Rules of the Game by Nora Roberts Page A

initial de Marco commercial. Casually slick, she thought, approving. It had minimal dialogue and soft sell—Parks at the plate, swinging away while dressed in de Marco’s elegant sports clothes, then a slow dissolve to the next scene with him dressed in the same suit, stepping out of a Rolls with a slinky brunette on his arm.
    â€œClothes for anytime—anywhere,” Brooke muttered. The timing had been checked and rechecked. The audio, except for Parks’s one-line voice-over, was already being recorded. All she had to do was to guide Parks through the paces. The salesmanship hinged on her skill and his charm. Fair enough, she thought and reached for her half cup of cold coffee as a knock sounded at her door. “Yeah?” Brooke turned the script back to page one, running through the camera angles.
    â€œDelivery for you, Brooke.” The receptionist dropped a long white florist’s box on her cluttered desk. “Jenkins said to let you know the Lardner job’s been edited. You might want to check it out.”
    â€œOkay, thanks.” Curiously, Brooke frowned over the top of the script at the flower box. Occasionally, she received a grateful phone call or letter from a client when they were particularly pleased with a commercial—but not flowers. Then there’d been that actor in the car spot last year, Brooke remembered. The one who was on his third wife. He’d alternately amused and annoyed Brooke by sending her batches of red roses every week. But six months had passed since she had convinced him that he was wasting her time and his money.
    More likely it was one of E.J.’s practical jokes, she considered. She’d probably find a few dozen frog legs inside. Not one to spoil someone’s fun, Brooke pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.
    There were masses of hibiscus. Fragrant, dew-soft pink-and-white petals filled the box almost to overflowing. After the first gasp of surprise, Brooke dove her hands into them, captivated by their purely feminine scent and feel. Her office suddenly smelled like a tropical island: heady, exotic, richly romantic. With a sound of pleasure, she filled her hands with the blooms, bringing them up to her face to inhale. In contrast to the sultry scent, the petals seemed impossibly fragile. A small white card fluttered down to her littered desk.
    Letting the flowers drift back into the box, Brooke reached for the envelope and tore it open.
    I thought of your skin.
    There was nothing else, but she knew. She shuddered, then chided herself for acting like a mooning teenager. But she read the line three times. No one had ever been able to affect her so deeply with such simplicity. Though Parks was a thousand miles away, she could all but feel those lean, strong fingers trace down her cheek. The flood of warmth, the flash of desire told her she wasn’t going to escape him—had never truly wanted to. Without giving herself any time for doubts or fears, Brooke picked up the phone.
    â€œGet me Parks Jones,” she said quickly. “Try Lee Dutton, he’ll have the number.” Before she could change her mind, Brooke hung up, burying her hands in the flowers again.
    How was it he knew just what buttons to push? she wondered, then discovered at that moment she didn’t care. It was enough to be romanced—and romanced in style. Lifting a single bloom, she trailed it down her cheek. It was smooth and moist against her skin—as Parks’s first kiss had been. The ringing phone caught her dreaming.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œParks Jones on line two. You’ve got ten minutes before they need you in the studio.”
    â€œAll right. Hunt me up a vase and some water, will you?” She glanced at the box again. “Make that two vases.” Still standing with the blossom in her hand, Brooke punched the button for line two. “Parks?”
    â€œYes. Hello, Brooke.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œYou’re