by Nora Roberts
Brooke frowned after him as she stalked back to the crane. “Take two.”
***
He could have given no logical, succinct explanation for his anger. Parks only knew he was furious. He had only one motivation as he stalked down the corridors to Brooke’s office—to have it out with her. He wasn’t certain what it was, but he would have had it out with her on location if she hadn’t been gone before he’d realized it. Though he wasn’t thrilled about coming to terms with her in her office, he’d had plenty of experience in meeting a challenge on the opposition’s home field. All it meant was that he would take the offensive first.
Brushing by her secretary without a word, Parks pushed open the door to Brooke’s office. Empty.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones.” The secretary hurried up to him, warned by the dangerous light in his eye. “Ms. Gordon . . . Mrs. Jones isn’t in.”
“Where?” Parks demanded curtly.
“I—Perhaps Ms. Thorton’s office. If you’ll wait, I’ll check for you. . . .” But he was already heading out with a long, determined stride that had her chewing on the nail of her forefinger. It looked like Brooke was in trouble. And some people have all the luck, the secretary mused before she went back to her desk.
In less than five minutes, Parks walked by the twins in Claire’s outer office and opened her door without knocking. “Where’s Brooke?” he demanded, not bothering to greet Claire or his agent.
“Good afternoon, Parks,” Claire said easily. “Tea?” She continued to pour Lee’s cup as if a furious man weren’t at that moment glaring at her.
Parks gave the classic little tea service a brief glance. “I’m looking for Brooke.”
“You’ve missed her, I’m afraid.” Claire sipped her tea, then offered Lee a plate of macaroons. “She was in and out a half an hour ago. Would you like a cookie, Parks?”
“No. . . .” He managed to get a tenuous hold on his manners. “Thanks. Where did she go?”
Claire nibbled on a macaroon, then dusted her fingers on a pink linen napkin. “Didn’t she say she was going home, Lee?”
“Yep. And she wasn’t in any better mood than Parks is.” He sent his client a bland smile before he wolfed down a cookie.
“No, she wasn’t, was she?” Claire folded her hands on her lap. “Tell me, dear, are you two having a tiff?”
“No, we’re not having a tiff,” Parks muttered, not certain what they were having. It occurred to him suddenly how cozy his agent and his producer were on the small two-cushioned sofa. “What are you two having?” he countered.
“Tea.” Claire smiled her dry smile.
“Why don’t you have a seat and cool off,” Lee invited. “You look like you’ve just played nine full innings.”
“We were shooting on the beach,” Parks murmured. Did Lee Dutton have his arm around Claire Thorton, or was he seeing things?
“It went well?” Claire asked, noting his expression, amused by the reason for it.
“Apparently Brooke was satisfied.”
“Apparently,” Claire murmured, then shot him a level stare. “When are you and Brooke going to relax and enjoy yourselves?”
Parks’s speculative look changed to a frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ve never in my life seen two people spend so much time poking at each other.”
“Is that what you call it?” Parks muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“For want of a better term.” Claire set her teacup carefully in its saucer. “I realize, of course, that the power game is a founding part of your relationship, and provides its own stimulation, but don’t you think it’s time you became a family as well as opponents?” Keeping her eyes level, Claire settled into the crook of Lee’s arm.
Parks stared at her for nearly a full minute. Power game, he repeated silently. Well yes, it was an intricate part of what they were to each other. They had both looked for strength, challenge, and would have walked the other way if they hadn’t found the combination. But as for the rest—a family . . . Was that what was niggling at the back of his mind?
Wasn’t it true that he couldn’t resolve himself to the fact that they were living in her house, surrounded by her things? He still felt uncomfortably like a guest. Even as fresh annoyance grew, he remembered their discussing a trip to Maui. He had told Brooke he wanted her to see his place. But . . . Even as he searched for an excuse, he knew he wouldn’t find one.
Turning, Parks paced to the window and scowled out. “I don’t think Brooke’s ready for a family relationship.” The brief, undignified answer Claire gave him had Parks turning back, half-amused. Lee merely reached forward and snatched another cookie.
“She’s looked for one all of her life. If you know anything about her, you know that.” Suddenly angry, Claire rose. “Is it possible for two people to live together and not understand the other’s needs, the other’s hurts? How much has she told you about how she grew up?”
“Barely anything,” Parks began. “She—”
“How much did you ask?” Claire demanded. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want to pry,” she said quickly, cutting him off. “You’re her husband, it’s your business to pry. You can be civilized enough to respect her privacy and never touch on what she really needs from you.”
“I know that she needs to know she can make her own place,” he tossed back. “I know that it doesn’t matter if it’s a chipped cup or a Hepplewhite table, as long as it’s hers.”
“Things!” Claire raged. “Yes, she needs things. God knows she never had them as a child, and the child in her still hurts because of it. But they’re only a symbol of what she really wants. Brooke walked in here, an eighteen-year-old adult with nothing more than a few dollars in her pocket and a lot of guts. Someone she thought she loved had taken everything from her, and she wasn’t ever going to let that happen again.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes frosting over at the memory. “It’s your job to show her that it won’t.”
“I don’t want to take anything from her,” Parks retorted heatedly.
“But you want her to give,” Claire shot back.
“Of course I do, damn it. I love her.”
“Then listen to me. Brooke’s struggled all her life to have something of her own, to have someone of her own. She has the things. She’s earned them. If you want to share them with her, share her life, you’d better have something pretty special to offer in return. Love isn’t enough.”
“What is?” Parks tossed back, furious at being lectured by someone half his size.
“You’d better figure it out.”
Parks measured her another moment. “All right,” he said coolly and left without another word.
Lee rose from the sofa to stand beside Claire. Her pampered skin was flushed with temper, her faded blue eyes icy. “You know,” he mused as he studied her, “I’ve never seen you in full gear before.”
“I don’t often lose my temper.” Claire fluffed at her hair. “Young people,” she stated, as if the two words explained everything.
“Yeah.” Taking her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “They don’t know a good thing when they’ve got it.” His puckish round face creased with a grin. “How’d you like to spend the rest of your life with an overweight theatrical agent?”
The ice melted from Claire’s eyes, but the flush remained. “Lee, I thought you’d never ask.”
***
Parks was fighting his way through L.A. traffic when he heard the first report of the fire. His anger at Claire, his frustration that she had spoken no more than the truth, was switched off instantly as he caught the tail end of a news broadcast reporting brush fires in Liberty Canyon—less than an hour away from Brooke’s isolated A-frame. No, there wasn’t anger now, but a sick sense of fear that had his palms slipping damply on the wheel.
Had she gone home? he wondered frantically as he sped around a cruising Ferrari. Would she have the television set on, the radio, or would she be in one of her solitary moods?
After a hot, enervating day on location, she would often simply shower and sleep for an hour. Recharging, he had called it jokingly. Now the idea terrified him.
As he drove higher, he began to scent the fragrance of dry leaves burning. A faint haze of smoke rose into the sky to the east. Thirty minutes, Parks estimated as he pressed his foot on the accelerator. Forty, if they were lucky. It would take him nearly half that to get there.
There was no wind to hurry the fire along, he reminded himself, fighting to keep calm. They weren’t calling it a firestorm . . . not yet. Brooke was probably already packing up her most important things—he might even meet her on the road on her way down. Any minute she could come zipping around one of the curves in the road leading back down the mountain. They’d get a hotel, talk this business out. Claire was right, he hadn’t dug deep enough. Once he had promised himself he would learn the whole woman. It was long past time to make good on the promise.
Parks could almost taste the smoke now, the thick black smoke that led the way for the fire. He saw a pack of small animals—rabbits, raccoons, a fox—race down the road on the other side in their migration to lower elevation. It was close, then, he thought, too close. Why in God’s name wasn’t she speeding down the road toward safety? He drove the last fifteen miles in a blur of speed and fear.
Parks only took the time to register that Brooke’s car was in the driveway before he was out of his own and racing toward the house. She had to be asleep, he decided, not to know the fire was closing in. Even without the radio on, the haze of smoke and smell of burning brought the news. He burst through the front door, calling her name.
The house was silent. There was no sound of hurried movement, of drawers slamming, nothing to indicate frantic packing. Parks was racing up the stairs two at a time when he heard the dog barking. He swore, but kept going. He’d forgotten the dog completely in his fear for Brooke. And the fear grew again when he saw the bed was empty. He was racing through the second floor, still calling, when a movement outside the window caught his eye.
Rain? he thought, pausing long enough to stare. No, water—but not rain. Going to the window, he saw her. Relief was immediately overlapped by irritation, and irritation by fury. What the hell was she doing standing in the backyard watering the lawn when the smoke was thick enough to block out the trees to the east?
With a quick jerk, he pulled up the window and shouted through the screen. “Brooke, what the hell are you doing?”
She jolted, then looked up. “Oh, Parks, thank God! Come down and help, there isn’t much time. Close the window!” she shouted. “The sparks could get inside. Hurry!”
He moved, and moved quickly, intending on shaking her until she rattled then dragging her to the car. Halfway down the stairs, he leaped over the banister and headed to the back door. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded again. Then, instead of shaking her, he found he was holding her tight enough to make her bones crack. If he hadn’t heard the radio, if she’d been sleeping . . . If. A thousand ifs ran through his mind as his mouth came down frantically on hers.
It was the sudden howl of wind that brought him back. A sudden ripple of terror ran down his spine. The wind would speed the fire and feed the flames. Brush fire became firestorm. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
He had dragged her nearly two feet before he realized she was fighting him. “No!” With a show of pure strength, Brooke broke away from him then picked up the hose she had dropped.
“Damn it, Brooke, we can’t have more than fifteen minutes.”
He took her arm again and again she broke away. “I know how much time there is.” She aimed the spray of water toward the house again, soaking the wood. The sound drummed in the air over the growing fierceness of the wind.
For the first time, Parks noticed that she was wet and filthy and wearing only a bathrobe. She’d just been stepping from the shower when the special report on the radio had warned her of the approaching fire. He looked at the dirt and grass stains on the silk of her robe and realized what she’d been doing. The land around the house had been cleared. She’d done it with her hands. He saw the scratches and dried blood on them and on her legs and ankles. Now, with the puppy barking frantically around her, she was wetting down the house.
“Are you crazy!” he demanded as the first flash of admiration was drowned in fresh fury. Parks grabbed her arm again, ripping the shoulder seam of her robe. “Do you know what a firestorm is?”
“I know what it is.” Her elbow connected with his ribs as she struggled away. “If you won’t help, stay out of my way; half the house hasn’t been wetted down yet.”
“You’re getting out of here.” Parks pulled the hose out of her hand and started dragging her. “If I have to knock you unconscious.”
Brooke shocked them both by planting her fist solidly on his jaw. The blow was enough to free her so that she stumbled back, losing her balance and landing on all fours.
“I said stay out of my way,” she hissed, then choked as the smoke clogged her lungs.
Parks dragged her to her feet. His eyes were as wild with fear and fury as hers. “You idiot, are you going to fight a firestorm with a garden hose? It’s wood and glass!” he shouted as he shook her. “Wood and glass,” he repeated, coughing as he threw a hand toward the house. “Is it worth dying for?”
“It’s worth fighting for!” she shouted back against smoke and wind as the tears started to flow. “I won’t give in to the fire, I won’t!” She began fighting him again, more desperately than before.
“Damn it, Brooke, stop!” He took her shoulders until his fingers bit into her flesh. “There isn’t time.”
“The fire won’t have it. Not our home, don’t you understand?” Her voice rose, not in hysteria but in fierce determination. “Not our home.”
Parks stopped shaking her, again finding that his arms had wrapped around to hold her close. Understanding flooded through him, and in its wake came every emotion he’d ever experienced. Is that what Claire had meant, he wondered, when she’d said love wasn’t enough? Love was enough for beginning, but sustaining took every feeling a human being was capable of. Our home, she had said. And with the two words Brooke had cemented everything.
He drew her away. The tears were streaming, her breath was labored. Her eyes were rimmed with red but steady. He knew he had never felt more for another, and never would. And suddenly he knew that questions and answers weren’t necessary for him to know the whole woman. Without speaking, he let her go and picked up the hose himself. Brooke stayed where she was while he turned the water onto the house. With the back of her wrist, she wiped the stinging tears from her face.
“Parks . . .”
He turned, smiling the grim gladiator smile. “It’s worth fighting for.” Brooke let out a shuddering sigh as she closed her hand over his. “We’ll need towels to breathe through, a couple of blankets. Get them while I hose down the rest of the house.”
It seemed like hours passed while they worked together, soaking the wood and each other, the dog, again and again while the smoke grew thicker. The wind screamed, threatening to rip the blanket Parks had tossed over her out of her hands. The heat, Brooke thought. She wouldn’t be able to bear the heat. But the flames still held off. There were moments she almost believed the fire would veer away, then she would be choking on the smoke and taking her turn with the hose until she couldn’t think at all. There was only one goal—to save the house she’d shared with Parks—the symbol of everything she had ever needed. Home, family, love.
With the towels pressed to their faces, they worked their way around and around the house, soaking the roof, the sides, all the surfaces the heat seemed to dry again so quickly. They no longer spoke, but worked systematically. Two pairs of arms, two sets of legs, working with one mind—to protect what was theirs.
Parks saw the flames first, and was almost too awed to move. It wasn’t a furnace, he thought, or an oven. It was hell. And it was racing toward them. Great, greedy towe
rs of fire belched out of the main body like spears. And in the midst of unbearable heat, he felt the icy sweat of human fear.
“No more.” In a quick move, he grabbed Brooke’s arm and scooped up the puppy.
“What are you doing? We can’t leave now.” Stumbling and choking, Brooke fought to free herself.
“If we don’t leave now, we could be dead.” He pushed Brooke into his car and shoved the puppy into her arms. “Damn it, Brooke, we’ve done all we can.” His hands were slick with sweat as he turned the key. “Nothing you can buy is worth dying for.”
“You don’t understand!” With the back of her hand she smeared grime and tears together on her face. “Everything—everything I have is back there. I can’t let the fire take it all—everything that means anything to me.”
“Everything,” he repeated in a murmur. Parks stopped the car to stare at her with red-rimmed, stinging eyes. “All right, if that’s how you feel, I’ll go back and do what I can.” His voice was curiously flat and emotionless. “But, by God, you stay here. I won’t risk you.”
Before she could take in what he’d said or what he was doing, he was gone. For a moment, the hysteria had complete control. She trembled with it, unable to move or think. The fire was going to take her home, all her possessions. She’d be left with nothing, just as she had been so many times before. How could she face it again after all the years of struggling, of work, of wanting?
The puppy squirmed in her arms and whimpered. Blankly, Brooke stared down at him. What was she doing sitting there when her house was in danger? She had to go back, go back and save . . . Parks.
Fear froze her, then had her springing from the car and racing through the smoke. She’d sent him back—he’d gone back for her. For what? she thought desperately. What was she trying to save? Wood and glass—that’s what he’d called it. It was nothing more. He was her home, the real home she’d searched for all her life. She shouted for him, sobbing as the smoke blocked everything from view.
She could hear the fire—or the wind. Brooke was no longer certain one was separate from the other. All that was clear now was that if she lost him now, she truly lost everything. So she shouted
