Rules of the Game by Nora Roberts

coolly.
    â€œBig Kings fan,” E.J. went on, turning the radio up loud so that he had to shout over the top 40 rock. “Raved about Jones’s homer—on a two-out, two-strike pitch. The man’s a hell of a clutch hitter.” While Brooke remained silent, E.J. tapped out the beat from the radio on the steering wheel. There was the glint of gold from a ring on his long dark fingers. “Brighton said Jones stared at you like a man who’d been hit with a blunt instrument. That Brighton, he sure does turn a phrase.”
    â€œHmm.” Brooke began to find the passing scenery fascinating.
    â€œSaid he came right over to your box chasing a foul. Had a few words to say.”
    Brooke turned her head and stared into E.J.’s mirrored glasses. “Are you pumping me, E.J.?”
    â€œHot damn! Can’t pull anything over on you, Brooke; you’re one sharp lady.”
    Despite herself she laughed. She knew a “no comment” would only cause speculation she’d like to avoid. Instead she stretched her legs out on the seat and treated it lightly. “He just wanted my name.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd nothing.”
    â€œWhere’d you go with him?”
    The faintest frown creased her brow. “I didn’t say I went anywhere with him.”
    â€œHe didn’t ask your name because he was taking a census.”
    Brooke gave him a cool, haughty look that would have discouraged anyone else. “You’re a gossipy old woman, E.J.”
    â€œYep. You go to dinner with him?”
    â€œYes,” she said on a sigh of surrender. “And that’s all.”
    â€œNot as bright as he looks, then.” He patted her sneakered foot. “Or maybe he felt funny about starting something up with the lady who’ll be directing him.”
    â€œHe didn’t know,” Brooke heard herself say before she could stop herself.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI didn’t tell him.”
    â€œOh.” This time the syllable was drawn out and knowing.
    â€œI didn’t think it was necessary,” Brooke said heatedly. “It was strictly a social meeting, and it gave me the opportunity to plan how best to film him.”
    â€œMmm-hmm.”
    She turned back in her seat and folded her arms. “Shut up and drive, E.J.”
    â€œSure thing, boss.”
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned he can take his golden glove and smoking bat and sit on them.”
    E.J. nodded wisely, enjoying himself. “You know best.”
    â€œHe’s conceited and cold and inconsiderate.”
    â€œMust have been some evening,” E.J. observed.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it.” Brooke kicked at the empty bottle on the floor.
    â€œOkay,” he said affably.
    â€œHe’s the kind of man,” she went on, “who thinks a woman’s just waiting to fall all over him just because he’s moderately attractive and successful and has an average mind.”
    â€œFor a Rhodes scholar,” E.J. mused as he slowed down for his exit.
    â€œA what?”
    â€œHe’s a Rhodes scholar.”
    Brooke’s mouth fell open, then shut with a bang. “He is not.”
    E.J. shrugged agreeably. “Well, that’s what it said in
Sports View.
That was supposed to be the main reason he didn’t start playing professional ball until he was twenty-two.”
    â€œProbably just a publicity hype,” she muttered, but she knew better. She rode the rest of the way to the studio in frowning silence.
    ***
    The de Marco California villa was an eyeful. Brooke decided that it had the dubious ability of making Claire’s mansion look simple and discreet. It was huge, E-shaped and dazzling white with two inner courtyards. One held a grottolike pool complete with miniature waterfall, the other a sheltered garden rich with exotic scents.
    When Brooke arrived, she could hear the high liquid sounds of harps and mixed conversation. People were