Rules of the Game by Nora Roberts Page A

ranged through the house, spilling outdoors and clustered in corners. Passing through the gold-toned parlor, she caught the mingling, heady scents of expensive perfumes and spiced food. There was the glitter of diamonds, swirl of silks and flash of tanned, pampered skin.
    Brooke caught snatches of conversations as she strolled through, searching for the main buffet.
    â€œBut darling, he simply can’t carry a series anymore. Did you see him at Ma Maison last week?”
    â€œShe’ll sign. After that fiasco in England, she’s itching to come back to Hollywood.”
    â€œCan’t remember a line if you feed it to him intravenously.”
    â€œLeft her for the wardrobe mistress.”
    â€œMy dear, have you ever seen
such
a dress!”
    Hollywood, Brooke thought with halfhearted affection as she pounced on the remains of the pâté.
    â€œI knew I’d find you here.”
    Brooke turned her head as she speared a chunk of smoked beef. “Hello, Claire,” she managed over a mouthful of cracker. “Nice party.”
    â€œI suppose, as you always judge them by the menu.” Claire gave her a long, appraising look. Brooke wore a buckskin jumpsuit, soft and smooth as cream, with a thick pewter belt cinched at her waist. She’d braided the hair at her temples and clipped it back over the flowing tousled mane, letting heavy pewter links dangle at her ears. Because she’d been distracted while applying it, she’d neglected her makeup and had only remembered to darken her eyes. As a result, they dominated her pale, sharp-featured face. “Why is it you can wear the most outlandish outfits and still look marvelous?”
    Brooke grinned and swallowed. “I like yours, too,” she said, noting that Claire was, as always, stylishly neat in pale blue voile. “What have they got to drink in this place?”
    With a sigh, Claire motioned to a roving, red-suited waiter and chose two tulip glasses of champagne. “Try to behave yourself. The de Marcos are very old-fashioned.”
    â€œI’ll be a credit to the company,” Brooke promised and lifted her hand in acknowledgment of a wave from a stand-up comic she’d directed in a car commercial. “Do you think I could get a plate?”
    â€œGorge later. Mr. Jones’s agent is here, I want you to meet him.”
    â€œI hate talking to agents on an empty stomach. Oh, damn, there’s Vera. I should have known she’d be here.”
    Brooke answered the icy smile from the slim honey-haired model who was the current embodiment of the American look. Their paths had crossed more than once, professionally and socially, and the women had taken an instant, lasting dislike to each other. “Keep your claws sheathed,” Claire warned. “De Marco’s going to be using her.”
    â€œNot with me,” Brooke said instantly. “I’ll take the ballplayer, Claire, but someone else is going to hold the leash on that one. I don’t like my poison in small doses.”
    â€œWe’ll discuss it,” Claire muttered then beamed a smile. “Lee, we were just looking for you. Lee Dutton, Brooke Gordon. She’s going to be directing Parks.” She placed a maternal hand on Brooke’s arm. “My very best.”
    Brooke lifted an ironic brow. Claire was always lavish with praise in public and miserly with it behind closed doors. “Hello, Mr. Dutton.”
    Her hand was grabbed hard and pumped briskly. Discreetly, Brooke flexed her fingers while she made a swift survey. He was shorter than she was and rather round with thinning hair and startling black eyes. A creature of first impressions, she liked him on the spot.
    â€œHere’s to a long, successful relationship,” he announced and banged his glass exuberantly against hers. “Parks is eager to begin.”
    â€œIs he?” Brooke smiled, remembering Parks’s description of his venture into