Read Rules of the Game for Free Online Page A

tilted his head, watching the candlelight play on her skin. “At what?”
    Brooke sipped, enjoying the game. “At what I do. Are you a successful man?”
    â€œAt the moment.” Parks flashed a grin—the one that gave his face a young, rather affable charm. “Baseball’s a fickle profession. A ball takes a bad hop—a pitcher blows a few by you. You can’t predict when a slump will start or stop—or worse, why.”
    It seemed a bit like life to her. “And do you have many?”
    â€œOne’s too many.” With a shrug, he set his drink back on the table. “I’ve had more than one.”
    With her first genuine curiosity, Brooke leaned forward. “What do you do to get out of one?”
    â€œChange bats, change batting stances.” He shrugged again. “Change your diet, pray. Try celibacy.”
    She laughed, a warm, liquid sound. “What works best?”
    â€œA good pitch.” He, too, leaned forward. “Wanna hear one?”
    When her brow rose again, he lifted a finger to trace it. Brooke felt the jolt shiver down to her toes. “I think I’ll pass.”
    â€œWhere do you come from?” he murmured. His fingertip drifted down her cheek, then traced her jawline. He’d known her skin would feel like that. Milkmaid soft.
    â€œNo place in particular.” Brooke reached for her glass, but his hand closed over hers.
    â€œEveryone comes from somewhere.”
    â€œNo,” she disagreed. His palm was harder than she had imagined, his fingers stronger. And his touch was gentler. “Not everyone.”
    From her tone, Parks realized she was speaking the truth as she saw it. He brushed a thumb over her wrist, finding her pulse fast but steady. “Tell me about yourself.”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œEverything.”
    Brooke laughed but spoke with perfect truth. “I don’t tell anyone everything.”
    â€œWhat do you do?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    He should have been exasperated, but found himself grinning. “About a job, for starters.”
    â€œOh, I make commercials,” she said lightly, knowing he would conclude she worked in front of the cameras. The game had a certain mischievous appeal for her.
    â€œI’ll be doing that myself soon,” he said with a quick grimace. “Do you like it?”
    â€œI wouldn’t do it if I didn’t.”
    He sent her a narrowed look, then nodded. “No, you wouldn’t.”
    â€œYou don’t sound as though you’re looking forward to trying it,” Brooke commented, slipping her hand from his. Prolonged contact with him, she discovered, made it difficult to concentrate, and concentration was vital to her.
    â€œNot when I have to spout some silly lines and wear somebody else’s clothes.” Idly, he toyed with a lock of her hair, wrapping it around his finger while his eyes remained on hers. “You’ve a fascinating face; more alluring than beautiful. When I saw you in the stands, I thought you looked like a woman out of the eighteenth century. The sort who had a string of anxious lovers.”
    With a low sound of humor, Brooke leaned closer. “Was that the first pitch, Mr. Jones?”
    Her scent seemed intensified by the warmth of the candle. He wondered that every man in the room wasn’t aware of it, and of her. “No.” His fingers tightened briefly, almost warningly, on her hair. “When I make my first one, you won’t have to ask.”
    Instinctively, Brooke retreated, but her eyes remained calm, her voice smooth. “Fair enough.” She would definitely put him on film with women, she decided. Sultry brunettes for contrast. “Do you ride?” she asked abruptly.
    â€œRide?”
    â€œHorses.”
    â€œYeah,” he answered with a curious laugh. “Why?”
    â€œJust wondered. What about hang gliding?”
    Parks’s expression