by Nora Roberts
Clark. “I won’t let it happen to me again. I can’t be involved with you for the fun of it, Parks. It just isn’t working.” Without being aware of the direction, Brooke had turned to pace to the third base bag. Parks felt the warmth of the gold piece against his chest and decided it was fate. Taking his time, he followed her. His percentage of errors at the corner was very small.
“You are involved with me, whether you’re having fun at it or not.”
She sent him a sharp glance. This wasn’t the easygoing man but the warrior. Brooke straightened her shoulders. “That can be remedied.”
“Try it,” he challenged, calmly gripping her shirt in his hand and pulling her toward him.
Brooke threw her head back, infuriated, and perhaps more frightened than she had ever been in her life. “I won’t see you again. If you can’t work with me, take it up with Claire.”
“Oh, I can work with you,” he said softly. “I can even manage to take your orders without too much of a problem because you’re damn good at what you do. I told you once before I’d follow your rules while the camera was on.” He glanced around, silently relaying that there was no camera this time. “It’s tough to beat a man on his own ground, Brooke, especially a man who’s used to winning.”
“I’m not a pennant, Parks,” she said with amazing steadiness.
“No.” With one hand still gripping her shirt, he traced the other gently down her cheek. “Pennants are won through teamwork. A woman’s a one-on-one proposition. Seventh-inning stretch, Brooke. Time to take a quick breath before the game starts again.” The hand on her cheek moved up to cup her neck. She wondered that he couldn’t feel the sledgehammers pounding there. Then he smiled, that slow dangerous smile that always drew her. “I’m in love with you.”
He said it so calmly, so simply, that it took her a moment to understand. Every muscle in her body went rigid. “Don’t.”
He lifted a brow. “Don’t love you or don’t tell you?”
“Stop.” She put both hands on his chest in an attempt to push him away. “It’s not a joke.”
“No, it’s not. What are you more afraid of?” he asked, studying her pale face. “Loving or being loved?”
Brooke shook her head. She’d been so careful to keep from crossing that thin line—been just as careful to keep others from crossing from the other side. Claire had done it, and E.J., she realized. There was love there. But in love . . . How could a tiny, two-letter word petrify her?
“You could ask me when,” Parks murmured, kneading the tense muscles in her neck, “and I couldn’t tell you. There wasn’t a bolt of lightning, no bells, no violins. I can’t even say it snuck up on me because I saw it coming. I didn’t try to step out of the way.” He shook his head before he lowered his mouth to hers. “You can’t wish it away, Brooke.”
The kiss rocked her back on her heels. It was hard and strong and demanding without the slightest hint of urgency. It was as if he knew she could go nowhere. She could fight him, Brooke thought. She could still fight him. But the tension was seeping out of her, filling her with a sense of freedom she had thought she would never fully achieve. She was loved.
Feeling the change in her, Parks pulled back. He wouldn’t win her with passion. His needs ran too deep to settle for that. Then her arms were around him, her cheek pressed against his chest in a gesture not of desire, but of trust. Perhaps the beginning of trust.
“Tell me again,” she murmured. “Just tell me once more.”
He held her close, stroking her hair while the breeze whispered through the empty stadium. “I love you.”
With a sigh, Brooke stepped over the line. Lifting her head, she took his face in her hands. “I love you, Parks,” she murmured before she urged his lips to take hers.
Chapter 10
Clubhouses have their own smell. Sweat, foot powder, the tang of liniments, the faint chemical aroma of whirlpools and the overlying fragrance of coffee. The mixture of odors was so much a part of his life, Parks never noticed it as he pulled on his sweatshirt. What he did notice was tension. That was inescapable. Even Snyder’s determined foray of practical jokes couldn’t break the curtain of nerves in the locker room that afternoon. When a team had spent months together—working, sweating, winning and losing—aiming toward one common goal, nothing could ease the nerves of facing the seventh game of the World Series.
If the momentum had been with them, the atmosphere would have been different. All the minor aches that plague the end of a season would barely have been noticed—the tired legs, the minor pulls. But the Kings had dropped the last two games to the Herons. A professional athlete knows that skill is not the only determining factor in winning. Momentum, luck, timing are all added for balance.
Even if the Kings could have claimed they’d fallen into a slump there might have been a little more cheer in the clubhouse. The simple fact was that they’d been outplayed. The number of hits between the opponents was almost even—but the Herons had made theirs count while the Kings had left their much needed runs stranded on base. Now it came down to the last chance for both teams. Then when it was over, they’d pick up their off-season lives.
Parks glanced at Snyder, who’d be on his charter boat in Florida the following week. Catching fish and swapping lies, he called it, Parks mused. Kinjinsky, getting heat applied to his ribs, would be playing winter ball in Puerto Rico. Maizor, the starting pitcher, would be getting ready to play daddy for the first time when his wife delivered in November. Some would go on the banquet circuit and the talk show circuit—depending on the outcome of today’s game. Others would go back to quiet jobs until February and spring training.
And Parks Jones makes commercials, he reflected with a small grimace. But the idea didn’t bring on the sense of foolishness it had only a few months before. It gave him a certain pleasure to act—though Brooke wouldn’t call it that—in front of the camera. But he wasn’t too thrilled with the poster deal Lee had cooked up.
He smiled a little as he drew on his spikes. Hype, Brooke had called it, saying simply it was part of the game. She was right, of course; she usually was about that aspect of things. But Parks didn’t think he’d ever be completely comfortable with the way she could look him over with those calm eyes and sum him up with a few choice words. Wouldn’t it disconcert any man to have fallen in love with a woman who could so accurately interpret his every expression, body move or careless word? Face it, Jones, he told himself, you could have picked an easier woman. Could have, he reflected, but didn’t. And since Brooke Gordon was who and what he wanted, she was worth the effort it took to have her, and to keep her. He wasn’t so complacent that he believed he had truly done either yet.
Yes, she loved him, but her trust was a very tenuous thing. He sensed that she waited for him to make a move so that she could make a countermove. And so the match continued. Fair enough, he decided; they were both programmed to compete. He didn’t want to master her . . . did he? With a frown, Parks pulled a bat out of his locker and examined it carefully. If he had to answer the question honestly, he’d say he wasn’t sure. She still challenged him—as she had from the very first moment. Now, mixed with the challenge were so many emotions it was difficult to separate them.
He’d been angry when Brooke wouldn’t change her schedule and fly East during the games at the Herons’ home stadium. And when he’d become angry, she’d become very cool. Her work, she had told him, couldn’t be set aside to suit him or even herself . . . any more than his could. Even though he’d understood, Parks had been angry. He had simply wanted her there, wanted to know she was in the stands so that he could look up and see her. He had wanted to know she was there when the long game was over. Pure selfishness, he admitted. They both had an ample share of that.
With a grim smile Parks ran a hand down the smooth barrel of the bat. She’d told him it wouldn’t be easy. Brooke had been her own person long before he had pushed his way into her life. Circumstances had made her the person she was—thoug
h they were circumstances she had still not made completely clear to him. Still it was that person—the strong, the vulnerable, the practical and the private, whom he had fallen for. Yet he couldn’t quite get over the urge he had at times to shake her and tell her they were going to do it his way.
He supposed what epitomized their situation at this point was their living arrangement. He had all but moved in with her, though neither one of them had discussed it. But he knew Brooke considered the house hers. Therefore, Parks was living with her, but they weren’t living together. He wasn’t certain his patience would last long enough to break through that final thin wall—without leaving the entrance hole a bit jagged.
With a quiet oath he reached into the locker and grabbed a batting glove, sticking it in his back pocket. If he had to use a bit of dynamite, he decided, he would.
“Hey, Jones, infield practice.”
“Yeah.” He grabbed his mitt, sliding his hand into its familiar smoothness. He was going to handle Brooke, he told himself. But first there was a pennant to win.
***
Alternately cursing and drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, Brooke cruised the parking lot in search of a space. “I knew we should’ve left earlier,” she muttered. “We’ll be lucky to get anything within a mile of the stadium.”
Leaning back against the seat, E.J. interrupted his humming long enough to comment. “Still fifteen minutes before game time.”
“When somebody gets you a free ticket,” Brooke said precisely, “the least you can do is be ready when they pick you up. There’s one!” Brooke gunned the motor and slipped between two parked cars with inches to spare. Hitting the brake, she glanced at her companion. “You can open your eyes now, E.J.,” she said dryly.
Cautiously, one at a time, he did so. “Okay. . . .” He looked at the car beside him. “Now how do we get out?”
“Open the door and inhale,” she advised, wiggling out her side. “And hurry up, will you? I don’t want to miss them taking the field.”
“I’ve noticed your interest in baseball’s increased over the summer, boss.” Thankful for his thin frame, E.J. squeezed out of the Datsun.
“It’s an interesting game.”
“Yeah?” Joining her, he grinned.
“Careful, E.J., I still have your ticket. I could scalp it twenty times before we reach the door.”
“Aw, come on, Brooke, you can tell your friend what’s already in the papers.”
She scowled at that, stuffing her hands in her pockets. There’d been pictures of her and Parks, tantalizing little articles and hints in every paper she’d looked at for more than a week. In L.A., gossip carried quickly—a hot ballplayer and his attractive director were definitely food for gossip.
“I even caught a bit in one of the trades,” E.J. went on, blithely ignoring the storm clouds in Brooke’s eyes. “Speculation is that Parks might take up, ah . . . show business,” he said, giving her another grin, “seriously.”
“Claire has a part for him if he wants it,” Brooke returned, evading his obvious meaning. “It’s small but meaty. I didn’t want to go into it in depth with Parks until after the series. He has enough on his mind.”
“Yeah, I’d say the man’s had a few things on his mind for some time now.”
“E.J.,” Brooke began warningly as she passed over her tickets.
“You know,” he continued when they fought their way through the inside crowd, “I’ve always wondered when somebody’d come along who’d shake that cool of yours a little.”
“Is that so?” She didn’t want to be amused, so she slipped her sunglasses down to conceal the humor in her eyes. “And you apparently think someone has?”
“Honey, you can’t get within ten feet of the two of you and not feel the steam. I’ve been thinking . . .” He fussed with the front of his T-shirt as if straightening a tie. “As your close friend and associate, maybe I should ask Mr. Jones his intentions.”
“Just try it, E.J., and I’ll break all of your lenses.” Caught between amusement and irritation, Brooke plopped down in her seat. “Sit down and buy me a hot dog.”
He signaled. “What do you want on it?”
“All I can get.”
“Come on, Brooke.” He fished in his pocket for a couple of bills, exchanging them for hot dogs and cold drinks. “Buddy to buddy, how serious is it?”
“Not going to let up, are you?”
“I care.”
Brooke glanced over at him. He was smiling, not the wisecracking grin she so often saw on his face, but a simple smile of friendship. It was, perhaps, the only weapon she had no defense against. “I’m in love with him,” she said quietly. “I guess that’s pretty damn serious.”
“Grade-A serious,” he agreed. “Congratulations.”
“Am I supposed to feel like I’m walking on a cliff?” she demanded, only half joking.
“Don’t know.” E.J. took a considering bite of his hot dog. “Never had the experience.”
“Never been in love, E.J.?” Leaning back in her seat, Brooke grinned. “You?”
“Nope. That’s why I spend so much time looking.” He gave a heavy sigh. “It’s a tough business, Brooke.”
“Yeah.” She took off his fielder’s cap and swatted him with it. “I bet it is. Now shut up, they’re going to announce the starting lineup.”
A tough business, she thought again. Well, he wasn’t far wrong, even if he had been joking. Looking for love was a lonely occupation, one she’d given up—or thought she’d given up—years before. Finding it—or having it tickle you from behind—was even tougher. Once it found you it clung, no matter how much you tried to shake it off. But she wasn’t trying to shake it off, Brooke mused. She was just trying to understand how it fit and make a few adjustments. The fabric kept changing.
“Playing third and batting fourth, number twenty-nine, Parks Jones.”
The already boisterous crowd went frantic as Parks jogged out on the field to take his place in the lineup. When he stood beside Snyder, he let his eyes drift over. They locked on Brooke’s. With a smile, he gave the customary tip of his cap. It was a gesture for the crowd, but she knew it had been aimed at her personally. It was all the acknowledgment he would give her until it was over. It was all she expected.
“I’m going to outhit you today, Iceman,” Snyder warned, grinning at the crowd. “Then Brooke’s going to realize her mistake.”
Parks never took his eyes off her. “She’s going to marry me.”
Snyder’s jaw dropped. “No kidding! Well, hey . . .”
“She just doesn’t know it yet,” Parks added in a murmur. He slapped hands with the right fielder, batting fifth. “But she will.”
Brooke detected a change in Parks’s smile, something subtle, but to her unmistakable. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to decipher it. “He’s up to something,” she muttered.
E.J. perfected a shot with a small still camera. “What?”
“Nothing.” She swirled her drink so that ice chunks banged together. “Nothing.”
A well-known blues singer stepped up to the mike to sing the national anthem. Two lines of athletes removed their caps. The crowd rose, silent for what would be the last time in more than two hours. The excitement was so tangible Brooke thought she could reach out into the warm October air and grab a handful of nerves. It built and built until it exploded with cheers and shouts and whistles as the last note of the song trembled. The Kings took the field.
Sportscasters are fond of saying that the seventh game of the World Series is the ultimate in sports events—the pinnacle test of teamwork and individual effort. This was no exception. In the first inning, Brooke saw the Kings’ center fielder charge a ball, stretching forward to catch it on the run then holding on to it as the momentum carried him into a forward roll. She saw the Herons shortstop seem to throw heart and body after a ball to prevent it from going through the hole for a base hit. At the end of the fourth, the teams had one run apiece, each on sol
o home runs.
Brooke had seen Parks guard his position at third, stealing, as Lee would have put it, two certain base hits and starting the execution of a clutch double play. Watching him, Brooke realized he played this game just as he played every other—with total concentration, with steady determination. If he had nerves, if somewhere in his mind was the thought that this was the game, it didn’t show. As he stepped up to bat, she leaned out on the rail.
Before he stepped into the box, Parks ran a hand up and down his bat as though checking for splinters. He was waiting for calm, not the calm of the shouting fans but inner calm. In his mind’s eye he could see Brooke leaning on the rail, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes cool and direct. The knot of tension in his stomach eased.
When he stepped up to the plate his predominant thought was to advance the runner. With Snyder on first, he’d have to put it well out of the infield. And they’d be pitching him carefully. Both times he had come to bat, Parks had clipped a single through the hole between third and short.
Parks took his stance and looked directly into the pitcher’s eyes. He watched the windup, saw the ball hurtling toward him, shifted his weight, then checked his swing. The slider missed the corner. Ball one.
Stepping out of the box, Parks knocked the bat against his spikes to clear them of dirt. Yeah, they were going to be careful what they gave him. But he could get Snyder to second just as easily on a walk as on a hit. The trouble was, second wasn’t a sure scoring position for Snyder.
The second pitch missed, low and outside. Parks checked the signal from the third base coach. He didn’t allow his eyes to drift over to where Brooke sat. Parks knew even that brief contact would destroy his concentration.
The next pitch came in on him, nearly catching him on the knuckles then bouncing foul. The crowd demanded a hit. Parks checked Snyder, who was keeping very cozy with the bag, before he stepped into the box again.
Hoping to even the count, the pitcher tried another fast curve.
