because she had crammed a few basic rules into her head-'but it hardly seems fair that Parks is out.'
Chuckling, Lee patted her head. 'He earned another RBI and the fleeting gratitude of a stadium full of Kings fans. He was one for three today, so his average won't suffer much.'
'Brooke doesn't think much of rules,' Claire put in, rising.
'Because they're usually made up by people who don't have the least idea what they're doing.' A little annoyed with herself for becoming so involved, she stood, swinging her canvas bag over her shoulder. 'I don't know if Parks would agree with you,' Lee told her. 'He's lived by the rules for most of his life. Gets to be a habit.'
'To each his own,' she said casually. She wondered if Lee was aware that Parks was also a man who could seduce and half undress a woman behind the fragile covering of a rock wall in the middle of a crowded, glitzy Hollywood party. It seemed to her Parks was more a man who made up his own rules. 'Why don't we go down to the locker room and congratulate him?' Genially, he hooked his arms through Claire's and Brooke's, steamrolling them through the still cheering crowd.
Lee worked his way into the stadium's inner sanctum with a combination of panache and clout. Reporters were swarming, carrying microphones, cameras or notepads. Each one was badgering or flattering a sweaty athlete in the attempt to get a quote. In the closed-in area, Brooke considered the noise level to be every bit as high as it had been in the open stadium. Lockers slammed, shouts reverberated, laughter flowed in a kind of giddy relief. Each man knew the tension would return soon enough during the playoffs.
They were going to enjoy the victory of the moment to its fullest.
'Yeah, if I hadn't saved Biggs from an error in the seventh inning,' the first baseman told a reporter, deadpan, 'it might have been a whole different ball game.'
Biggs, the shortstop, retaliated by heaving a damp towel at his teammate. 'Snyder can't catch a ball unless it drops into his mitt. The rest of us make him look good.'
'I've saved Parks from fifty-three errors this season,' Snyder went on blandly, drawing the sweaty towel from his face. 'Guess his arm must be going. Thing is, some of the hitters are so good they just keep smacking the ball right into Parks's mitt. If you watch the replay of today's game, you'll see what fantastic aim they have.' Someone dumped a bucket of water on his head, but Snyder continued without breaking rhythm. 'You might notice how well I place the ball in the right fielder's mitt. That takes more practice.'
Brooke spotted Parks, surrounded by reporters. His uniform was filthy, streaked with dirt, while his face fared little better. The smudges of black under bis eyes gave him a slightly wicked look. Without the cap his hair curled freely, darkened with sweat But his face and body were relaxed. A smile lingered on his lips as he spoke. That battlefield intensity was gone from his eyes, she noted, as if it had never existed. If she hadn't seen it, hadn't experienced it from him, Brooke would have sworn the man wasn't capable of any form of ruthlessness. Yet he was, she reminded herself, and it wouldn't be smart to forget it.
'With only four games left in the regular season,' Parks stated, 'I'll be satisfied to end up with a three eighty-seven average for the year.'
'If you bat five hundred in those last games-' Parks shot the reporter a mild grin. 'We'll have to see about that.'
'A little wind out there today and that gamewinning sacrifice fly would've been a game-winning home run.'
'That's the breaks.' 'What was the pitch?'
'Inside curve,' he responded easily. 'A little high.'
'Were you trying for a four-bagger, Parks?'
He grinned again, his expression altering only slightly when he spotted Brooke. 'With one out and runners on the corners, I just wanted to keep the ball off the ground. Anything deep, and Kinjinsky scores…unless he wants the Lead Foot Award.'
' 'Lead Foot Award?''
'Ask Snyder,' Parks suggested. 'He's the current holder.' With another smile, Parks effectively eased himself away. 'Lee.' He nodded to his agent while running a casual finger down Brooke's arm. She felt the shock waves race through her, and only barely managed not to jerk away. 'Ms. Thorton. Nice to see you again.' His only greeting to Brooke was a slow smile as he caught the tip of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. She thought again it was wise to remember he wasn't as safe as he appeared. 'Hell of a game, Parks,' Lee announced. 'You gave us an entertaining afternoon.'
'We aim to please,' he murmured, still looking at Brooke.
'Claire and I are going out to dinner. Perhaps you and Brooke would like to join us?'
Before Brooke could register surprise at Claire having a date with Lee Dutton, or formulate an excuse against making it a foursome, Parks spoke up. ' 'Sorry, Brooke and I have plans.'
Turning her head, she shot Parks a narrowed look. 'I don't recall our making any plans.'
Smiling, he gave her a brief tug. 'You'll have to learn to write things down. Why don't you just wait in your box? I'll be out in half an hour.' Without giving her a chance to protest, Parks strolled off toward the showers.
'What incredible nerve,' Brooke grumbled, only to be given a sharp but discreet elbow in the ribs by Claire.
'Sorry you can't join us, dear,' she said sweetly. 'But then you're not fond of Chinese food in any case. And Lee's going to show me his collection first.'
'Collection?' Brooke repeated blankly as she was steered into the narrow corridor.
'We've a mutual passion.' Claire gave Lee a quick and surprisingly flirtatious smile. ' 'For Oriental art. Can you find your way back to the seats?''
'I'm not a complete dolt,' Brooke muttered, while giving Lee a skeptical stare.
'Well then.' Casually, Claire tucked her hand into Lee's beefy arm. 'I'll see you Monday.'
'Have a good time, kid,' Lee called over his shoulder as Claire propelled him away.
'Thanks a lot.' Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Brooke worked her way up, then out to the lower level, third-base box. 'Thanks a hell of a lot,' she repeated and stared out at the empty diamond. There were a few maintenance workers scooping up the debris in the stands with humming heavy-duty cleaners, but other than that the huge open area was deserted. Finding it strangely appealing, Brooke discovered her annoyance waning. An hour before, the air had been alive, throbbing with the pulse of thousands. Now it was serene, with only the faintest trace of the crowd-the lingering odor of humanity, a whiff of salted popcorn, a few discarded cardboard containers. She leaned back against the rail, more interested in the empty stadium than the empty field.
When had it been built? she wondered. How many generations had crammed themselves into the seats and aisles to watch the games? How many thousands of gallons of beer had traveled along the rows of seats? She laughed a little, amused by her own whimsy. When a player stopped playing, did he come here to watch and remember? She thought Parks would. The game, she concluded, would get into your blood. Even she hadn't been immune to it…or, she thought wryly, to him.
Brooke tossed her head back, letting her hair fall behind her. The shadows were lengthening, but the heat still had the sticky, sweltering capacity of high afternoon. She didn't mind-she hated being cold. Habitually, she narrowed her eyes and let herself visualize how she would approach the stadium on film.
Empty, she thought, with the echo of cheers, the sound of a ball cracking off a bat, a banner left behind to flutter in the breeze. She'd use the maintenance workers, sucking up the boxes and cups and bags. She might title it Afterthought, and there'd be no telling if the home team had left the field vanquished or victorious. What mattered would be the perpetuity of the game, the people who played it and the people who watched.
Brooke sensed him before she heard him-only an instant, but the instant was enough to scatter her thoughts and to bring her eyes swerving toward him. Immediately, all sense of the scene she had been setting vanished from her mind. No one else had ever had the power to do that to her. The fact that Parks did baffled her nearly as much as it infuriated her. For Brooke, her work was the one stability in her life nothing and no one was allowed to tamper with it. Defensively, she straightened, meeting his stare headon as he walked down to her in the loose, rangy stride that masked over a decade of training.
She expected him to greet her with some smart remark. Brooke was prepared for that She considered he might greet her casually, as if his lie in the locker room had been perfect truth. She was prepared for that, too.
She wasn't prepared for him to walk directly to her, bury his hands in her hair and crush her against him in
