Rules of the Game
Authors: Nora Roberts
Nora Roberts
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Hot Ice
Sacred Sins
Brazen Virtue
Sweet Revenge
Public Secrets
Genuine Lies
Carnal Innocence
Divine Evil
Honest Illusions
Private Scandals
Hidden Riches
True Betrayals
Montana Sky
Sanctuary
Homeport
The Reef
River's End
Carolina Moon
The Villa
Midnight Bayou
Three Fates
Birthright
Northern Lights
Blue Smoke
Angels Fall
High Noon
Tribute
Black Hills
The Search
Chasing Fire
The Witness
Series
Irish Born Trilogy
Born in Fire
Born in Ice
Born in Shame
Dream Trilogy
Daring to Dream
Holding the Dream
Finding the Dream
Chesapeake Bay Saga
Sea Swept
Rising Tides
Inner Harbor
Chesapeake Blue
Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy
Jewels of the Sun
Tears of the Moon
Heart of the Sea
Three Sisters Island Trilogy
Dance Upon the Air
Heaven and Earth
Face the Fire
Key Trilogy
Key of Light
Key of Knowledge
Key of Valor
In the Garden Trilogy
Blue Dahlia
Black Rose
Red Lily
Circle Trilogy
Morrigan's Cross
Dance of the Gods
Valley of Silence
Sign of Seven Trilogy
Blood Brothers
The Hollow
The Pagan Stone
Bride Quartet
Vision in White
Bed of Roses
Savor the Moment
Happy Ever After
The Inn BoonsBoro Trilogy
The Next Always
The Last Boyfriend
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eBooks
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The O'Hurleys
The Last Honest Woman
Dance to the Piper
Skin Deep
Without a Trace
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The Donovan Legacy
Captivated
Entranced
Charmed
Enchanted
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Cordina's Royal Family
Affaire Royale
Command Performance
The Playboy Prince
Cordina's Crown Jewel
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The MacGregors
Playing the Odds
Tempting Fate
All the Possibilities
One Man's Art
For Now, Forever
The MacGregor Brides
The Winning Hand
The MacGregor Grooms
The Perfect Neighbor
Rebellion & In from the Cold
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Night Tales
Night Shift
Night Shadow
Nightshade
Night Smoke
Night Shield
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The Calhouns
Courting Catherine
A Man for Amanda
For the Love of Lilah
Suzanna's Surrender
Megan's Mate
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Irish Legacy Trilogy
Irish Thoroughbred
Irish Rose
Irish Rebel
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Best Laid Plans
Loving Jack
Lawless
Summer Love
Boundary Lines
Dual Image
First Impressions
The Law Is a Lady
Local Hero
This Magic Moment
The Name of the Game
Partners
Temptation
The Welcoming
Opposites Attract
Time Was
Times Change
Gabriel's Angel
Holiday Wishes
The Heart's Victory
The Right Path
Rules of the Game
Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb
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Remember When
J. D. Robb
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Naked in Death
Glory in Death
Immortal in Death
Rapture in Death
Ceremony in Death
Vengeance in Death
Holiday in Death
Conspiracy in Death
Loyalty in Death
Witness in Death
Judgment in Death
Betrayal in Death
Seduction in Death
Reunion in Death
Purity in Death
Portrait in Death
Imitation in Death
Divided in Death
Visions in Death
Survivor in Death
Origin in Death
Memory in Death
Born in Death
Innocent in Death
Creation in Death
Strangers in Death
Salvation in Death
Promises in Death
Kindred in Death
Fantasy in Death
Indulgence in Death
Treachery in Death
New York to Dallas
Celebrity in Death
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Anthologies
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From the Heart
A Little Magic
A Little Fate
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Moon Shadows
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)
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The Once Upon Series
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)
Once Upon a Castle
Once Upon a Rose
Once Upon a Star
Once Upon a Kiss
Once Upon a Dream
Once Upon a Midnight
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Silent Night
(with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)
Out of This World
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)
Bump in the Night
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)
Dead of Night
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)
Three in Death
Suite 606
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)
In Death
The Lost
(with Patricia Gaffney, Mary Blayney, and Ruth Ryan Langan)
The Other Side
(with Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)
The Unquiet
(with Mary Blayney, Patricia Gaffney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)
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available
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The Official Nora Roberts Companion
(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
RULES OF THE GAME
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Harlequin Books edition / July 2009
InterMix eBook edition / December 2012
Copyright © 1984 by Nora Roberts.
Excerpt from
Calculated in Death
copyright © 2013 by Nora Roberts.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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ISBN: 978-1-101-56974-0
INTERMIX
InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Chapter 1
“A jock. Terrific.” Brooke took a long swallow of strong black coffee, tipped back in her glove-soft leather chair and scowled. “I love it.”
“No need to be sarcastic,” Claire returned mildly. “If de Marco wants to use an athlete for promotion, why should you object?” She gazed absently at the chunky gold ring on her right hand. “After all,” Claire continued in her dry voice, “you'll be making quite a bit directing the commercials.”
Brooke sent Claire a characteristic look. Direct, uncompromising gray eyes bored into the soft blue of the older woman's. One of Brooke's greatest talents, and her greatest weapons, was her ability to stare down anyone from a corporate president to a temperamental actor. She'd developed the knack early as a defense against her own insecurity and had since refined it to an art. It was an art, however, that didn't impress Claire Thorton. At forty-nine, she was the head of a multimillion-dollar company that she'd started with brains and guts. For nearly a quarter of a century, she had run things her way, and she intended to keep right on doing so.
She'd known Brooke for ten yearsâsince Brooke had been an eighteen-year-old upstart who had wheedled her way into a job with Thorton Productions. Then she'd watched Brooke work her way up from gofer to gaffer, from gaffer to assistant cameraman and from there to director. Claire had never regretted the impulse that had led her to give Brooke her first fifteen-second commercial.
Intuition had been the basis for Claire's success with Thorton Productions, and intuitively she had sensed sharp talent in Brooke Gordon. In addition, Claire knew her, understood her, as few others did. Perhaps it was because they shared two basic traitsâambition and independence.
After a moment, Brooke gave up with a sigh. “A jock,” she muttered again as she gazed around her office.
It was one small room, the pale amber walls lined with prints of stills from dozens of her commercials. There was a two-cushion sofaâreupholstered in chocolate-colored corduroyânot comfortable enough to encourage long visits. The chair with a tufted back had been picked up at a yard sale along with a coffee table that leaned slightly to the left.
Brooke sat behind an old, scarred desk that had a drawer that wouldn't quite close. On it were piles of papers, a gooseneck lamp and assorted disposable pens and broken pencils. The pens and pencils were jammed in a Sevres vase. Behind her at the window, a dieffenbachia was slowly dying in an exquisitely worked pottery bowl.
“Damn, Claire, why can't they get an actor?” Brooke tossed up her hands in her one theatrical gesture, then dropped her chin on them. “Do you know what it's like to try to coax ballplayers and rock stars to say a line without freezing or hamming it up?” With a disgusted mutter that gave no room for comment, she pushed the pile of papers into a semiordered heap. “One call to a casting agent and I could have a hundred qualified actors parading through here itching for the job.”
Patiently, Claire brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of her rose linen suit. “You know it increases sales if a production's hyped by a recognizable name or familiar face.”
“Recognizable name?” Brooke tossed back. “Who's ever heard of Parks Jones?
Stupid
name,” she muttered to herself.
“Every baseball fan in the country.” The mild smile told Brooke it was useless to argue. Therefore, she prepared to argue further.
“We're selling clothes, not Louisville Sluggers.”
“Eight Golden Gloves,” Claire went on. “A lifetime batting average of three twenty-five. He's leading the league in RBIs this season. Jones has been at third base in the All-Star game for eight consecutive seasons.”
Brooke narrowed her eyes. “How do you know so much? You don't follow baseball.”
“I do my homework.” A cool smile touched Claire's round, pampered face. She'd never had a face-lift but was religious about her visits to Elizabeth Arden. “That's why I'm a successful producer. Now you'd better do yours.” She rose languidly. “Don't make any plans, I've got tickets for the game tonight. Kings against the Valiants.”
“Who?”
“Do your homework,” Claire advised before she closed the office door behind her.
With an exasperated oath, Brooke swiveled her chair around so that she faced her view of Los Angelesâtall buildings, glittering glass and clogged traffic. She'd had other views of L.A. during the rise in her career, but they'd been closer to street level. Now, she looked out on the city from the twentieth floor. The distance meant success, but Brooke didn't dwell on it. To do that would have encouraged thinking of the pastâsomething Brooke meticulously avoided.
Leaning back in the oversized chair, Brooke toyed with the end of her braid. Her hair was the warm soft red shot with gold that painters attempted to immortalize. It was long and thick and unruly. Brooke was feminine enough not to want it cut to a more manageable length and practical enough to subdue it into a fat braid during working hours. It hung down the back of a thin silk blouse past the waistband of overworked blue jeans.
Her eyes as she mulled over Claire's words were thoughtful. They had misty gray irises, long lids and were surrounded by lashes in the same fragile shade as her hair. She rarely thought to darken them. Her skin was the delicate ivory-rose her hair demanded but the frailty stopped there. Her nose was small and sharp, her mouth wide, her chin aggressive. It was an unsettling faceâbeautiful one moment, austere the next, but always demanding. She wore a hasty dab of rose lipstick, enameled dimestore earrings and a splash of two-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume.
She thought about the de Marco accountâdesigner jeans, exclusive sportswear and soft Italian leather. Since they'd decided to move their advertising beyond the glossy pages of fashion magazines and into television, they had come to Thorton Productions, and so to her. It was a fat two-year contract with a budget that would give Brooke all the artistic room she could want. She told herself she deserved it. There were three Clios on the corner shelf to her right.
Not bad, she mused, for a twenty-eight-year-old woman who had walked into Thorton Productions with a high school diploma, a glib tongue and sweaty palms. And twelve dollars and fifty-three cents in her pocket, Brooke remembered; then she pushed the thought aside. If she wanted the de Marco accountâand she didâshe would simply have to make the ballplayer work. Grimly, she swung her chair back to face her desk. Picking up the phone, Brooke punched two buttons.
“Get me everything we have on Parks Jones,” she ordered as she shuffled papers out of her way. “And ask Ms. Thorton what time I'm to pick her up tonight.”
***
Less than six blocks away, Parks Jones stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled at his agent. “How did I ever let you talk me into this?”
Lee Dutton gave a smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth and a lot of charm. “You trust me.”
“My first mistake.” Parks studied Lee, a not quite homely, avuncular figure with a receding hairline, puckish face and unnerving black eyes. Yes, he trusted him, Parks thought, he even liked the shrewd little devil, but . . . “I'm not a damn model, Lee. I'm a third baseman.”
“You're not modeling,” Lee countered. As he folded his hands, the sun glinted on the band of his thin Swiss watch. “You're endorsing. Ballplayers have been doing it since the first razor blade.”
Parks snorted then walked around the tidy, Oriental-designed office. “This isn't a shaving commercial, and I'm not endorsing a mitt. It's clothes, for God's sake. I'm going to feel like an idiot.”
But you won't look like one, Lee thought as he drew out a fragrant, slim cigar. Lighting it, he studied Parks over the flame. The long, lanky body was perfect for de Marco'sâas was the blond, unmistakably California look. Parks's tanned lean face, navy-blue eyes and tousled curling hair had already made him a favorite with the female fans, while his friendly, laid-back charm had won over the men. He was talented, easy to look at and personable. In short, Lee concluded, he was a natural. The fact that he was intelligent was at times as much a disadvantage as an advantage.
“Parks, you're hot.” Lee said it with a sigh that they both knew was calculated. “You're also thirty-three. How much longer are you going to play ball?”
Parks answered with a glare. Lee knew of his vow to retire at thirty-five. “What does that have to do with it?”
“There are a lot of ballplayers, exceptional ballplayers, who slip into oblivion when they walk off the diamond for the last time. You have to think of the future.”
“I
have
thought of the future,” Parks reminded him. “Mauiâfishing, sleeping in the sun, ogling women.”
That would last about six weeks, Lee calculated, but he wisely kept silent.
“Lee.” Parks flopped into a Chinese-red chair and stretched out his legs. “I don't need the money. So why am I going to be working this winter instead of lying on the beach?”
“Because it's going to be good for you,” Lee began. “It's good for the game. The campaign will enhance the image of baseball. And,” he added with one of his puckish smiles, “because you signed a contract.”
“I'm going to get in some extra batting practice,” Parks muttered as he rose. When he reached the door, he turned back with a suspiciously friendly smile. “One thing. If I make a fool of myself, I'm going to break the legs on your Tang horse.”
***
Brooke screeched through the electronically controlled gates then swerved up the rhododendron-lined drive that led to Claire's mansion. Privately, Brooke considered it a beautiful anachronism. It was huge, white, multileveled and pillared. Brooke liked to imagine two black-helmeted guards, rifles on shoulders, flanking the carved double doors. The estate had originally belonged to a silent movie idol who had supposedly decked out the rooms in pastel silks and satins. Fifteen years before, Claire had purchased it from a perfume baron and had proceeded to redecorate it with her own passion for Oriental art.
Brooke stomped on the brake of her Datsun, screaming to a halt in front of the white marble steps. She drove at two speeds: stop and go. Stepping out of the car, she breathed in the exotic garden scents of vanilla and jasmine before striding up the stairs in the loose-limbed gait that came from a combination of long legs and preoccupation. In a crowd, her walk would cause men's heads to turn but Brooke neither noticed nor cared.
She knocked briskly on the door, then impatiently turned the handle. Finding it unlocked, she walked into the spacious mint-green hall and shouted.
“Claire! Are you ready? I'm starving.” A neat little woman in a tailored gray uniform came through a doorway to the left. “Hello, Billings.” Brooke smiled at her and tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Where's Claire? I haven't the energy to search through this labyrinth for her.”
“She's dressing, Ms. Gordon.” The housekeeper spoke in modulated British tones, responding to Brooke's smile with a nod. “She'll be down shortly. Would you care for a drink?”
“Just some Perrier, it's muggy out.” Brooke followed the housekeeper into the drawing room then slumped down on a divan. “Did she tell you where we're going?”
“To a baseball game, miss?” Billings set ice in a glass and added sparkling water. “Some lime?”
“Just a squirt. Come on, Billings.” Brooke's smoky contralto became conspiratorial. “What do you think?”
Billings meticulously squeezed lime into the bubbly water. She'd been housekeeper for Lord and Lady Westbrook in Devon before being prized away by Claire Thorton. On accepting the position, she had vowed never to become Americanized. Edna Billings had her standards. But she'd never quite been able to resist responding to Brooke. A naughty young girl, she'd thought a decade before, and the opinion remained unchanged. Perhaps that was why Billings was so fond of her.
“I much prefer cricket,” she said blandly. “A more civilized game.” She handed Brooke the glass.
“Can you see Claire sitting in the bleachers?” Brooke demanded. “Surrounded by screaming, sweaty fans, watching a bunch of grown men swing at a little ball and run around in circles?”
“If I'm not mistaken,” Billings said slowly, “there's a bit more to it than that.”
“Sure, RBIs and ERAs and putouts and shutouts.” Brooke heaved a long breath. “What the hell is a squeeze play?”
“I'm sure I have no idea.”
“Doesn't matter.” Brooke shrugged and gulped down some Perrier. “Claire has it in her head that watching this guy in action will give me some inspiration.” She ran a fingertip down a shocking-orange ginger jar. “What I really need is a meal.”
“You can get a hot dog and some beer in the park,” Claire announced from the doorway.
Glancing up, Brooke gave a hoot of laughter. Claire was immaculately dressed in buff-colored linen slacks and tailored print blouse with low alligator pumps. “You're going to a ball game,” Brooke reminded her, “not a museum. And I hate beer.”
“A pity.” Opening her alligator bag, Claire checked the contents before snapping it shut again. “Let's be on our way, then, we don't want to miss anything. Good night, Billings.”
Gulping down the rest of her drink, Brooke bolted to her feet and raced after Claire. “Let's stop to eat on the way,” she suggested. “It's not like missing the first act of the opera, and I had to skip lunch.” She tried her forlorn orphan's look. “You know how cranky I get if I miss a meal.”
“We're going to have to start putting you in front of the camera, Brooke; you're getting better all the time.” With a slight frown at the low-slung Datsun, Claire maneuvered herself inside. She also knew Brooke's obsession with regular meals sprang from her lean adolescence. “Two hot dogs,” she suggested, wisely buckling her seat belt. “It takes forty-five minutes to get to the stadium.” Claire fluffed her silver-frosted brunette hair. “That means you should get us there in about twenty-five.”
