
Slowly, watching her stunned eyes, Parks journeyed to her other
