by Nora Roberts
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.”
“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
