by Nora Roberts
Ashamed, and unable to stem the flow, Brooke evaded his arms and rose. “No, no, please. Give me a minute. I hate to do this.”
Even as he told himself to respect her wishes, Parks was going to her. Despite her resistance, he pulled her against him. “I can’t stand to see you do it,” he muttered; then, with a hint of exasperation, “Why are you doing it?”
“You’ll think I’m stupid. I hate being stupid.”
“Brooke.” Firmly, he cupped a hand under her chin and lifted it. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Knowing no other remedy, he kissed her—the soft lips, the wet cheeks, the damp eyelids. What began as a blind effort to comfort grew to smoldering passion.
He could feel it build in him as his mouth sought hers again. His hands moved through her hair like those of a man making his tentative way through bolts of silk. She trembled against him—sobs or desire Parks was no longer sure as the kiss went deeper and deeper. She opened for him, more giving than he could remember. Her defenses were down, he reminded himself, fighting the impatience to fill his own needs quickly. His murmurs were quiet-pitched to soothe, his hands gently stroking to arouse.
Even recognizing her own vulnerability, Brooke didn’t resist. She wanted to drift into that smoky, weightless world where every movement seemed to be in slow motion. She wanted to feel that fire and flash that left you breathless. She wanted the down-soft contentment that would lull you to sleep and linger in the morning.
As he lowered her to the floor, the scent of woodsmoke grew stronger. Brooke could hear the pop and hiss of the logs as flames ate at them. His long patient kisses held her suspended—half in the reality of the wool rug beneath her back, the red flickers of firelight and sun on her closed lids, half in the world of dreams only lovers understand. While her mind floated, flirting with each separate sensation, he undressed her.
Parks took infinite care with the tiny round buttons of her blouse, as if he could wait until the seasons changed outside the tall windows. There was no time here, no winter, no spring, only one everlasting moment. Brooke slipped her hands under his shirt, fingertips gliding over the warmth and the strength. As patient as he, she drew the material up, over his shoulders, then discarded it.
Flesh against flesh, they lay before the fire while the sun streamed through the massive windows and pooled over them. Kisses grew longer, interrupted only for sighs, for murmurs. She tasted the mellow warmth of wine on his tongue and was intoxicated.
Slowly, his mouth never leaving hers, Parks began to explore her body. Tiny, needlelike chills ran over her flesh, chasing the path of his hands. Feeling the light graze of his knuckles against the side of her breast, Brooke moaned, a liquid sound of pleasure. He took his tongue deeper into her mouth, gently exploiting this small weakness until the drug took full effect. She was limp, languid, utterly his. Then and only then did he give his lips the freedom to taste her skin again. It was as pungent as her scent, and somehow more erotic.
With moist, openmouthed kisses he savored her, entranced her. Then the quick pressure of his teeth on some sensitive spot would bring her sharply aware, gasping with the change. His lips would soothe again, lulling her back into pliancy. Again and again he yanked her toward the flame, then guided her back to the clouds, until Brooke was no longer certain which she most desired.
She felt him draw her slacks down over her hips while he pressed those soul-wrenching kisses along her stomach. A mindless excitement filled her, rendering her helpless to do any more than move as he requested. His breath was warm on her intimate flesh so that the long muscles in her thighs trembled then went lax.
Still his mouth moved slowly. The hands that had already discovered every secret point of pleasure continued to caress and linger, keeping her trapped beneath a thin sheet of silken passion. The power she had experienced before moved through her, but her mind was too dazed to recognize it. She felt herself balanced on a slender edge—desire’s tightrope—and wanted to continue to walk it as much as she longed to fall headlong into the wild, churning sea below. Then he was above her again, his eyes looking down into hers for a long, long, moment before his lips descended. He was waiting, and she understood. Their mouths still clinging, Brooke guided him inside her.
Her moan melted into his mouth, hot and passionate. Though she was clinging to him now with a sudden, fierce strength, Parks moved slowly. Brooke felt herself fill, fill to the desperate point of explosion. Then the shudders, racking, convulsive, until she seemed to slide back down some smooth cool path to the torrent again. Like a swimmer trapped in rushing white water, she was swept from peak to peak while he moved with tortuous slowness. She could feel the tight, tense control in him, hear it in the quick labored breaths that merged with hers as he prolonged the pleasure, and the agony. Then he murmured something—a prayer, a plea, an oath—and took them both tumbling off the tightrope.
***
He must have slept. Parks thought he had closed his eyes for only an instant, but when he opened them again, the slant of the sun was different. Brooke was beside him, her hair wrapping them to each other. Her eyes were wide and aware as she stared into his. She’d been watching him for nearly an hour. Parks smiled and pressed his mouth to her shoulder.
“Sorry. Did I fall asleep?”
“For a little while.” She hid her face against his neck a moment. It was as though he had stripped off her flesh, exposing all her thoughts. She wasn’t quite certain what she should do about it. “You must have been exhausted.”
“Not anymore,” he said truthfully. He felt alert, pumped with energy and . . . clean. The last made him give a quick shake of his head. He stroked a hand down her arm. “There was something I wanted to ask you before I got . . . distracted.” Propping himself on his elbow, Parks looked down at her. “Why were you crying?”
Brooke moved her shoulders in a shrug and started to shift away. With a firm hand, Parks stopped her. He could feel the effort she was making to draw back from him, but he realized he could no longer permit it. Whether she knew it or not, she had given herself to him completely. He was going to hold her to it.
“Brooke, don’t try to block me out,” he said quietly. “It won’t work anymore.”
She started to protest, but the quiet, steady look in his eyes told her he spoke nothing less than the truth. That alone should have been a warning of where her heart was taking her. “It was a sweet thing to do,” she said at length. “I’m not used to sweetness.”
Parks lifted a brow. “That’s part of it, perhaps. What’s the rest?”
With a sigh, Brooke sat up. This time he let her. “I hadn’t realized I’d been collecting.” With both hands, she pushed her hair back, then wrapped her arms around her knees. “I overreacted when you pointed it out. I always wanted a dog, a cat, a bird, anything when I was growing up. It wasn’t feasible the way I shifted around.” She moved her shoulders again, causing her tumbled hair to shiver over her naked back. “It was kind of shattering to realize I was still compensating.”
Parks felt a chord of sympathy and suppressed it. There was no quicker way to alienate her. “You’ve got your own home, your own life now. You could have anything you wanted.” Reaching around her, he poured more wine for both of them. “You don’t have to compensate.” He sipped, studying her profile.
“No,” she agreed in a murmur. “No, I don’t.”
“What kind of dog do you want?”
Brooke twirled the glass in her hand, then suddenly laughed. “Something homely,” she said, turning to grin at him. “Something down-to-the-ground homely.” She reached out, laying a hand on his cheek. “I didn’t even thank you.”
Parks considered, nodding solemnly as he took the glass from her hand. “No, you didn’t.” In a quick move, he had her rolling on top of him. “Why don’t you thank me now?”
Chapter 9
Claire came down to give the set her final approval. At the far end of the studio, serenely indifferent to the piles of equipment, lights and shades, was
a cozy living room scene. A deep, cushy sofa in shades of masculine brown was spotlighted as technicians made adjustments. On a table beside it was a Tiffany lamp which would appear to give the soft, sexy lighting the crew was working to achieve. Claire worked her way around cable and cases to a new angle.
Tasteful, she decided. And effective. De Marco was pleased with the first spot. So pleased, Claire thought with a mild grimace, that he had insisted his current inamorata appear in this one. Well, that was show business, she decided as she checked her watch. Brooke had moaned and groaned at the casting, then had given in with the mutter that at least he hadn’t insisted they write her any dialogue.
The studio segment was being filmed first, though it would appear at the end of the ad when aired. Judging Parks’s temperament, Brooke had decided to go with what would probably be the most difficult portion for him first, then ease him into the rest. And, Claire mused as she checked her watch, their luck was holding. The Kings would compete in the World Series the following week, giving the commercials just that much more impact.
Outside the studio, a long buffet had been set up in the hall. E.J., the production coordinator and the assistant cameraman were already making the most of it. Brooke was in the studio, nibbling on a hunk of cheese as she supervised the finer details.
“Damn it, Bigelow, that light’s flickering again. Change the bulb or get a new fixture in here. Silbey, let me see what kind of effect we get with that new gel.”
Obediently, he hit a switch so that the light filtered through the colored sheet and came out warm and sultry. “Okay, not bad. Sound?”
The sound technician walked under the boom mike. With her face innocently bland, she began to recite a nursery rhyme with a few interesting variations. At the polite volley of applause, she curtsied.
“Any problems?” Claire asked as she moved to stand beside Brooke.
“We’ve smoothed them out. Your end?”
“Everyone’s accounted for. The talent’s changing.” Absently, she straightened the hem of her sleeve. “I got a glimpse of de Marco’s lady. She’s gorgeous.”
“Thank God,” Brooke said with feeling. “Are we expecting him?”
“No.” Claire smiled at the resigned tone of Brooke’s voice. She heartily disliked relatives, friends or lovers hanging around a shoot. “He tells me Gina claims he would make her nervous, but he left no doubt she’s to be given the royal, kid-glove treatment.”
“I won’t bite her,” Brooke promised. “I ran through Parks’s lines with him. He has it cold . . . if he doesn’t fumble it on camera.”
“He doesn’t appear to be a fumbler.”
Brooke smiled. “No. And I think he’s starting to enjoy this whole business despite himself.”
“Good. I have a script I want him to read.” Above their heads on a ladder, someone cursed pungently. Claire’s smooth features never registered she had even heard. “There’s a part, a small one, I think he’s perfect for.”
Brooke turned to give Claire her full attention. “A feature?”
She nodded. “For cable. We won’t be casting for another month or two, so he’s got plenty of time to think about it. I’d like you to read it, too,” she added casually.
“Sure.” Mulling over the idea of Parks as an actor, Brooke turned to call out another instruction.
“You might like to direct it.”
The order froze in her throat. “What?”
“I know you’re happy directing commercials,” Claire went on as if Brooke weren’t gaping at her. “You’ve always said you enjoy creating the quick and intense, but this script might change your mind.”
“Claire—” Brooke might have laughed if she hadn’t been stunned “—I’ve never directed anything more complex than a sixty-second spot.”
“Like the promo for the new fall shows you filmed last summer? Three major network stars told me you were one of the best they’d ever worked with.” It was said dryly, hardly like a compliment. “I’ve wanted to ease you into something like this for a long time, but I didn’t want to push.” Claire patted her hand. “I’m still not pushing, just read the script.”
After a moment, Brooke nodded. “All right, I’ll read it.”
“Good girl. Ah, there’s Parks now.” Her eyes ran over him with professional discrimination. “My, my,” she murmured, “he does wear clothes well.”
He looked as though he had chosen the pale blue cashmere sweater and slate-gray jeans at random, shrugging into them without a thought. That they fit with tailored precision wasn’t nearly as important as the sense of rightness—that careless style that comes not from money but from basic class.
That he had, Brooke thought. Beneath the attractive face and athletic body was a sense of class that one was born with or one was not. It could never be taught. He held a glass of ginger ale in his hand, looking over the rim as he studied the room.
He found it crowded and cluttered and apparently disorganized but for the small island of order that was a sofa, table and lamp. He wondered fleetingly how anyone could work sanely around the coiled snakes of cable, huge black cases and poles of light. Then he saw Brooke. She could, he thought with a smile. She would simply steamroll over the chaos until she got exactly what she wanted. She might have wept like a child in his arms only a few nights before, but when she was on the job she was as tough as they came.
Perhaps, he mused, that was why he’d fallen in love with her—and perhaps that was why he was going to keep that little bit of information to himself for a while. If he’d nearly panicked when he’d realized it, Brooke would undoubtedly do so. She wasn’t quite ready to sit trustingly in the palm of his hand.
Brooke moved toward him, eyes narrowed. Parks thought uncomfortably that she could always make him feel like a department store dummy when she looked at him that way. It was her director’s look, appraising, searching for flaws, mulling over the angles.
“Well?” he said at length.
“You look marvelous.” If she had noticed the faint irritation in his voice, she ignored it. Reaching up, she disheveled his hair a bit, then studied the effect. “Yes, very good. Nervous?”
“No.”
Her face softened with a smile. “Don’t frown, Parks, it won’t help you get into the mood. Now . . .” Linking her arm in his, she began to lead him toward the set. “You know your lines, but we’ll have cue cards in case you draw a blank, so there’s nothing to worry about. The main thing we want is that sort of laid-back, understated machismo. Remember this is the end of the segment; the first scene you’re on the field in uniform, then there’s the business in the locker room while you’re changing, then this. Soft lights, a little brandy, a beautiful woman.”
“And I owe it all to de Marco,” he said dryly.
“The woman in any case,” she returned equably. “It’s simply a statement that clothes suit a man’s image. Hopefully, men will be convinced that de Marco’s right for theirs. You’ll sit here.” Brooke gestured toward the end of the couch. “Give me that relaxed slouch of yours when you’re unwinding. It’s casual but not sloppy.”
He frowned again, helplessly annoyed that she could dissect his every gesture and put a label on it. “Now?”
“Yes, please.” Brooke stood back while Parks settled himself on the couch. “Yes, good. . . . Bring your elbow back just a bit on the arm. Okay.” She smiled again. “That’s what I want. You’re getting very good at this, Parks.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ll talk right into the camera this time,” she told him, gesturing behind her to where the machine sat on a dolly. “Easy, relaxed. The girl will come up behind you, leaning over as she hands you the brandy snifter. Don’t look at her, just touch her hand and keep talking. And smile,” she added, looking at her watch. “Where is the girl?”
On cue, Gina entered, tall and voluptuous, followed by a stern-looking blonde and two men in business suits. Better than the photo de Marco sent over, Brooke noted, and that had been impres
sive. The woman was young, but not too young, a ripe twenty-five, Brooke estimated, with large sloe eyes and raven hair. Her body was curvy, shown to advantage in a clingy low-cut gown that stopped just short of censorship. She wouldn’t get aloof from this one, Brooke mused, watching Gina make her way across the studio. Heat vibrated in every movement. This time she would go for pure sex—for the five and a half seconds Gina was on screen. For a thirty-second television ad, it would be more than enough.
Ignoring the appreciative mutters and elbowing of her crew, Brooke walked to meet de Marco’s lady. “Hello.” She extended her hand with a smile. “I’m Brooke Gordon, I’ll be directing you.”
“Gina Minianti,” she purred in a voice that instantly made Brooke regret she’d have no lines.
“We’re very pleased to have you, Ms. Minianti. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
Gina gave her a slight smile. “Come?”
“If there’s anything you don’t understand,” Brooke began, only to have the blonde interrupt her.
“Signorina Minianti doesn’t speak English, Ms. Gordon,” she said briskly. “Weren’t you informed?”
“Doesn’t—” Breaking off, Brooke rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Lovely.”
“I’m Mr. de Marco’s personal secretary. I’ll be glad to translate.”
Brooke gave the blonde a long hard look, then turned around. “Places,” she called. “It’s going to be a long day.”
“A little stumbling block?” Parks murmured as she passed him.
“Shut up and sit down, Parks.”
Controlling a grin, he stepped forward to take Gina’s hand. “Signorina,” he began, then caught Brooke’s full attention when he continued in fluid Italian. Beaming, Gina answered in a rapid spate, gesturing freely with her other hand.
“She’s excited,” Parks commented, knowing Brooke had stopped in her tracks behind him.
“So I gathered.”
“She’s always wanted to do an American movie.” He spoke to Gina again, something that made her throw back her magnificent head and laugh throatily. Turning, she dismissed the blonde with a flick of
