Rules of the Game Read Free

the diamond for the last time. You have to think of the future.”
    â€œI
have
thought of the future,” Parks reminded him. “Maui—fishing, sleeping in the sun, ogling women.”
    That would last about six weeks, Lee calculated, but he wisely kept silent.
    â€œLee.” 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?”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œClaire! 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.”
    â€œShe’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?”
    â€œJust 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?”
    â€œTo a baseball game, miss?” Billings set ice in a glass and added sparkling water. “Some lime?”
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œI much prefer cricket,” she said blandly. “A more civilized game.” She handed Brooke the glass.
    â€œCan 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