Rules of the Game by Nora Roberts Page B

welcome.”
    She hesitated, then let herself speak her first thought. “I feel like a teenager who just got her first corsage.”
    Dropping flat on his back on the bed, he laughed. “I’d like to see you with some of them in your hair.”
    Experimentally she held one up over her ear. Unprofessional, she thought with a sigh, and contented herself with the scent of them. “I’ve a shoot in the studio in a few minutes; I don’t think the lights would do them much good.”
    â€œYou have your practical side, don’t you, Brooke?” Parks flexed the slight ache in his shoulder and closed his eyes.
    â€œIt’s necessary,” she muttered but couldn’t quite bring herself to drop the blossom back in the box. “How are you? I wasn’t sure you’d be in.”
    â€œI got in about half an hour ago. They cut us down five to two. I went oh for three.”
    â€œOh.” She frowned, not quite sure what she was supposed to say. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œI didn’t seem to have any rhythm—it’ll pass.” Before the play-offs, he added silently. “I thought of you, maybe too much.”
    Brooke felt an odd twist of pleasure that was difficult to pass off. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a slump, particularly when I remember some of the remedies.” His chuckle sounded faint and weary. “Are you tired?”
    â€œA bit. You’d think with the division wrapped up we’d glide through this last series. Last night we went eleven innings.”
    â€œI know.” She could have bitten off her tongue. “I caught the highlights on the late news,” she said breezily. “I’ll let you sleep, then. I just wanted to thank you.”
    Her inadvertent admission had his lips twitching, but he didn’t bother to open his eyes. With them closed, he had no trouble bringing her face into focus. “Will I see you when I get back?”
    â€œOf course. We’ll be shooting the first segment on Friday, so—”
    â€œBrooke,” he interrupted firmly, quietly. “Will I see you when I get back?”
    She hesitated, then looked down at the mass of pink-and-white hibiscus on her desk. “Yes,” she heard herself saying. Pressing the flower to her cheek, she sighed. “I think I’m going to make a very big mistake.”
    â€œGood. I’ll see you Friday.”
    ***
    The trick to being a good director, Brooke had always thought, was to be precise without being too technical, brisk without losing sympathy, then to split yourself up into several small parts so that you could be everywhere at once. It was a knack she had developed early on—on the job—without the formalized training of many of her colleagues. Perhaps because she had worked so many of the other aspects of filming, from timing a script to setting the lights to mixing sound, she was fiercely precise. Nothing escaped her eye. Because she knew actors were often overworked and insecure, she had never quite lost her sympathy for them even when she was ready to rage at a consistently flubbed line. Her early experience at waiting tables had taught her the trick of moving fast enough to all but be in two places at once.
    On a set or in a studio, she had complete self-confidence. Her control was usually unquestioned because it came naturally. She never thought about being in charge or felt the need to remind others of it; she simply
was
in charge.
    With a copy of the script in one hand, she supervised the final adjustments on the lights and reflectors. The ball diamond, she had noted immediately, had an entirely different feel at home plate than it had from the stands. It was like being on an island, cupped amid the high mountain of seats, with the tall green wall skirting the back. The distance from plate to fence seemed even more formidable from this perspective. Brooke wondered how men with sticks in their hands