by Nora Roberts
the wrist and tucked her arm through Parks’s. When they faced her, the tawny Californian, the raven Italian, Brooke was struck with the perfection of the contrast. That five and a half seconds of film, she thought, was going to crackle like a forest fire—and sell one hell of a lot of de Marco merchandise.
“You seem to speak Italian well enough to suit her,” Brooke commented.
“Apparently.” He grinned again, noting that Brooke wasn’t the least jealous but appraising, as if he and Gina were already in a view screen. “She’d like me to interpret for her.”
“All right, tell her we’ll run through it once to show her what she needs to do. Let’s have the lights!” Striding to the set, Brooke waited impatiently while Gina and Parks strolled behind her, heads close as he relayed Brooke’s instructions. “Sit down, Parks, and tell her to watch closely. I’ll run through it with you.” Parks settled on the couch as she had instructed him. “Take it from the top, just as if the camera were rolling.”
He began, talking easily, as if to a few friends on a visit. Perfect, Brooke thought as she picked up the prop brandy snifter and walked into camera range behind the couch. She leaned over, letting her cheek come close to his as she offered it. Without glancing from the camera, Parks accepted it, raising the fingers of his other hand to run down the back of Brooke’s as it rested on his shoulder. She straightened slowly, moving out of camera range as he finished the dialogue.
“Now ask her if she understands what she’s to do,” Brooke ordered.
Gina lifted an elegant hand at Parks’s question, silently communicating “of course.”
“Let’s try one.” Brooke backed behind E.J. and the assistants who would dolly the camera platform forward for the close-ups. “Quiet on the set,” she called, effectively cutting off a few discreet murmurs. “Roll film. . . .” The clapper struck—Parks Jones for de Marco, scene three, take one. She narrowed her eyes at Parks. “Action.”
He ran through it well enough for a first take, but Brooke decided he hadn’t warmed to it yet. Gina followed instructions, bringing the snifter, leaning over him suggestively. Then she glanced up, startled, as the camera rolled in.
“Cut. Parks, explain to Gina not to look at the camera, please.” She smiled at the woman, hoping she communicated patience and understanding. She needed a great deal of both by the fifth take. Instead of becoming more used to the camera, Gina seemed to be growing more unnerved. “Five minutes,” Brooke announced. The hot lights switched off, and the crew began a pilgrimage toward the buffet. With another smile, Brooke gestured for Gina to join her and Parks on the sofa. “Parks, will you tell her she need only be natural. She’s gorgeous, the few seconds she’s going to be on film will make a tremendous impact.”
Gina listened with brows knit, then tossed Brooke a smile. “Grázie.” Taking Parks’s hand, she launched into a long, emotional torrent that turned out to be an apology for her clumsiness and a request for something cold to calm her nerves.
“Bring Signorina Minianti some orange juice,” Brooke demanded. “Tell her she’s not clumsy at all,” Brooke continued diplomatically. “Ah, tell her to try to imagine you’re lovers, and when the camera turns off—”
“I get the idea,” Parks said with a grin. When he spoke to Gina again, she gave her throaty laugh then shook her head before she answered. “She says she’ll try to imagine it,” Parks relayed to Brooke, “but if she imagines it too well, Carlo will step on my face . . . or words to that effect.”
“We have to sacrifice for our art,” Brooke told him dryly. “Parks, it would help if you could put a little more steam into it.”
“Steam?” he repeated, lifting a brow.
“A man who doesn’t steam a bit with a woman like that hanging over his shoulder needs a transfusion.” Rising, Brooke patted his shoulder. “See what you can do?”
“Anything for art,” he returned, sending her a wolfish grin.
As E.J. sat behind his camera again, Brooke walked to stand at his shoulder. “Let’s see if we can make one this time,” she muttered.
“Boss, I can do this all day long.” He focused his lens on Gina and sighed. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“De Marco might arrange it if you don’t watch your step. Places!”
Better, she mused. Yes, definitely better as they completed the sixth take. But not perfect. She told Parks to ask Gina to give the camera a languid look before she slid Parks an under-the-lashes smile. The direction lost something in the interpretation. “Cut. Here, tell her to stand next to the camera and watch again.” Brooke took Gina’s place, moving behind him as he spoke, cupping the snifter of lukewarm tea. This time when Parks took it from her, he brought her other hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against it without breaking the rhythm of the dialogue. Brooke felt a jolt shoot up her arm and forgot to move away.
“Just seemed natural,” Parks told her, linking his fingers through hers.
Brooke cleared her throat, aware that her crew was watching with avid interest. “Give it a try that way, then,” she said matter-of-factly. She walked back to E.J., but when she turned, Parks’s eyes were still on her. Brooke gave a quick, frustrated shake of her head. She knew that look. Slowly, the meaning crystal clear, Parks smiled.
“Places!” Brooke called in her own defense.
It took three more takes before she got just what she wanted. A hot but self-satisfied Gina gave Parks two exuberant kisses, one on each cheek, then came over and chattered something at Brooke. Glancing up at Parks, Brooke saw that amused and all too innocent look on his face.
“Just say thank you,” he advised.
“Thank you,” Brooke said obediently as Gina took her hand and squeezed it. She swept off with her entourage. “What was I thanking her for?” Brooke used the sleeve of her shirt to dry the sweat on her forehead.
“She was complimenting your taste.”
“Oh?”
“She said your lover was magnificent.”
Dropping her arm, Brooke stared at him. “Really?” she said coolly.
Parks grinned, gave a deprecatory shrug then strolled off to see if anything was left at the buffet.
Hands on her hips, Brooke stared after him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting her own smile escape. “Location, one hour,” she called out.
***
Brooke had been right in thinking that the third brief scene of the commercial would be the most difficult to film. She shot the second scene next, crowding lights, equipment and crew into the Kings locker room. Claire had arranged, with a little negotiating, to have a few of the better-known of Parks’s teammates available for background or cameos. Once Brooke got them settled down so that they stopped waving at the camera or making fictitious announcements into the mike, it began to work. And work well.
Because of the relative ease with which the segment was progressing, Brooke found the headache growing at the base of her skull unexplainable. True, the locker room was noisy between takes, and after the first hour of many bodies under hot lights, it smelled like a locker room, but this headache was pure tension.
At first she simply ignored it; then, when that became impossible, she grew annoyed with herself. There was nothing to be tense about. Parks did what he was told, pulling the cashmere sweater over his naked chest for each take. Arid every time he smiled at her, Brooke felt the headache pulse.
By the time the crew was setting up for the scene on the diamond, Brooke had convinced herself she had it under control. It was just a nagging ache, something she would take care of with a couple of aspirin when she got home. As she watched the sound technician work on a mike, she felt a beefy arm slip over her shoulders.
“Hi.” Snyder grinned down at her, drawing an automatic smile of response from Brooke. He was, she thought, about as dangerous as a cocker spaniel.
“Ready for the next scene, George? You did very well before. Of course, you won’t be on camera this time.”
“Yeah,
I wanted to mention that you’re making a big mistake using Parks. Too skinny.” He flexed a well-muscled arm.
Brooke gave his biceps a nod of approval. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to do with the casting.”
“Too bad. Hey, now that I’m a star, are you going to pick me up at the airport?”
“Forget it, Snyder.” Before Brooke could answer, Kinjinsky strolled over, a bat in one hand, a ball in the other. “She’s out of your league.” He grinned at Brooke, jerking his head at his teammate. “He specializes in belly dancers.”
“Lies.” Snyder looked amazingly like an overgrown choirboy. “All lies.”
“When my daughter grows up,” Kinjinsky said mildly, “I’m going to warn her about men like him.” Walking to the plate, he tossed the ball up in the air then drilled it out to center field.
“Kinjinsky’s the best fungo hitter on the team,” Snyder told Brooke. “Too bad he has such trouble with a pitched ball.”
“At least I can make it from first to second in under two and a half minutes,” Kinjinsky tossed back.
Snyder, well used to ribbing about his base running, feigned an offended look. “I have this genetic anatomical problem,” he explained to Brooke.
“Oh.” Playing along, she looked sympathetic. “That’s too bad.”
“It’s called a lead foot,” Parks commented as he came up behind them.
Hearing his voice had the headache she’d nearly forgotten drumming again. She turned to find him watching her and his teammates with a lazily amused smile. Parks wore full uniform, the blazing white that brought out the gold of his skin. The navy cap shaded his eyes, giving him a cocky, assured look. Quietly possessive, his eyes skimmed over her. This time Brooke felt a flutter in her stomach in addition to the throb at the base of her neck.
“Just keeping your woman entertained,” Snyder said genially.
“Brooke’s her own woman.” But there was something unmistakably proprietary in the disclaimer.
Hearing it, Snyder realized there was something deeper here than he had imagined. So the lightning’s finally hit the Iceman, he thought. Snyder had the wit to rib unmercifully and the nature of a man who mends the broken wings of small birds. “When she sees how good I come across on camera, you’re going to be out of a job.”
“De Marco doesn’t have a line for sumo wrestlers,” Parks countered.
“Gentlemen,” Brooke spoke, cutting them off. “The crew’s ready. George, if you’d take your place at first to give Parks his target.”
“Ouch.” He winced. “Try not to take that literally, Jones. I don’t want to be on the disabled list next week.”
“Mike.” Brooke stepped over to Kinjinsky. “If you’ll just hit them to Parks—don’t make it too easy for him, I want to see a little effort.”
With a grin, Kinjinsky tossed up another ball. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Nodding, Brooke walked toward the crew. “Places. Parks, any questions?”
“I think I can handle this one.” He stepped up to third, automatically kicking up a bit of dust with his spikes.
She looked through the lens, feeling another flutter in her stomach as she focused on Parks. Shifting his weight to one hip, he grinned at her. Brooke stepped back, gesturing to E.J.
“Hey, boss, you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Roll film.”
It went perfectly. Brooke knew she could have used the first take without a hitch, but opted for two more. They were equally smooth. Kinjinsky blasted the ball at Parks, enough to make him dive or leap before Parks in turn fired the ball at Snyder on first.
“Third take’s the winner,” E.J. announced when Brooke called the session a wrap.
“Yes.” Unconsciously, she rubbed the back of her neck.
“He shouldn’t have even caught it,” E.J. went on, watching Brooke as he began to load his equipment.
“He seems to excel at doing the impossible,” she murmured.
“Headache?”
“What?” Glancing down, she found E.J. watching her steadily. “It’s nothing.” Annoyed, she dropped her hand. Parks was already in a conference on the mound with his two teammates. He had his glove hand on his hip, grinning at Snyder’s newest concept for a practical joke. “It’s nothing,” Brooke repeated in a mutter, reaching for one of the sodas in the ice chest.
It had to be nothing, she told herself as she tipped the bottle and drank deeply. Whatever was rolling around inside her was just a product of fatigue after a long day’s work. She needed aspirin, a decent meal and eight hours’ sleep. She needed to stay away from Parks.
The minute the thought entered her head, Brooke was infuriated. He has nothing to do with it, she told herself fiercely. I’m tired, I’ve been working too hard, I’ve— She caught E.J.’s speculative stare and bristled.
“Would you get out of here?”
His face cleared with a wide grin. “On my way. I’ll drop off the film at editing.”
With a curt nod, Brooke strode out to the mound to thank Snyder and Kinjinsky. She heard the tail of Snyder’s brainstorm, something about frogs in the bullpen, before Parks turned to her.
“How’d it go?”
“Very well.” Heat was running along her skin now, too physical, too tangible. She gave her attention to his teammates. “I want to thank both of you. Without your help, it never would have gone so smoothly.”
Snyder leaned his elbow on Kinjinsky’s shoulder. “Just keep me in mind when you want something more than a pretty face in one of these commercials.”
“I’ll do that, George.”
Parks waited through the rest of the small talk, adding comments easily though his concentration was all for Brooke. He waited until the ballplayers had wandered off toward the locker room before he took Brooke’s chin in his hand. Closely, patiently, he examined her. “What’s wrong?”
Brooke stepped away so that they were no longer touching. “Why should anything be wrong?” she countered. Her nerves had gone off like bells in her head at his touch. “It went very well. I think you’ll be pleased with it when it’s edited. With the two spots running throughout the series, we won’t shoot another until November.” Turning, she noted that most of the crew had gone. She found she wanted to be away before she and Parks were completely alone. “I have a few things to clear up back at the office, so—”
“Brooke.” Parks cut her off cleanly. “Why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset!” Biting back fury, she whirled back to him. “It’s been a long day, I’m tired. That’s all.”
Slowly, Parks shook his head. “Try again.”
“Leave me alone,” she said in a trembling undertone that told her, and him, just how close she was to the edge. “Just leave me alone.”
Dropping his mitt to the ground, he took both her arms. “Not a chance. We can talk here, or we can go back to your place and hash it out. Your choice.”
She shoved away from him. “There’s nothing to hash out.”
“Fine. Then let’s go have dinner and see a movie.”
“I told you I had work to do.”
“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “You lied.”
Sharp, bubbling anger filled her eyes. “I don’t have to lie, all I have to do is tell you no.”
“True enough,” he agreed, holding on to his own temper. “Why are you angry with me?” His voice was calm, patient. His eyes weren’t. The sun fell against his face, accenting that fierce sexuality.
“I’m not angry with you!” she nearly shouted.
“People usually shout when they’re angry.”
“I’m not shouting,” she claimed as her voice rose.
Curiously, he tilted his head. “No? Then what are you doing?”
“I’m afraid I’m falling in love with you.” Her expression became almost comically surprised after the words had tumbled out. She stared in simple disbelief, then covered her mouth with her hand as if to shove the words back inside.
“Oh, yeah?” H
e didn’t smile as he took another step toward her. Something was scrambling inside his stomach like a squirrel in a cage. “Is that so?”
“No, I . . .” In defense, she looked around, only to find that she was alone with him now. Alone in his territory. The stands rose up like walls to trap them inside the field of grass and dirt. Brooke backed off the mound. “I don’t want to stay here.”
Parks merely matched his steps to hers. “Why afraid, Brooke?” He lifted his hand to her cheek, causing her to stop her retreat. “Why should a woman like you be afraid of being in love?”
“I know what happens!” she said suddenly with eyes that were dark and stormy in contrast to the trembling tone.
“Okay, why don’t you tell me?”
“I’ll stop thinking. I’ll stop being careful.” She ran an agitated hand through her hair. “I’ll give until I lose the edge, then when it’s over I won’t have anything left. Every time,” she whispered, thinking of all the transient parents, thinking of
