Книга - A Real Live Hero

A Real Live Hero
Kimberly Van Meter


TV producer Delainey Clarke thought she was done with Homer, Alaska. Until a last-ditch attempt to save her career lands her in town, filming a reality show pilot about expert search and rescue tracker Trace Sinclair.Trace is also the man whose heart she broke in half years ago. A man whose kisses are as powerful as the grudge he still holds against her.Delainey can’t afford to let Trace’s attitude interfere with production—any more than she can resist falling back into his bed. But for how long? Because Delainey isn’t trading Hollywood for Homer…not even for Trace.







Go big, or go home

TV producer Delainey Clarke thought she was done with Homer, Alaska. Until a last-ditch attempt to save her career lands her in town, filming a reality-show pilot about expert search-and-rescue tracker Trace Sinclair. Trace is also the man whose heart she broke in half years ago. A man whose kisses are as powerful as the grudge he still holds against her.

Delainey can’t afford to let Trace’s attitude interfere with production—any more than she can resist falling back into his bed. But for how long? Because Delainey isn’t trading Hollywood for Homer…not even for Trace.


“I don’t care what you have to say.”

Trace pointed to the door. “You can show yourself out.”

“Trace, please?”

“No.”

“The least you can do is just humor me and listen to what I’ve got to say?”

“And why should I do that?” he asked. “Because we parted on amicable terms? Because you’re a decent person? Because you always have everyone else’s well-being in mind?” Delainey’s stare narrowed and he laughed because they both knew none of those reasons were true. “My point exactly. You have no leverage with me. The minute I saw that fake smile you pasted on for my benefit, I knew you came with something in mind.”

“Fine,” she said with a dark glower. “You’ve caught me. I need your help.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“Is that all you’ve got for me after everything we’d been through?” she countered, her eyes glazing a little. “At one time, you loved me.”

“A long time ago.” He stared, unable to believe she’d thrown that card down. “A very long time ago.”


Dear Reader,

I love writing complicated love stories—ones with twisted, gnarled attachments and entanglements—and that’s exactly what you’ll find with Trace and Delainey. Difficult choices, painful pasts, and yet the heart wants what the heart wants, right? That’s how I felt about these two lovers, both strong and stubborn at the same time, neither willing to admit that they were wrong, but the love they share refuses to die. How romantic!

But this story isn’t only about two lovers, it’s about the sphere of influence surrounding them as they struggle through the complicated mess that is their life, which includes family, friends and career. Life isn’t always pretty, but the joy is that much sweeter when you search for it.

I hope you enjoy Trace and Delainey’s love story; I certainly enjoyed writing it.

Hearing from readers is a special joy. Please feel free to drop me a line via email through my website, at www.kimberlyvanmeter.com (http://www.kimberlyvanmeter.com), or through snail mail, at Kimberly Van Meter, P.O. Box 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.

Kimberly Van Meter


A Real Live Hero

Kimberly Van Meter




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kimberly Van Meter wrote her first book at sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for the Mills & Boon Superromance and Mills & Boon Romantic Suspense lines. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.


A writer relies on many research tools to aid the task of creating a completely fictitious world, and while the internet has become an invaluable tool in that endeavor, talking to knowledgeable people cannot be beat.

To that end, I’d like to thank Hollywood producers Jeff Mercer and Christina Villegas for answering my many questions about producing a reality show on location in Alaska.

Any mistakes are my own and no reflection of their true talents!

And to my son, Jaidyn…I am so proud of the young man you’re turning into.

I know you’ll go far no matter where you go or what you do in life.


Contents

Chapter One (#u2f43143c-0d81-58d4-acc3-0cdfc9c5c0bd)

Chapter Two (#uf27e28db-ed57-54fe-a43e-dc80ea7c360d)

Chapter Three (#u64f8a10c-b43e-5a18-9628-f84bd8f8efd7)

Chapter Four (#u1c08499e-dfae-5996-9057-dbf392ceadb8)

Chapter Five (#u3085611b-a005-53c6-813b-84f4c43cd709)

Chapter Six (#u6d4e0bc7-47cf-59b1-81c2-142b9b541972)

Chapter Seven (#u7d6d1d90-c6db-5b4e-ab51-10c981e3f514)

Chapter Eight (#u82d84664-a7b6-56a5-9e33-b3ec9228d37e)

Chapter Nine (#uda126fae-ea48-5c17-8cc8-a83b5ea4cde7)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

“TOUGH BREAK ON Vertical Blind.”

Delainey Clarke glanced up at the sympathetic voice and offered a tight smile in response, but hurried all that much more quickly down the brightly lit hallway, hoping she could reach her small cubicle of an office and hide.

She managed to slip inside and dropped the fake smile the minute she was safely behind the closed door.

Tough break? More like death knell. Vertical Blind had been her last chance at making her mark at the network as an associate producer, and it had bombed so badly her boss had not only passed on picking up the pilot but had given her newest idea the sardonic brow, as if to ask, “Are you kidding me?” which did not bode well for her future.

Hollywood was a rough town—no, actually, it wasn’t a town at all because that would imply that it was inhabited by people. Hollywood was a shark tank, and she was definitely feeling more like chum than a predator at the top of the food chain. What was she going to do? At this rate, she needed more than just a hit, she needed an award-winning, knock-it-out-of-the-park hit in order to restore her status around the network before someone else came along and booted her from her tiny, cramped office.

Suddenly, the back of her head connected with the door as someone tried to enter, and she stumbled away, rubbing the back of her skull with a scowl as Hannah Yaley walked in looking day-spa fresh and plainly perplexed.

“Delainey...were you leaning against the door?” she asked.

Speaking of sharks. Delainey smiled for Hannah’s benefit, though why she even bothered, Delainey wasn’t sure. They didn’t like each other, but for the sake of appearances they played the same passive games as everyone else in this fake town. “What can I do for you, Hannah?” she asked, smoothing the tiny wrinkles from her slim skirt and wondering how Hannah always managed to look as if she’d just collected her clothes from the dry cleaners. “Congratulations on the ratings of Hubba Hubba,” she added with false cheer while gagging on the inside. Reality shows were cheap to produce and easy to make a good impression on within the right demographic, but shooting a reality show about the wild shenanigans of college coeds during spring break was like shooting fish in a barrel. Hubba Hubba had beaten out every other show in its demographic, making Hannah Yaley the new network darling. And Hannah hated Delainey.

“Thank you, we’re very proud of our team,” Hannah murmured with put-on modesty. Then her expression crumpled appropriately as she added, “I was so bummed to hear about Vertical Blind. I had such high hopes.”

Sure you did. “Well, I should’ve known... A drama about rock climbing was a logistic nightmare, not to mention expensive, and if you don’t get the right time slot...” She let the rest of the excuses trail, knowing she sounded like a pathetic loser and preferring to act as if the failure was simply an unfortunate casualty of the business and no real tragedy to her personally.

God, if only that were true. Hannah nodded in complete understanding, but her eyes glittered with undisguised mirth as she said, “Well, I just wanted to pop in and see how you were doing. I was worried you might’ve taken this recent failure a little hard. But I should’ve known you’d handle it with grace. You are such an inspiration, Delainey. If I were you, I’d probably end up sobbing in a corner, sucking down vodka and cranberry until I died of alcohol poisoning.” She emitted a sharp laugh at her own joke, and Delainey gave her a brittle smile in return.

“Yes, well, where I’m from, giving up isn’t an option.”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re from Alaska....” Hannah shuddered delicately. “Must be murder on the skin. But then, it’s not as if there’s much opportunity to show much skin when you’re bundled in a parka, right?”

Delainey affected a surprised expression as she glanced at the wall clock. “Damn, I have an appointment to get to,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Thanks for checking up on me. It means a lot that you care.”

Hannah’s expression was mildly frosty as she replied, “Of course. We girls have to stick together in this boys’ club.”

“Absolutely,” Delainey agreed, yet wished she could roll her eyes so hard she saw her brain. Just once, she’d like to call Hannah on all her fake bullshit, but Hannah was the favored one right now and Delainey was already getting appraising glances from the other producers, the vultures. She shouldered her purse and followed Hannah out into the hall. “Anyway, good chatting with you. On to bigger and better, right?”

Hannah’s expression was patronizing as she said, “That a girl. Such spirit...” before walking away—and if Delainey wasn’t mistaken, her shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

Argh! Delainey wished she had a real appointment to dash off to. That might lift her spirits at least a little bit, but as it was, her calendar was depressingly free of appointments. No one was interested in taking a meeting with Delainey Clarke.

Not even the public access channels.

When she’d first arrived in California, she’d been hungry for a new life. Everything had been new and exciting, and she’d been eager to learn the rules of Hollywood’s brutal social game. But the bloom had certainly worn off the rose at this point. You’re just depressed over Vertical Blind, she told herself, trying to prop up her ego and heal her bruised feelings. This is the nature of the business that you love.

Did she love it? Not at the moment.

Delainey detoured to her favorite coffee shop, and even though she knew she shouldn’t spend the money on such a frivolous purchase, she really didn’t think she could face the rest of the day without something sugary and caffeinated.

She needed a hit. God, please. She’d come too far to fail now. She’d do anything to succeed. Just send me something I can work with...

* * *

TRACE SINCLAIR FOUGHT the urge to bat the microphone out of his face as he cast the reporter at the other end a dark look. “I’ve already given a statement,” he said curtly, pushing his way past the throng of reporters all clamoring for an exclusive that he’d already said repeatedly he wasn’t going to give. Damn nuisances. He was just doing his job. Why didn’t they pester someone who was interested in flapping their jaws about themselves?

“Is it true you’re the best tracker in the state of Alaska?”

“How did you know where to find Clarissa Errington?”

“Were the conditions a hindrance to your tracking skills?”

“How close to death was the governor’s daughter when you rescued her from the mountain?”

“Please, Mr. Sinclair, don’t you know you’re a hero? Wouldn’t you like to tell your side of the story?”

“No.”

“Mr. Sinclair!”

Trace climbed into his truck and gladly put the horde behind him, finally able to breathe. But before he could fully relax, his cell phone rang. He peered at the evil piece of technology that he abhorred and restrained himself from chucking it into a snowbank when he saw his boss’s number pop up on the screen. He bit back a muttered curse and answered the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Would it kill you to grant an interview or two? It’s really good publicity for the Search and Rescue program, and we could use a little good press, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s not my job to pander to the press. It’s my job to find people. End of story. I don’t remember reading anything in my job description that said one word about granting interviews that no one’s going to care about when the next big story hits.”

“No one cares about lost tourists—but everyone cares about a lost thirteen-year-old girl who just happens to be the governor’s daughter. It might not be your thing, but it’s big news, and you will give the press a story.”

“If I said ‘bite me,’ would you fire me?” he asked.

“No, because that’s exactly what you’d want me to do so you could get out of talking to the press. C’mon, Trace...take one for the team. We need this.”

Trace swore and shook his head, knowing Peter would badger him almost as incessantly as the press, and frankly, it would be harder to avoid his boss than the reporters. “One interview,” he said. “And I mean—one.”

“I guess if that’s all I can get out of you,” grumbled Peter, adding a sharp, “But it’d better be a good interview. Plug the program several times and make sure you mention how you couldn’t have found the girl without your support crew.”

“Yeah, sure,” Trace said. “Gotta go. Set up the interview and let me know when and where. I’ll show up with bells on.”

“Sure you will,” Peter said, not believing him for a second. “If you don’t show up...”

“I will,” he assured Peter, sighing. “I promise.”

“Good.” Peter clicked off and Trace tossed his phone onto the seat, freshly irritated. He didn’t understand what the big fascination was with him doing his job. Nobody got this fired up about the mailman delivering the mail. Why should anyone care about what he did? In a perfect world, everyone minded their own damn business and left each other alone.

He hated reporters.

He hated the limelight.

And he most definitely hated toeing the line for someone else’s agenda.

The only thing that made this situation tolerable was the fact that Clarissa Errington hadn’t been frozen solid by the time he’d found her.

He swallowed the sour lump in his throat. Clarissa had cried with relief when she’d seen him appear from the dense forest, his orange vest blazoned with Search and Rescue in bold black lettering, and she had stumbled into his arms, terrified and sobbing, so cold she could barely hold on to him.

It wasn’t that he was flippant about saving a child’s life; it was that he simply didn’t want accolades for doing his job. He wasn’t a hero, and he hated when anyone used that term to describe him.

He was no hero. He was just a guy trying to make a living doing the only thing he’d ever been good at.

What was so interesting about that?

He needed a beer. Maybe two or three. Was it considered bad form to show up to an interview drunk? Celebrities did it, so why couldn’t he? That ought to quash any more of that hero talk that kept getting tossed around.

Peter would likely blow his top if he walked in three sheets to the wind, and Trace didn’t want an earful from Peter’s wife, Cindy, who’d blame him for causing Peter’s blood pressure to skyrocket.

Nope, he realized. Stone-cold sober was the only way available to him.

Just get it over with and be done with it, he told himself.

Twenty minutes of his life and then he could put the nuisance behind him. After that, everything could return to normal and the rest of the world would find something else to chew on while he went back to doing his job—quietly and without microphones being shoved in his face.


CHAPTER TWO

DELAINEY SETTLED INTO her leather-backed chair, ready to throw everything she had into this pitch meeting, having spent a week brainstorming for the most interesting and stellar idea for a new show in the hopes that the gods of television were smiling down on her and would grant her a boon.

Her nerves buzzed from too much caffeine, but she was operating on too little sleep and couldn’t chance that she might doze off at the most inopportune time. Calm down, she told herself sternly, working hard to breathe slowly and steadily to still her shaking fingers. This is only the single most important meeting of your life, so why stress? Ugh.

Frank Pilcher, head of programming, sat at the head of the long conference table, looking as austere and foreboding as ever, and no matter how many times Delainey tried smiling and putting on her best face, he rarely appreciated her efforts. In short, that man terrified her—more so now than ever because that baleful stare seemed centered on her more than anyone else. Or maybe she was just being paranoid....

“Vertical Blind has, in the history of this network, lost more money in the first six weeks than any new show given the green light from this company in the past five years. What have you got for us to lose money on this time, Ms. Clarke?”

Oh. Maybe she wasn’t being paranoid. Was it possible to slide down in her chair and slink from the room on the power of her own mortification? A shaky smile fit itself to her lips and she opened her day planner with all her notes and ideas, but her eyesight had begun to swim.

“Well?”

“Uh, yes, well, Vertical Blind did not perform as well as we had hoped,” Delainey admitted, clearing her voice when a small shake betrayed her. “But, I have been studying the demographic test groups and have found that—”

“Conversely, Ms. Yaley, your show, Hubba Hubba, is blowing all projections out of the water,” Frank said, cutting Delainey off in midsentence, causing her cheeks to flare with heat as she had no choice but to sit and nod in response to Frank’s assessment. “The kids seem to like watching one train wreck after another ad nauseum.”

“Yes, sir. We are very pleased with the momentum of Hubba Hubba,” Hannah said with a smile. “The show easily snags the seventeen to twenty-five age bracket, and already we’re getting calls from quality advertisers eager to place their product in the commercial slots. Overall, I’d call Hubba Hubba a smashing success, one the network can be proud of.”

“It’s lucrative for sure, but something to be proud of? I wouldn’t go that far,” Frank said, surprising both Hannah and Delainey. “Although Vertical Blind dropped like a stone, the concept was, at least, less inane than Hubba Hubba.”

Hannah lost her smug smile and nodded, unsure of how to respond, not that it mattered because Frank had moved on. “There was a time when we made quality programming. We need to find a way to do that as well as continue to make money. Thus far, we’ve missed that mark. I want to hear ideas that do both. And I don’t want to hear any more ideas about shows that follow young, drunken idiots around all summer,” he warned the group with a dark glare. “I want to hear something people can really get behind and care about, and not because it’s filled with debauchery or alcohol-soaked shenanigans.”

Hannah pretended to study her notes, as if she’d actually jotted something down that might fit the criteria, but Delainey knew for a fact that since Hubba Hubba was a hit, Hannah had been looking for several different ways to copy its success, relying mainly on the same format and concept.

Which left the floor open for Delainey to take the stage and show Frank what she could do. “Actually, as I was saying, I think I may have some ideas you might like,” she started, flipping the pages until she came to the circled ideas. “I was thinking there aren’t any cooking shows aimed at teens—”

“Teenagers don’t cook,” Ira West interrupted drily. “I should know. I have two at home who barely know how to operate the toaster.”

“Right, scratch that,” she said, drawing a line through the idea and moving to the next. “So, America loves an underdog. I was thinking of something along the lines of—”

“Alaska!” Frank snapped his fingers with a wide smile that looked wholly unnatural on his face, and her hopes plummeted when she realized he hadn’t been listening to a word she’d been saying. “We need that guy who saved the little girl from the mountains.... What was his name? It’s been all over the news. Fascinating stuff. He’s a tracker. I didn’t even know that people still did that.”

Tracker? In Alaska...? She stared in confusion, hating that she’d spent all that time scribbling notes on pitches she’d never get to present when she should’ve been watching the damn news instead. She looked around the table, and confused expressions mirrored hers until Ira ventured, “I think his name is something like Trick? Trent? It’s a weird name, I remember that much....”

Suddenly, Delainey’s lips felt numb. Could it be? No way. It wasn’t possible. But...he was the only tracker in Alaska who might’ve had the skills to rescue that girl.... What the hell...she’d take the chance and hope she was right. “Might it have been Trace Sinclair?” she supplied in a small voice, hoping to God that fate wouldn’t be that cruelly interested in watching her squirm like a gutted worm on a hook.

Much to her chagrin, Frank snapped his fingers with open glee. “That’s it. Trace Sinclair. That’s a name with charisma. And his job is interesting, too. Sort of a throwback to the old ways. Is he an Indian of some sort? Maybe his skills were passed down from his ancestors....Wouldn’t that make a good story?”

“He’s not a Native Yupik. He’s as white as you and I,” she murmured, hardly able to believe they were discussing Trace Sinclair around the war room table. “But he’s the best tracker in the state of Alaska, or so I’ve heard.”

Hannah turned slightly hostile as she asked, “And how do you know so much about this man?”

That was privileged information and she was not about to spill her private details, but when she saw the avid interest in Frank’s eyes as well as the envious looks around the table for having valuable information, she immediately sat a little straighter and smiled more brightly as she answered without hesitation. “Oh, Trace and I grew up together in Homer. We’re great friends. He and I chat all the time—when he’s not out saving lives, of course,” she proclaimed, hoping she wasn’t struck down by lightning for blatantly lying through her teeth. It wasn’t that she didn’t know him—oh, Delainey knew Trace better than anyone on this planet—but she’d definitely lied about their close ties.

Truth was, Trace probably wouldn’t spit on her if she were on fire.

But no one else had to know that, least of all anyone at this table.

“So if you’re such close pals, how come you didn’t know who Mr. Pilcher was referencing?” Hannah asked, suspicious.

“Honestly, sometimes I forget that what Trace does is so exciting. And my mind was focused on all the great ideas I’d planned to pitch today,” she said, trying to steer the conversation back to her advantage.

Frank waved everyone else into silence as he pinned Delainey with an expectant look. “Schedule a meeting with this man,” he said. “I want to meet him.”

A flush of fear crept up her neck as she faked an airy laugh. “Oh, Mr. Pilcher, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Trace is way too busy for a trip to California, even if it were to meet someone as important as you. But the next time I chat with him I’ll let him know you’re a fan.”

“I think he’ll want to hear what I have to say,” Frank said. “I think the next big thing is going to be the heroes of Search and Rescue, like your friend, Trace. Imagine this...cameras following Trace—is he good-looking?” Frank paused for Delainey to answer.

“Very,” she admitted. “The camera would love him. The female fan mail would be astronomical.”

Frank liked her answer. “Excellent. The cameras follow Trace as he tracks people in the Alaskan wilderness, saving lives. We could play up the dramatic element—will he or won’t he save them? You have to watch to find out! This could be big.”

“I’d be happy to go to Alaska to talk to this Trace Sinclair. I could be on the first flight out tonight,” Hannah offered.

Hannah alone with Trace? Delainey knew she had no room to be territorial, but the idea of Hannah putting her moves on Trace made her want to howl. “I’ll go,” Delainey said quickly. “I know the area and he and I are already friends, so it makes sense for me to go.”

Frank agreed. “Delainey has a point,” he said, causing Hannah to deflate somewhat—and that made Delainey happy.

Emboldened, Delainey added, “I can almost guarantee that I can get Trace to agree to shoot a pilot, Mr. Pilcher. I doubt Trace would even talk to anyone else.”

“Is he a difficult sort of fellow?” Frank asked.

“Not difficult,” she hedged, praying for forgiveness. “But I know we’d have a better chance of success if someone he felt comfortable with brokered the deal.”

Frank agreed with Delainey’s completely fictitious logic, and she wanted to fall face-first onto the table. Maybe she should’ve gone into screenwriting instead of producing. Seems she had a flair for making stuff up. Good grief, what was she getting herself into? Frank looked pleased with himself as he announced, “It’s a done deal then. Delainey will go to Alaska and talk to this Trace Sinclair immediately. The story is hot right now and I want to hook into the momentum.”

Just talk to Trace? Maybe that was doable. She knew for a fact Trace wouldn’t agree to a pilot, but Frank didn’t know that and surely he wouldn’t fault her for failing, right? But just as Delainey’s despair had begun to lift, Frank added, “Don’t come back without a signed contract in your hand.”

Oh, hell. There went her career. She managed a nod as if her mission were completely possible, and she scooped up her day planner, phone and other miscellaneous items before scurrying from the war room, her heart beating hard enough to make a bruise.

What had she done? Had she just promised to deliver Trace Sinclair—a notoriously private individual—to the head of programming when she had less than zero chance of success?

She was sunk.

She might as well have promised Mr. Pilcher to deliver a unicorn while she was promising the moon. Go back and tell him the truth—that Trace Sinclair probably hated you for breaking his heart and splitting when he’d needed you the most.

Delainey swallowed, not quite sure if she was choking down a ball of shame or regret. Either way it didn’t feel good, and she wondered if she was on the cusp of a nervous breakdown.

She was on the brink of losing everything. She’d left Homer to make a name for herself in Hollywood as the next Nora Ephron, and thus far all she’d managed to do was scare off every talent in the area as the kiss of death. No one wanted to work with her, and she was dangerously close to losing her condo. Sure, she’d overpaid in the first place, but she’d assumed once she started making the big bucks, the mortgage would be a snap. Well, the big bucks had yet to pour in, and Delainey was suffocating under that monster payment. But she loved her condo. It had represented her new beginning, a bold, fresh start after wrenching herself out of a lifestyle that had nearly sucked her in under the guise of love.

She couldn’t lose her condo.

She couldn’t lose her job.

Bottom line: if Trace Sinclair stood between her and success, she’d truss him like a Christmas turkey and deliver the man with a bow perched on top of his blond head.

Watch out, Alaska. I’m coming home.


CHAPTER THREE

TRACE WAS AN early riser by habit, but this morning he buried his splitting head beneath his pillow, with a groan, to escape the sunlight slanting in from his bedroom window and stabbing him in the eye.

God, he would never drink like that again. Ever.

Damn reporter. He knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to start talking about himself and what he did for a living, because invariably someone with a nose for research would turn up his sister’s case and his role in it. Simone’s death was always a juicy story, no matter that it was nearly a decade old. And just when Trace had started to relax, the woman peppered him with questions from the past.

“When you were searching for thirteen-year-old Clarissa Errington, were you worried you might have a repeat of what happened with your youngest sister, Simone Sinclair?”

That one question had frozen Trace’s lips and he’d simply stared at the woman, immediately filled with disgust. “I’m not here to talk about the past,” he said, shooting a glare at Peter for putting him in this predicament. Peter looked chagrined but motioned for him to continue. “We can talk about the Errington case and that’s it,” he practically growled, but the woman was a bulldog and didn’t let it go.

“Tell me how it felt to save young Errington and how it contrasted with not being able to save your sister. Are you in this business because of your sister? Did that one tragedy—”

“This interview is over.” He ripped off the mic clipped to his shirt and tossed it to the ground. The reporter looked aghast and shocked, which only went to prove that she didn’t have the sense God gave a goose. He sent Peter a stony look, and Peter dropped his head in his hand in frustration. The last thing Trace saw before he left was Peter talking to the reporter. Whether Peter was trying to smooth things over or trying to stand up for Trace was unknown, and Trace didn’t care. It was time for that beer.

One beer had turned into two, then three and then he lost count.

And now he was paying for his indulgence.

He made his way into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, then gulped down three aspirins with a swallow of water while he waited. Trace bent over the sink and splashed his face several times with ice-cold water. The frigid shock chased away the grogginess but made his head want to explode. Just as he was about to pour a blessed cup of the strong, dark brew, he was stalled by a polite but firm knock on his door. What the...? Very few knew where he lived and even fewer visited. And those who would, rarely bothered because he was never home.

He stalked to the door and jerked it open, ready to scare off whoever had the misfortune of knocking on his door today, but when he found who was standing on his doorstep, for a moment all he could do was stare in total shock as awareness rippled through him like an unpleasant virus bent on destroying him from the inside out.

“Hello, Trace.”

An attractive but entirely too thin platinum blonde stood smiling at him with white gleaming teeth. Was this some kind of joke? Some kind of sick prank? She looked different but he’d recognize those green eyes anywhere— Hell, he’d stared into them enough times to sear them into memory forever. “What are you doing here?” His voice was flat, emotionless and entirely unwelcoming, but she didn’t seem to notice. She started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Forget it, I changed my mind. I don’t care.” And then he slammed the door in her face.

Delainey Clarke had balls of steel to show up on his doorstep. Balls of ever-lovin’ steel.

“C’mon, Trace, don’t be rude,” she said from behind the door. “I need to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing you could say that I would want to hear,” he called out, going to his coffeepot and pouring himself a cup. He lifted the cup to his lips and heard the door opening. She’d always been a pushy broad, which probably worked in her favor in California. He turned with a scowl, but she didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t exactly ushering her in with open arms. “Don’t you understand what a slammed door means? It means you’re not wanted,” he said, emphasizing the words.

“Once you hear what I have to say, you’re going to thank me,” she assured him with a bright, completely fake smile that he could see right away was part of her gimmick.

“I don’t care what you have to say,” he disagreed, pointing to the door. “You can show yourself out, the same way you showed yourself in. And lose my address.”

“Trace, please?”

“No.”

The sudden tightening of her jaw nearly made him laugh. Delainey had never been much of a poker player. Everything she felt and thought ran across her face like a ticker tape. “Why do you have to be such a jerk all of the time?” she asked, crossing her arms. “The least you can do is just humor me and listen to what I’ve got to say.”

“And why should I do that?” he asked, almost conversationally. “Because we parted on amicable terms? Because you’re a decent person? Because you always have everyone else’s well-being in mind?” Delainey’s stare narrowed and he laughed because they both knew none of those reasons were true. “My point exactly. You have no leverage with me. I don’t care what you’re selling. And trust me, the minute I saw that fake smile you pasted on for my benefit, I knew you came with something in mind.”

“Fine,” she said with a dark glower. “You’ve caught me. I need your help, and if there was anyone else on this planet I could ask I would. But of all the dumb bad luck, you’re the only one I can ask.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“Is that all you’ve got for me after everything we’ve been through?” she countered, her eyes glazing a little. “At one time, you loved me.”

“A long time ago.” He stared, unable to believe she threw that card down. “A very long time ago.”

She held his stare and after a long moment said, “Listen, I suppose you have no reason to care any longer, but I’m on the verge of losing everything if I don’t succeed in convincing you to become the next star of the network I work for.” At his incredulous expression, she pushed forward in a rush. “You don’t understand. This could be good for both of us. I’m not asking you to do something for me without being compensated. Trust me, the money is good. And if the pilot gets picked up, it could mean even more money with endorsements and commercial deals, and I could help you navigate the tricky contract—”

“You mean you would help me negotiate a legal document?” he mocked, and she stopped her spiel. He gave her a patronizing look. “I wouldn’t trust you to negotiate my cell phone bill.”

“I could lose everything if I don’t land this deal,” she said, her eyes filling for real this time. “Please help me, Trace. All you have to do is agree to film the pilot, and anything after that we can renegotiate. I need this. My last three shows have tanked and no one wants to hear my pitches anymore. I’m like the black plague of Hollywood.”

Trace sipped his coffee, unable to believe her nerve and unwilling to believe her tears. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re a resourceful girl.”

“Damn you, Trace,” she muttered, wiping at the moisture leaking from her eyes. “I never realized how much of an unfeeling bastard you are.”

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Funny, I thought the same thing about you when you threw my offer of marriage in my face right about the time when my entire world was crumbling. I guess what they say about karma is true.”

“That’s not fair and not even the same,” she said hotly. “Are you such a weak individual that you’d dredge up the past to hurt me now?”

“I’m not dredging up anything. I’m stating facts. And I wasn’t the one who brought up the past first. You tried to guilt me into dancing to your tune by bringing up our history. But, honey, what you don’t realize is that for me, the past is simply that and I have no interest in revisiting it.” He walked away with a wave. “Sorry for the wasted trip. I hope your plane doesn’t drop into the ocean on your way back to California.”

He heard her gasp and then the front door slammed again as she bolted. He hoped that was the last time he saw Delainey Clarke ever again.

And he’d mistakenly thought his crippling hangover was the worst way to start his day....

* * *

RUDE. OBNOXIOUS. Petty. Selfish—a litany of unflattering words skipped across Delainey’s brain as she drove back into town. And after she’d exhausted all the mean words she could think of to describe the man she’d once fancied herself madly in love with, she tried feverishly to think of a way to salvage the situation.

Perhaps she could find another tracker who might be willing to step into the limelight.... But even as she entertained the idea, she discarded it. That curmudgeon Pilcher wanted Trace—no substitutes would suffice—and if she didn’t deliver the man, her tiny cubicle of an office was going to get a new resident and she’d be out on the street.

How could Trace be so cold to her after everything they’d been through? They’d been high school sweethearts and his sister, Miranda, had been her best friend. At one time, they’d been thick as thieves. And now? Well, she was surprised at how much it stung that he couldn’t stand the sight of her. For the briefest moment, she toyed with the memory of Trace, his dark blond hair a tousled mess, and his eyes warm with adoration as he stared down at her, his touch as gentle as a summer breeze. Trace had always been the quiet type, but with her he’d opened up. They’d spent hours, fingers twined together, planning an imaginary future that, now as she recalled the details, had been plainly impossible given her dreams and goals.

“We’ll have two kids—twins!—and they’ll be the cutest kids on the planet, of course,” she’d chattered happily one day their senior year while they were lying side by side on his parents’ roof, staring up at the summer sky. “And you’ll, of course, be the best dad in the world because you’re so patient and kind and super smart. I’ll work in California and come home on the weekends, or maybe you could do something in California and we could get a cute apartment together. I can’t wait to live someplace where you can wear shorts and a T-shirt nearly all year long. I’m tired of all the snow and freezing my tail off.”

Trace had laughed at her impassioned declaration and then had distracted her by sealing his mouth to hers, and his tactic had worked...for a time.

But in the end, Delainey had had no intentions of staying in Homer, no matter who was doing the asking. Sadness tugged at her heartstrings for the loss of something special, but she didn’t see the sense in crying for the past when there was nothing that could be done about changing it. Besides, her future wasn’t in Homer. She belonged in warm, sunny California, where the beaches were dotted with surfers and bikini-clad girls. Already she felt the Alaskan chill seeping into her bones, trying to take up permanent residence in her marrow. No, she may have been born in Alaska to a fisherman’s family, but Delainey was meant for bigger things, which is why Trace was going to help her get what she needed, whether he wanted to or not.

So how was she supposed to encourage Trace to do something he plainly didn’t want to do?

Hollywood was filled with difficult people; she’d just have to find a way to work around Trace. And if she couldn’t do that, she’d find a way to compel him to sign on the dotted line.

She detoured from her route and headed for the Search and Rescue office. Perhaps if she couldn’t get Trace to see things her way, his boss could.

There was more than one way to skin a cat—and she was desperate enough to try anything.


CHAPTER FOUR

DELAINEY HAD BRIEFLY considered going straight to Trace’s boss to plead her case to someone in actual authority, but after taking a critical look at her travel-wrinkled clothing and the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of expensive, high-end concealer could completely hide, she knew she had to freshen up first. For that matter, now that she gave it some more thought, she probably should’ve done that before attempting to persuade Trace to join Team Delainey after such a protracted hiatus, but she’d been running on pure adrenaline and hadn’t wanted to stop to think.

Sometimes thinking was bad. She needed action, not bouts of quiet pondering.

However, since her first plan had blown up in her face in spectacular fashion, she had to adjust her tactics.

She gripped her suitcase handle and blew out a determined breath as she stared at the small house where she grew up. If only she’d had it in the budget to spring for a hotel. The network usually paid for those things, but Hannah had to open her big fat mouth—that woman was the devil—and Pilcher hadn’t approved the hotel voucher. Delainey couldn’t help but worry that Pilcher was punishing her for the failure of Vertical Blind, which made her only all the more desperate to close this deal.

Which meant, for the time being, sucking up her aversion and distaste at the idea of going home and making the best of it.

Oh, God, if only she didn’t hate this place. Everything looked the same—same worn and faded shutters that never saw a fresh coat of paint ever, same stench of fish everywhere—same bleak sense of poverty clinging to every plank.

Panic overwhelmed her good sense, and she entertained the option of putting a hotel stay on her personal credit card. But she was already maxed out, and her savings account was, frankly, anemic at this point. So there was no option but the one staring at her.

Delainey purposefully lowered her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was stronger than this. One trip home was not going to derail her. She’d faced down bigger threats than her sad past. No problem.

She opened the door, wincing as it screeched on its hinges. The sound, to her ears, was a loud announcement to everyone in town that Delainey Clarke had returned with her tail between her legs. She jerked her hand away and nearly turned on her heel with a “Screw it” on her lips when she heard her brother’s surprised voice.

“Laney?”

“Thad?” She stared at her younger brother, unsure of her welcome. He looked different, older. Life as an Alaskan fisherman was a hard one, and it’d started taking its toll on her brother. There were faint crow’s-feet bracketing his gray eyes from squinting into the harsh sunlight reflecting from the water, and his arm was in a cast. “Surprise...” she said with a tremulous smile.

“Damn, girl, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Thad said, breaking into a grin and quickly folding her into a hug. She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the subtle scent of fish clinging to his clothing, but it brought back a wash of unpleasant memories and she had to stop herself from stiffening. Thankfully, Thad hadn’t noticed. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day...”

That made two of them. Delainey shrugged and smiled. “I had some business to do in the area and thought it was time for a visit.”

At that, his expression was mildly reproachful as he said, “Yeah, it’s been a long time. Too long. I know you and Pops didn’t exactly part on good terms, but eight years is a long time between visits.”

Guilt tugged at her. He was right but the idea of coming home before she’d achieved her goals had been an effective deterrent to visiting, even though at one time she and her brother had been close. She supposed it was her fault they’d drifted apart. “Did you get the Christmas card I sent?” she asked.

“Yeah. It was real sweet. That gas gift card was nice, too. Pretty extravagant, too, but I suppose when you’re pulling down the cash like you are...” Thad’s misplaced pride only made Delainey feel that much more like a fraud, but she had to shelve those feelings for now. Besides, if she managed to land Trace, her worries would be over. Finally.

“What happened to your arm?” she asked.

He lifted his arm to glance at it then answered with a shrug. “Slipped on fish guts and landed wrong. Pretty stupid way to break an arm. No glory at all,” he said. She smiled. Her brother hadn’t changed much. He was pretty much still the man-boy she’d left behind, and for that she was grateful. Thad reached for her suitcase and took it before she could protest. “I’ll put this in your room. How long are you staying?”

“Not long,” she answered, wandering the living room, wondering when her father and brother became better housecleaners. She’d expected an inch or so of dust on every surface, but everything was surprisingly clean. “If you’re not on the boat, who’s working with Pops?”

“He’s got a few guys he picked up for short-time work. My cast is supposed to come off within the next two weeks, and then I’ll be right as rain. It’s a good thing I was here when you arrived. Pops is sure gonna be shocked when he sees you.” The slight nervousness in Thad’s voice didn’t surprise Delainey. The homecoming wasn’t likely to be filled with a joyous hug and reminiscing. “Hey, Laney, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She nodded, half listening, and went to the kitchen. Again, the cleanliness shocked her. Her father had never been one to lift a finger when it came to domestic stuff and surely hadn’t expected Thad to pick up the slack, either. All of the household responsibilities had fallen on her shoulders, no matter that she’d been only nine when her mother had died. She couldn’t count the times she’d slaved in that kitchen, wishing and hoping for a different life. She hated fish, and when her father had put little store in her doing anything more than cooking, cleaning and eventually marrying a man from good fishermen stock and settling down, she’d burned with a desperate desire to bolt at the first chance. Delainey roused herself from her mental walkabout just in time to catch Thad’s awkward conversation.

“Laney...if you give her a chance you might really like her. She’s good for Pops, you know? I mean, she’s real sweet and Pops isn’t the easiest to get along with—”

“Wait... What are you talking about?”

“Brenda.”

“Who is Brenda?” she asked, confused.

“Didn’t you hear me? Brenda is Pops’s woman now. She’s real nice, so don’t go and say anything that’ll hurt her feelings.”

“Pops is dating?” The idea had never occurred to her, but now that she looked at her old house she saw it through different lenses. There was definitely a woman’s touch, aside from the obvious cleanliness. Silk flowers were sitting in a vase on the windowsill and she could actually see through the glass of the window, when before it was crusted with years of mud and hard-water residue.

“He’s more than dating. He married her.”

“Married?” Her father was married? “I couldn’t even get a phone call?”

“Well, Brenda wanted to tell you, but Pops... You know how he can get. He’s still hurt over the way things went down when you split. And you haven’t much tried to fix things since, so he figured you didn’t need to know.”

“He wants me to fix things?” She tried not to be insulted, but her blood pressure rose just the same. “He’s the one who said he never wanted to see me again.”

“You know he just says that stuff. He doesn’t mean it.”

“No, I don’t know that, Thad,” she retorted stiffly. “Where I come from, people mean what they say and say what they mean.” Not exactly. No one in Hollywood spoke from his or her heart. Because no one had one. Being fluent in doublespeak was a requirement, and Delainey had been woefully unprepared when she’d first landed on the scene as a young producer with stars in her eyes. She hated thinking of her young self; so embarrassingly naive. “So he went and got married. Good for him. Is she deaf, dumb and blind?” She’d have to be to voluntarily put up with Harlan Clarke.

“Not generally, but I’ve been told I have an exceedingly cheery disposition, if that counts for anything,” a voice from behind her answered, and Delainey whirled to find a short, chubby woman with apple cheeks and a frizz of dull blondish curls on her head, carrying two grocery bags. Thad rushed to help and the woman unloaded her bags, eyes sparkling with curiosity and knowing. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you, but I must say, I never expected you to be so much like your father.”

“I’m nothing like my father,” Delainey said, stiffening. “You must be Brenda.” At Brenda’s nod, Delainey offered a stilted apology but wanted to sink through the floor. “I didn’t realize you were here. I’m sorry for that comment.”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry yourself about that. From what my friends tell me, stepmothers and their stepdaughters are bound to share words at some point or another, so I figure we’ll just get that out of the way right quick so we can get on with being friends.”

Who was this woman? Delainey looked to Thad, almost for help, but Thad was already on Team Brenda and hoping Delainey would join the team, as well. Unfortunately, Delainey wasn’t interested in being on anyone’s team aside from her own. “I didn’t realize my father had remarried,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Boy, I bet that cut like a razor coming out of your mouth,” Brenda observed almost cheerfully. “Darlin’, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Are you staying for dinner? I’m making your daddy’s favorite, spaghetti with meatballs.”

Delainey looked to Thad with a frown, and he supplied an explanation. “Since Brenda came around, he can’t get enough of her cooking. Loves her spaghetti and meatballs. It’s pretty good. You’ll like it.”

“My, how things change when you miss a few years,” Delainey muttered under her breath, feeling much like Alice when she tumbled down the rabbit hole. “Anything else? Perhaps Pops has suddenly taken a liking to classical music, too?”

“Goodness no, your daddy has a fondness for folk country and always will, bless his soul. I like some George Strait myself, but the bluegrass took some getting used to.” Brenda moved past Delainey and started making herself at home—well, Delainey supposed it was her home now, too. But she was discomfited to realize she felt some bristling sense that Brenda was poaching on her turf when Delainey hadn’t been around in eight years. “Are you too tired to help out? I know that flight can be a doozy. If you’re not too tired, I could always use an extra hand in the kitchen.”

“I don’t cook,” Delainey said flatly. She hadn’t cooked in years, almost refused to after she left Alaska. Cooking was domestic. She wasn’t a housewife. She was a businesswoman who held dinner meetings, if she ate dinner at all. She eyed the pasta. Too many carbs. “I’d planned to stay here, in my old room, but I didn’t realize... If it’s too much trouble, I can get a hotel room.”

“Thad has told me all about his successful sister living the glitz-and-glamour life in Hollywood, but there’s no sense in spending good money when you have family to take you in. Now, go wash your face and spritz off and we’ll gab like old hens in a henhouse before your daddy gets home. I’m sure we have lots in common.”

“I can’t,” she said, sharp enough to earn a pleading look from Thad, but she couldn’t act as if it was completely normal to cook a family meal with her new stepmother—a woman she’d never even known existed until five minutes ago—when it was bad enough that she knew her father wasn’t going to exactly do a cartwheel when he saw his ungrateful, selfish daughter showing her mug around town again. Delainey rubbed at her forehead and knew she couldn’t stay here. No. No. No. “Actually, I think it would be better if I stayed at a hotel. I wouldn’t want to disrupt the house. Besides, as much as I know you’re trying to smooth things over between me and my dad, our issues run deeper than you can imagine. It’s going to take more than sitting around the dinner table stuffing our faces with carbs to change what went wrong between us. I’m sorry.”

Brenda pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “Suit yourself, dear. But remember, regret is a terrible companion. It’s like a houseguest who never leaves.”

“I don’t have any regrets.”

“Sure you do. We all do, but yours are plainer than most, I can tell you that.”

“You don’t know me and I don’t appreciate you foisting your brand of country wisdom on me.” She looked to her brother. “Could you please get my luggage? I’ll find a place to stay elsewhere.”

“Come on, Laney...” But when Thad saw her mind was made up, he dragged her suitcase from the room and handed it to her as she waited by the door, eager to get away. “If you’d just give her a chance,” he said in a low voice that only she could hear.

“I’m not here to make friends, Thad. I just needed a place to sleep. I should’ve known that coming home wasn’t going to be that place.” At his crestfallen expression, she softened minutely. Thad was a good kid and had always been kindhearted. She caressed the scruff on his cheek and said, “I’ll call you when I get settled and we’ll go to lunch. I promise. In the meantime, take care of that arm.”

She’d just slammed the trunk closed when the sound of her father’s old truck rumbled down the street. Perfect timing, she wanted to mutter. Another five minutes and she’d have been gone. If she’d been thinking straight, she never would’ve presumed she could stomach staying with her father. She didn’t care if she ran through her savings account like water through a sieve; she wasn’t sleeping one night under the same roof as that man...and his new wife. Hand on the door handle, she contemplated leaving without a word uttered, but a part of her wanted him to acknowledge her—perhaps only so she could refuse the gesture. But when he stopped for the barest moment and gave her a once-over then kept walking, she balled her fists and wanted to scream. Delainey fought the urge to follow him straight into the house to give him what was coming to him. But she didn’t confront him. No, instead she stood like a statue, staring and doing nothing. Nice to see you, too. What a jerk. She climbed into her rental and drove away, not realizing until she was a mile down the road she had tears tracking down her cheeks.


CHAPTER FIVE

TRACE WANTED TO PUNCH something. No, that wasn’t the right word. He wanted to destroy something. How dare Delainey Clarke show up as if everything was peachy between them. That soul-sucker lost the right to show her mug in his personal space the day she’d thrust his offer of marriage back in his face and left town so fast she broke the sound barrier. And at his bleakest moment! He made it a point not to go there, but seeing Delainey again brought the memory front and center.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense in my life,” Trace had said, bending on one knee, his voice breaking as he presented the small diamond he’d scrimped and saved to purchase. He didn’t make a lot of money but he didn’t spend frivolously either, and it had taken a year to save up the cash to make the biggest purchase of his young life. But she was worth it, he’d told himself. Delainey was his heart and soul, and he needed her in his life more than anything. Especially after Simone. “Please do me the honor of being my wife.”

Delainey had stared at the ring as if it had sprung fangs and hissed at her and she actually took a step back, distancing herself from it and him. “No,” she whispered. Her green eyes had misted and widened and she shook her head, almost in horror. A sick feeling lodged itself in his gut and he felt like a fool kneeling, so he climbed to his feet and snapped the ring box shut. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, confused and hurt. “I know you love me and I love you, so what’s the problem?”

“The problem? If you don’t know, then you don’t know me at all. I have a degree in film production. What kind of job am I going to get here with that?”

“You’re serious about going off to California?” he asked, incredulous. “My career is here. You’ve always known that.”

“And you’ve always known that I have big dreams that aren’t here.”

“Yeah, well, what does that have to do with getting married?” he asked, irritated and defensive. He’d always thought her talk of running off to California was kid stuff, not the kind of real-life aspirations that adults followed through with. He’d assumed she’d use her degree to get a job with the local television studio in Anchorage, certainly not something in Hollywood. But even so, he didn’t understand why she’d reject everything he was offering based on that reason. “I mean, we could still get married, you know. We’d work something out.”

“And if we did, you’d want me to stay here, and I’m not going to stay here. I’ve been saving up for a plane ticket to California and first month’s rent and security deposit for an apartment.”

He stared. “You’ve been planning to leave?”

“Yes. I told you that was my plan after graduating college. I stayed a year past my plan, and I’m not going to stay here another year.” Her eyes, so beautiful to Trace, seemed to harden into green chips of stone as she continued. “You never listen to me, Trace. You’re a country boy and I’m made to be a city girl. I thought we could make it work, but the fact is I’ve been realizing that we’re not meant to be like I thought we were. I was going to tell you...”

“When?” he demanded to know. “After I’d purchased our first home?”

She graced him with a look. “Sarcasm? Is that necessary? This is hard enough to do without you being mean.”

“Forgive me, I just had my dignity stomped into the ground,” he replied caustically, tucking the ring box into his jeans when he really wanted to chuck it as far away from him as he could throw it. “So, are you breaking up with me, too?” At her silence, he swore under his breath, unable to believe this was happening. It was like a bad, bad dream. “You have excellent timing,” he said, happy to use anger as a shield against the pain that was coming. “Excellent timing. I thought I was at my lowest with my baby sister being murdered, but you showed me I had so much further to fall. Thanks, babe. You’re a doll.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face flushing. “I should’ve told you sooner, but then everything happened with Simone and...”

“And what? You wanted to wait to rip out my heart?”

“I was trying to be considerate.”

“Well, thank you for your consideration.” He scorned the sudden appearance of tears in her eyes, saying as he walked away, “Good luck in California. I never want to see you again.”

“Trace...”

But he kept walking. Closing his heart for good.

Trace opened his eyes and realized his fists were clenched so hard his knuckles had whitened and he’d carved little half-moons into his palms. Eight years was a long time, but apparently not long enough. Seeing Delainey again brought all the rage and hurt right back to the surface, spilling over the sides and contaminating everything around it. He hated her. God, he hated her. She’d used him, played him, and then when he hadn’t been of any more use to her, she’d left him behind.

So now Delainey needed him for something? She could go hang herself and see if he cared. Whatever trouble she was in, she could just figure out a solution without his help.

And what the hell had she done to her face and hair? She looked as fake as a three-dollar bill with her platinum-blond hair and button nose. Not much of an improvement, if his opinion mattered much. He’d preferred her light brown hair, which had complemented her green eyes, giving her a mysterious air that was almost bewitching. Now, she just looked like every other plastic woman running around trying to be someone she wasn’t. And she was way too thin. He could practically count the ribs in her side when before Delainey had always been a little on the soft side—not thick by any means, but soft and feminine with full, rounded hips and nice, healthy breasts. Alaska was a harsh place, and having a little meat on the bones helped insulate against the bitter cold. At her current frail size, Delainey was likely to freeze to death waiting for a latte.

He groaned when he realized he was still spending way too much energy thinking about Delainey, and he knew he needed to occupy his mind with something else before he lost it. He dialed his sister Miranda and tapped his finger with agitation as he waited for her to pick up.

“Hey, Trace,” she answered with a smile in her voice. Obviously, she wasn’t aware that her former best friend was strolling around town. Should he tell her? He didn’t want her to be blindsided as he’d been, right? “You’re never going to guess who showed up on my doorstep.”

“Churchgoers trying to save your soul?” Miranda guessed, half joking.

“That would’ve been more welcome than who it actually turned out to be.” He waited a half second before continuing, “Delainey Clarke.”

“What?” All laughter fled from Miranda’s voice, and he could actually imagine his sister sitting straighter in shock. “Are you kidding me?”

“I would never make a joke in such bad taste,” he said. “She knocked on my door looking for a favor of all things. Can you imagine?”

“Wow, that’s either really brave or really stupid,” she said. “So what did she want? Is she dying or something? Or maybe she’s started a twelve-step program and she’s trying to make amends for something.”

“It’s work-related, I guess. She wants me to sign on for some show of hers.”

“You? Plainly she’s forgotten how antisocial you are.”

“Yeah, plainly.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“What do you think? I told her to get off my property and lose my address,” he growled, surprised his sister had to ask. “I don’t owe her anything, and I certainly don’t feel like handing out any favors after what she did to me and my family.”

“Yeah, it sucked,” Miranda agreed, but there was something else in her voice that puzzled Trace.

“She abandoned you, too. You were best friends.”

“I remember. And trust me, I totally understand why you’re not happy to see her again. But aren’t you the least bit curious as to what she’s been doing for the past eight years?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d be curious. How’d she look?”

“Like someone who spends all day staring at food they’re never going to eat.”

“Huh?”

“She’s too skinny.”

“Anything else?”

“Her hair is platinum blond and she definitely had a nose job.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of change. I wonder why she did all that. She was always a pretty girl without all that stuff.”

Pretty didn’t accurately describe Delainey Clarke. She’d been gorgeous, at least to Trace. She’d always been embarrassed by the bump on her nose, but Trace had found it endearing—just one more part of her that had made her unique. Now? She looked plastic. “She wore fake eyelashes, too. And her forehead didn’t move. She probably had her face shot up with that cow pee that everyone talks about.”

“Cow pee? You mean Botox? That’s not cow urine. It’s the bacteria that causes botulism. And if her forehead didn’t move, it’s likely she’s had it done. Scary stuff. But I’m sure in Los Angeles that’s as normal as going to the grocery store to pick up eggs.”

“Yeah, well, she can go right back to L.A. and fit in with her people because there’s sure as hell no place for her here anymore.”

“Is she staying with her dad, I wonder? They didn’t part on good terms, either. She burned every bridge on her way out.”

“No clue. Harlan’s a hard man and always has been. I can’t imagine he’d welcome her with open arms any more than I was willing. But she is his daughter, so who knows.”

“You know he never treated her right,” Miranda reminded him. “I always felt bad for her.”

“Don’t. She’s like a cat—she always lands on her feet.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe she’s changed. A lot can happen in eight years. People can change.”

“You, of all people, are the last person I’d expect to hear say, ‘Maybe she’s changed.’ What’s going on with you?”

“Maybe I’ve grown up,” she said, teasing. “Having a kid does change you. And, I don’t know, maybe I’m tired of carrying around all this anger for things I can’t do anything about. Besides, we need to conserve our energy for the fight on the horizon, which, speaking of, have you managed to drop by our parents’ place yet?”

“No.” He withheld a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, knowing he was going to catch an earful. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy doing what? I thought you were taking a breather after the Errington case.”

“I am, but just because I’m not out with the Search and Rescue crew doesn’t mean I sit around all day.”

“Trace, no one would ever accuse you of sitting around and twiddling your thumbs. You’re not hardwired to sit still for one blessed second.”

Trace couldn’t argue that point. “You know that program, the Junior Search and Rescue?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, every chance I get I’ve been spending it with them. I like the kids. They’re eager to learn and it feels good to pass on the skills, seeing as I don’t have any kids.”

“That’s cool. Speaking of kids...it’d be nice if Talen had a cousin or two,” Miranda said, dropping a not-so-subtle hint.

“Don’t look my way. Talk to Wade. But now that you mention Talen, you ought to have him join the program. I think he’d dig it. He’s an outdoorsy kid, so it’s right up his alley.”

“Good idea. I’ll talk to him about it. I worried he might be too young.”

“Never too young to start learning how to read your surroundings. Dad had us out there as soon as we could walk.”

At the mention of their father, Miranda returned to his least favorite subject.

“Trace, I really need your help. I know it’s not your idea of a good time—trust me, it’s not mine, either—but Mom’s out of control and Dad... Well, he’s almost a lost cause, but Mom’s in danger. We need to get that house cleaned up before it collapses on her.”

Miranda thought their mother had a hoarding problem, but Trace was fairly certain Miranda was exaggerating. How bad could it be? Trace thought the bigger issue was their father’s illegal drug operation. But he’d promised he’d take a look and see for himself. “I’ll go today,” he assured her.

“Should I meet you there?” she asked.

“No. You and Mom tend to spark off one another—”

“Just like you and Dad?” she cut in, knowing him well. “Maybe it’ll help to have a buffer.”

“With any luck, he won’t be around. But even if he is, I’ll keep it civil.”

“Okay. Let me know how it goes.” She hesitated, then added, “And give some thought to what I said about Delainey. You never know...maybe she regrets how things were handled, too.”

Trace bit back an irritated sigh. His sister used to be fierce—almost too much of a ballbuster—but now, she was downright tame thanks to that new guy of hers who’d come in and reintroduced joy to her life. Don’t get him wrong, it was great and all, but sometimes he missed the ballbuster.

“It’s not that I’m not in favor of the kinder, gentler Miranda Sinclair, but you’re wasting your breath and your benefit of the doubt. If anything, she’s gotten worse. She’s a user. So before you go and invite her to lunch or something, remember how she abandoned everyone when they needed her.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re right,” she conceded with a sigh. “If I see her, I’ll try not to clip her with my Range Rover.”

At that, he laughed. “Exactly. Knowing her, she’d have you arrested and that new boyfriend of yours would have to arrange conjugal visits in jail.”

“You’re gross,” Miranda said, but she was laughing as she hung up.

Trace’s smile faded and he tossed his phone to the sofa. Delainey Clarke...why’d she have to come around again? His life had finally settled into a familiar-enough routine that was devoid of too much emotion. He didn’t date—he found most women too clingy—and he made his life revolve around work. And he liked it that way.

He saved lives.

Period.

What did Delainey do with her life? She’d been in an all-fire hurry to get out of Alaska so she could be famous. Had it worked out for her? Was she some bigwig in Hollywood now? She’d said she was in a bind. What kind of bind?

Who cared.

Not Trace.

For the past eight years he’d worked at erasing Delainey from his memory. He’d burned pictures, destroyed videos and otherwise removed all evidence he’d ever loved her.

As for the hole she’d left behind?

It’d become such a familiar feeling, he’d barely noticed it any longer.

And if there were times when he couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t because his mind was torturing him with memories of how much they’d been in love, because he knew that had been a total illusion. No, Delainey had done him a solid by leaving, because he’d rather be alone than spend a lifetime with someone false.

The sooner Delainey split town again, the better. She wasn’t good for anyone. Least of all, him.


CHAPTER SIX

TRACE FROZE AND immediately glowered when he saw Delainey chatting up his boss, Peter, and knew right away that she was there to cause trouble. Peter caught sight of him and motioned him into the office, which he was tempted to blatantly ignore but chose instead to meet the situation head-on. Whatever Delainey had up her sleeve he could handle. She couldn’t force him to participate in her stupid show, and he felt fairly confident that Peter couldn’t make him either without facing some serious legal ramifications.

“Trace, come here a minute,” Peter said, smiling from ear to ear. “I’ve been chatting with your friend—”

“She’s not my friend,” Trace corrected him, shooting Delainey a dark look for telling his boss anything to the contrary. “And whatever she’s selling, I’m not interested in buying.”

“Careful, Trace, you might come off as unlikeable,” Peter said, a tad nervously, and Trace’s senses went on full alert. Something wasn’t right. Peter was practically simpering—not an attractive look on a man closing in on his sixties—and Delainey looked like the Cheshire cat. “Delainey has presented us with an amazing opportunity, and I think we owe it to the department to listen to her offer.”

“I already know her offer, and trust me, it comes with hidden strings attached. Besides, I’m not interested and without me, there’s no show. Right?” He looked to Delainey for confirmation. She nodded but cast a confident stare Peter’s way as if to reassure him—and that made Trace nervous.

“Imagine the publicity,” Peter started, and Trace waved away his protests.

“Exactly what I don’t want. It was bad enough talking with the reporters. I sure as hell don’t want a bunch of cameras in my face 24/7. No one wants to watch me do my job. I can’t imagine how that would make for good television, and I would question anyone who thought otherwise.”

“Delainey seems to think differently and I think we ought to listen to her judgment. She wouldn’t come all the way to Alaska on a harebrained idea, right?” He looked to Delainey to boost his argument, which she was only too happy to do.

“Absolutely, Peter. Although Trace doesn’t seem to appreciate his own value, my boss is positively drooling to get him on paper. And of course, we’re happy to make it worth the department’s while for the inconvenience.”

“I told you my answer is no, and I don’t care how you pretty it up.”

“Trace, you’re being shortsighted,” Peter said, trying to assert some authority. “Think of the department.”

“I am. Don’t you realize she’s not interested in true stories but fake drama? Producers like her do everything they can to ramp up the tension and the excitement with creative editing. We could end up looking like idiots.”

“I would never do that,” Delainey assured Peter. “We want to accurately portray the hardworking men and women of the Search and Rescue. I feel this is an opportunity to highlight a career choice that not many are aware of. Think of all the positive feedback this project could create.”

“We don’t suffer from an image problem,” Trace said, crossing his arms and standing his ground. “We do our job quietly and efficiently—we don’t need cameras documenting our every move.”

“Trace, I can’t believe you are so naive,” she said, shocking him. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease and your wheel has been moving so soundlessly, the powers that be have completely forgotten why you’re important. Budget cuts are everywhere—even in Hollywood—and I can’t imagine a program being so flush that they couldn’t use a bump.”

“We haven’t been flush in years,” Peter grumbled. “Everyone’s been instructed to tighten their belts and we’ve had a hiring freeze for three years.”

“See?” Delainey said, smiling. “Stop being so stubborn. It’s a month of your life and then we’re out of your hair.”

“I said no.”

Delainey sighed as if Trace were being deliberately difficult, and Peter’s mouth had firmed to a tight, agitated line.

“We all have to do things for the greater good sometimes,” Peter said gruffly. “Even you, Trace Sinclair.”

“Of course, as the star of the show, you’d receive a salary—”

“I’m not interested in your money,” he ground out.

“Then donate your salary to a worthwhile charity,” Delainey continued, unfazed. “Because this is happening.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

She smiled and he held her stare, wondering what her ace was. She was too confident, too unruffled. And Peter was nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room filled with rockers. Something didn’t feel right. He narrowed his gaze at them both, finally coming to rest on Delainey. “You’ve greased the wheels to ensure your success. What’d you offer him?” he asked, going straight to the point.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand and answered without a hint of guilt. “Money for a program that’s been on the chopping block...something you care about.”

Trace swore under his breath, glaring at Peter and feeling betrayed. “You promised me that you’d give me time to try and figure something out.”

“Trace, be reasonable. The Junior Search and Rescue program is expensive and the liability is too high right now to take on when the entire department is facing brutal cuts. It was either the junior program or an employee. Times are hard and the state is strapped,” Peter said, lifting his shoulders in a helpless gesture.

Damn bureaucrat. He narrowed his gaze at Delainey. “How much money did you offer?”

“Enough to keep the program funded for the next year as well as some equipment donations—provided you agree to sign on the dotted line. Like you said, without you, there’s no show. The head of the network wants you and he’ll accept no substitute.”

Manipulative little she-devil. She’d hog-tied him without so much as breaking a sweat. He smiled thinly. “You sewed that right up, didn’t you? Nice and tidy with a little bow, too.”

“A girl’s gotta eat,” she answered with a smile. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Everything’s about the job, isn’t it?” he asked, punching below the belt, but he didn’t care. She deserved it.

Delainey ignored his jab and offered her hand. “Is it a deal?”

He stared at her outstretched hand and fought the urge to slap it away. The idea of touching her, particularly to strike a devil’s bargain, scalded his good sense. But she had him. She’d struck at the jugular and he had no choice but to stem the bleeding. He hadn’t thought she’d sink so low, but she had and she didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “I’m curious...how’d you know about the Junior Search and Rescue?” he asked.

“What does it matter?” Peter asked, irritated. “The program needs money and Delainey is here offering it. I don’t see the problem.”

Delainey graced Peter with an indulgent look, but the one she sent Trace was downright glittering with challenge. “Part of my job is to solve problems, wherever they may arise. I noticed that picture on your wall.” She pointed directly behind Trace and Trace mentally swore. “And you seemed to be happy around all those little kids. I asked Peter who the kids were and he said they were the program’s first junior volunteers. And then he mentioned that the program was on the chopping block. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”

“And we’re very grateful you did,” Peter added, shooting Trace a meaningful look. “Now is no time for pride, Trace. Think of the bigger picture. Those kids love that program, right?”

Trace jerked a nod, privately fuming at how neatly Delainey had circumvented his refusal.

Delainey smiled. “Problem solved. Provided Trace agrees to our terms.”

Well, he supposed she’d won this round, but he didn’t have to be gracious about losing. He took a step closer, actually crowding her personal space a little, and she faltered just a tiny bit as she stared up at him. He hoped she saw the burn in his eyes as he said, “You think you’ve won, but you might want to think twice. I’ve spent the past eight years cultivating a deep and abiding hatred for you, and now you’ve just given me an outlet. You might find me a difficult person to manage.”

She swallowed and in the background Peter sputtered in indignant embarrassment at Trace’s harsh words, but Trace didn’t back down. And she knew he meant every word. She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin, like a badger staring down a predator that was twice its size, and finally said, “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Sinclair.” Her voice didn’t shake, but there was the slightest wobble to her bottom lip that gave away her nervousness.

That’s right, honey. You’re right to be nervous. You just bit off more than you can chew.

And Trace hoped she choked.

“Get everything in writing—every last dime she promised,” he called over his shoulder as he left. “Delainey Clarke has a bad habit of making promises she never intends to keep.”

* * *

DELAINEY STRUGGLED TO keep her expression professional and unaffected by Trace’s parting comments, but she felt sliced to ribbons. He hated her? How could he say something so cruel after everything they’d shared? Just because she’d had bigger dreams than their little Alaskan town, suddenly she was the villain? How about the fact that he hadn’t been the least bit interested in helping her achieve her goals and had simply tolerated her aspirations as the ramblings of a dreamer?

Before she realized it, she was clenching her fists. It was several seconds before she registered Peter’s voice trying to smooth things over, as if he were afraid she’d change her mind after Trace’s rude display. As if she could change her mind. She was just as rooted in circumstance as Trace was, not that the jerk cared. “He’s got a tough shell but he’s a softie at heart,” she heard Peter saying, and she absently nodded with a forced smile. “I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said about hating you. He’s just mad at being pushed against his wishes.”

Oh, she had no doubt that Trace meant every word, but there was no sense in throwing a fit over what he’d said. The past was dead and she was here to see a job done. “It’ll be fine, Peter,” she assured him, snapping up her papers and tucking them into her slim briefcase. “Hollywood is filled with difficult people. Trace Sinclair isn’t even a blip on the radar. I’ll have my office email the necessary paperwork from legal.”

“Of course,” Peter said, fidgeting a little as he walked her to the door. “Search and Rescue appreciates the opportunity and the donations. I can assure you, it’s a great cause.”

“I’m sure it is,” she said, smiling. “Now...” she continued, pausing. “Would you be able to recommend a good hotel? My reservations got mixed up and I find myself without a place to stay for the time being.”

Peter winced. “Oh. That’s terrible. Unfortunately, we’re right in the thick of moose season. All the hunters from out of the state come to bag a prize to take home. The hotels book months in advance.”

She held her smile but froze inside. Crap. She’d forgotten about moose season. “No worries. I’m sure I’ll find something.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you for your assistance in persuading Trace to participate in the show.”

Delainey navigated the muddy snow in her heels, careful not to slip as she made her way to her rental, and quickly processed her situation. Great. She had Trace locked in but now she had nowhere to stay.

She blew out a frustrated breath and gripped the steering wheel tightly to rein in the scream building beneath her breastbone. Why couldn’t something work out in her favor for once? Was it too much to ask for a little grace?

Her only choice was staring her in the face. Bile rose in her throat until she felt it clawing up her esophagus. Jerking the car into Drive, she pulled onto the main highway and headed east—back to her father’s house.


CHAPTER SEVEN

DELAINEY FOUGHT THE welling sense of panic and desperation as she took a moment to collect herself, determined to appear strong and undeterred by this most recent setback. She was Delainey Clarke and she was stronger than any challenge hurled her way. Yes. No. Why hadn’t she remembered about the damn moose season?

If only she’d kept in contact with some people then she might’ve pulled some strings, but she’d cut ties quite brutally so what could she expect? The problem with burning bridges was that they weren’t there when you found yourself needing to retrace your steps.

She blew out a breath and climbed from the car, retrieving her luggage and making that walk back to the front door. Now that she knew her father had remarried, she noted more details she’d missed the first time. The house still looked old and worn, but there were small attempts to pretty up the exterior. Delainey’s mother had tried, too, with varying success. When her mother had been alive, she’d attempted to grow flowers that were wholly unsuited for the bitter cold of Alaska, but it seemed Brenda had fared much better with hardy peonies. Delainey stared at the small bright patch of color against the faded house siding and wondered how she’d missed them the first time.

She closed her eyes and drew a faint memory of her mother, digging in the hard topsoil, trying desperately to bring some of her native California to life in Alaska, but ultimately crying when her ill-suited choices shriveled and died in the harsh temperatures.

“Why won’t anything grow here?” Anna Clarke had muttered under her breath, nearing tears. She sank back on her heels, dirt clinging to her gloves and staining her knees. “This place kills everything with its constant shadows and brutal cold. I hate it here.” The last part came out as a hiss, and Delainey had stared with widened eyes as her mother had broken down and sobbed hard for reasons Delainey couldn’t fathom.

Delainey wondered why her mother had never left. She’d died in the very place she despised, yet couldn’t get away from.

Why was she thinking of that stuff? Wasn’t her situation bad enough? She didn’t need to dredge up painful memories of the mother she’d barely known. She knocked once and then let herself in, steeling herself against the looks and the questions, just wanting to get some sleep. Jet lag had begun to set in, and she was quickly losing her tentative grip on her sanity.

* * *

TRACE FOUND HIMSELF at the Rusty Anchor, needing to blow off some steam. He was still percolating at a pretty hot clip at how neatly Delainey had maneuvered him into a corner, trapping him as easily as an expert hunter on the trail of his quarry. It burned how he’d underestimated her desire to succeed. She’d truss up her grandmother and put her on a spit if she thought it could get her ahead.

“You’re looking meaner than a hungry bear tonight,” Russ, the bartender, commented with a wry grin as he slid a beer across to Trace. “Who pissed in your cereal tonight?”

Trace offered a grim smile but otherwise remained silent. He didn’t want to talk about Delainey. Hell, he didn’t want to talk at all, not that Russ or anyone else who knew him would find that odd. Trace had never been what anyone would call a Chatty Cathy. Russ took the hint and moved on, but someone else had noticed him and took a seat beside him. Chanel No. 5 assaulted his nostrils and he knew, without turning, who had sidled up beside him.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Cindy Sutton nearly purred, leaning toward him and giving him more than an eyeful of what she was offering. Cindy wasn’t hard on the eyes and it’d been a while since Trace had enjoyed the company of a woman. But just as his libido kicked to life, someone else walked into the bar, effectively killing anything that might’ve risen to the occasion.

Cindy tracked his stare and her mouth gaped open. “Is that? Holy hell... She looks different, but I’d swear that’s Delainey Clarke.”

“It’s her,” he answered, swigging his beer, irritated all over again that she’d shown up. Why couldn’t she find a nice rock to hibernate under for the duration of her stay in Homer?

“Damn, she looks good,” Cindy said with open envy. “Didn’t she run off to Hollywood? I bet she’s had work done. Is that a new nose? And new boobs? She must have a sugar daddy back in Tinseltown. No one looks that good naturally.”

“I prefer a more natural look,” he said, throwing Cindy a bone. Cindy smiled, appreciating the sentiment, but her gaze remained centered on Delainey as she navigated the small bar. Delainey stood out like a sore thumb among the hardworking, humble people in the bar, and she knew it based on her tentative expression as she made her way to a small table to sit alone. He looked away, hoping she got the point and left soon. “She’s as fake as a stuffed jackalope.”

“Yeah, but she looks pretty damn good. I don’t think I’d mind having a little touch-up now and then.” Cindy sighed and returned to Trace with renewed interest. “So, you were saying about liking natural girls?” she teased and he chuckled.

“If I were good company at the moment, I’d definitely be game to spend some time with you, but I’m not exactly fit for human companionship.”

“You always say that,” she retorted with a sly grin. “But I seem to remember the key to turning that mood around.”

He cast Cindy an appreciative glance but kept his mouth zipped. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep his stare from tracking to Delainey sitting off by herself. He wanted to ignore her, but his eyes didn’t seem to be having the same conversation with his brain. Cindy caught his stare and called his bluff. “Natural, my ass. You can’t keep your eyes off her,” she said.

“It’s not that,” he said, stiffening at the idea of anyone thinking he was regarding Delainey in a sexual manner. He couldn’t imagine a less likely bed partner. “She’s here on business, not pleasure, and even if she were, I wouldn’t be interested.”

“Let’s say I believe you about not being interested—which I don’t—but what kind of business?” Cindy asked, curious.

“The Hollywood variety,” Trace answered vaguely. He wasn’t ready to announce to the world his part in Delainey’s little project. It was embarrassing—and annoying. “She won’t be in town for long.”

“Hollywood? Oh! That’s so exciting. Do you think some big celebrities will be in town? I’ve always wanted to meet Pierce Brosnan. He’s delicious.” Trace paused to regard Cindy with mild annoyance and she said, “Wait a minute...didn’t you and Delainey have a thing back in the day?” Cindy asked, then snapped her fingers before he could confirm or deny. “Yes, that’s right. You and Delainey were high school sweethearts. God, how’d I forget that? She’s been gone awhile now. You still have a thing for her?”

“God, no.” He made a grimace and sucked back his beer. One thing he’d forgotten about Cindy was that she was a terrible gossip. “There’s nothing between me and Delainey, and there never will be again. As soon as she’s out of Alaska, the better off I’ll feel.”

“Ouch. Touchy.” Cindy tipped her beer back, then added with open disbelief, “Well, whatever you say. Something tells me you and me hooking up tonight isn’t going to happen. Seems you’ve got someone else on your mind.” She cast a purposeful glance Delainey’s way and Trace wanted to growl his protests, but Cindy had already hopped from her stool and set her sights on someone else for the night. No hard feelings on her part, but she wasn’t about to waste time on a guy who wasn’t going to warm her up later that night. Trace could respect that and he half wished he’d taken her up on the offer. Hell, he’d enjoy the look on Delainey’s face as he walked by, snuggled up to Cindy, maybe with a hand resting possessively on Cindy’s behind for good measure. Would Delainey even care? What did he care if she did?

He finished his beer, irritated with himself and the dumb questions. He signaled for a fresh beer and realized someone else had taken up the stool beside him. His senses went crazy and he knew without turning that Delainey had plopped herself next to him as if they were buds. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, point-blank. “Dealing with you once a day is plenty. This is my private time.”

She looked as if she was trying to be brave, but there was something fragile about her put-on confidence that he couldn’t help notice. It didn’t lessen his animosity, but it did pique his curiosity. By all accounts she’d accomplished her goal. She’d managed to maneuver him into agreeing to something he had no interest in doing, but the expression on her face was anything but triumphant. “Is this your victory celebration?” he asked sourly as he tipped his beer. “Come to rub it in my face?”

“Get over yourself, Trace. I didn’t know you’d be here. I just needed something to wind down. Jet lag is killing me but...I couldn’t sleep.”

“Hotel bed not as soft as yours at home?”

“I’m not staying in a hotel. I’m staying at my father’s place,” she answered quietly, lifting her chin as she shrugged. “All the hotels were booked.”

Oh, that was sweet justice, he thought. “Guess you forgot about moose season,” he said, openly enjoying her unfortunate circumstance. “That sucks. You and your old man were never on good terms. How’s that going for you?”

“It’s ungentlemanlike to gloat,” she said, looking away. “It’s going as well as you can expect.”

At that he did chuckle and earned a black look, but he didn’t care. Served her right. She couldn’t come around disrupting people’s lives without consequence. “Well, at least your old man cares enough for you to give you a place to bed down. If it were me, you’d be sleeping in a snowbank.”

“Do you have to be so mean?” she asked, her eyes suddenly glittering. “Are you going to be this nasty and cruel the entire time I’m here?”

“I’m not the one who started this,” he reminded her. “I don’t recall being nice and civil as one of the stipulations of your little deal. Or was that in the fine print?”

Delainey grabbed her beer and swiveled off the chair, but as she started to stalk away, she seemed to think better of it and stopped to say, “We broke up eight years ago, Trace. Don’t you think it’s time to let it go? Grow up, for Christ’s sake. So, I managed to talk you into taking a job that will benefit you in the long run as well as do something great for that little department you work for. Sue me. But just remember, as you’re sitting there throwing stones at my expense, you weren’t completely innocent. You had a choice, too. Don’t make me the bad guy just because I took the choice that was right for me.”

Trace watched her melt into the crowd, and he was tempted to run after her if only to tell her she was full of crap. She was wrong, he told himself. And plainly she’d rewritten history to suit her purposes.

What the hell was she talking about? Choices? The only choice she’d given him was whether or not to keep the CD collection they’d amassed together.

She hadn’t been interested in choices; her mind had been made up and he’d been left behind.

Screw this.

He flicked a few bucks onto the bar and left in disgust.

And he was supposed to work with her every day of production until they wrapped?

God help him. He might just pitch her over a cliff if given the opportunity.


CHAPTER EIGHT

DELAINEY OPENED HER EYES after a fitful night’s rest on an old lumpy mattress that had definitely seen better days and wondered what she’d done to deserve such adversity in her life. Milky morning light filtered in through the thick window covering, and she rubbed the grit from her eyeballs. Today, she would fax the signed contract paperwork to the network and then she’d start the process of getting her skeleton crew up here to start shooting. The hardest part would be finding a hotel for them to hole up in for the duration of the shoot. Her mind was already picking at the challenges ahead, even sluggish as she was without her morning espresso to jolt herself alert.

She knew her father was likely long gone, having woken up at the crack of dawn to take the boat out, so at least she would be spared the awkward and uncomfortable recap of last night’s reunion. But she could do nothing about the memory.

“There she is,” Brenda had announced, smiling as Delainey had opened the front door and walked in. Delainey had forced a tight smile when Brenda added, “I was going to tell you that moose season is upon us and every hotel would be filled to capacity with tourists, but you ran out of here so quickly I didn’t get the chance. But we knew you’d figure it out soon enough when you couldn’t find a room.”

“Yes, well, here I am,” Delainey said, her cheeks burning. Her father sat in his recliner, wordlessly watching her with a hard expression, and Delainey had fought the urge to say something terribly immature. “Is the room still available?” she managed to ask with some semblance of civility.

“House hasn’t changed,” her father answered gruffly.

“A simple yes would suffice,” she mumbled, moving past him and pulling her luggage behind her.

“Seems to me that you’re hell-bent on changing who you are and where you came from,” he remarked, and Brenda shushed him.

“Now, Harlan, give the girl a chance to get settled. Can’t you tell she’s nearly dead on her feet?” Brenda shook her head, chuckling at her husband’s gruff attitude, and Delainey thought the woman was insane for finding anything about Harlan Clarke appealing. He was mean, ill-tempered and rude on his best days. Was it any wonder her mother had been miserable? “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s happy to have you home for a few days.”

Delainey held back a snort while Harlan shot his wife a dark look. Yeah, right. He was clicking his heels with joy. “I’ll do my best to find suitable accommodations as soon as possible,” she said, finished with the conversation. “Good night.”

Unfortunately, the walls were incredibly thin and Delainey caught their conversation even as she closed the door behind her.

“Now, why’d you go and say something like that, you old poop? That wasn’t nice at all.” Brenda had admonished her husband with open disapproval. “She’s never going to come around again if you don’t start being nicer.”

“I don’t care what she does,” Harlan said, and the recliner squeaked as if he were adjusting his position. “And that woman ain’t my daughter. I don’t recognize that woman at all. She’s a stranger.”

“Something tells me that she was a stranger before she got all fancied up. You two have a lot to talk about.”

“Like hell we do.”

“Oh, Harlan. Now you’re just being stubborn. You need your children right now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Brenda. Leave it be.”

Delainey frowned. What was Brenda talking about? Was her father sick? Delainey sat on the bed, extreme fatigue pulling at her. Wouldn’t Thad have called her if their father were sick? Of course he would’ve. Perhaps Brenda had a penchant for the dramatic and there was nothing truly wrong with the old goat. An odd pang of worry pierced Delainey’s chest, even as she tried to dispel it with reason and logic. Everything was fine and she was exhausted. Delainey fell back on the bed and closed her eyes, so tired that she thought she could sleep the minute her eyelids fluttered shut.

But that’s not what happened. In fact, she’d been so tired, she actually couldn’t sleep. Nervous energy kept her from finding sleep, and before she knew it she was heading to the Rusty Anchor for a nightcap.

And that had turned out equally fabulous, she wanted to groan as she rolled to her side and put her face into the pillow. She’d known that Trace wasn’t going to be warm and welcoming, but she hadn’t expected him to be so damn mean. Had she really messed him up so badly that now he hated women? Or maybe it was just her?

Delainey rose from the bed on stiff limbs and made her way to the bathroom to shower. The questions in her head had no answers; there was no point in spending so much time wondering about the whys and what-fors. Trace hated her and he was going to make the next few weeks as miserable as humanly possible. Deal with it and move on. She’d handled difficult people before without breaking a sweat. She would just have to treat Trace as she would a hostile, pain-in-the-ass star—smile and nod, then at the end of the day, enjoy a really big glass of wine.

Delainey drew a deep breath, moderately comforted by her plan. But even as she armed herself with the details, her insides trembled and she felt a little sick to her stomach. She didn’t want Trace to hate her. Truthfully, sometimes private memories of Trace and his love were the ones that insulated her against the worst moments in her career. She knew he didn’t love her any more, but there was a time...a sudden lump rose in her throat. Ugh. Why was she doing this to herself? Masochistic, that’s what this was. What good would come of wallowing in the past?

Move on, Delainey—there’s work to be done.

* * *

“TRACE, I KNOW YOU weren’t keen to do this project, but once you get started, I think you’ll enjoy—”

“Peter, don’t try and sell me on this project. It’s a waste of your breath and my time. You and I both know why I’m doing this, and it’s pretty much extortion no matter how you try and pretty it up.”

“That’s harsh, Trace.” Peter glowered but didn’t deny it. “You’ve got no head for administration, son. Times are tough. Call it what you will, but if an outside entity such as Hollywood comes waving dollar bills under our nose, by damn we’re going to do what we can to make it happen. You think I like cutting programs? Well, I don’t. But when I see a relatively easy way to make the budget expand rather than constrict, I take it.”

“Yeah, well, I was strong-armed into taking this gig, and I don’t feel right about it.”

“You have the right to your feelings,” Peter said. “Even if they’re wrong.”

Trace did a double take. “What do you mean by that?”

Peter sighed. “You’re a good man and an even better tracker, but you’re stubborn as the day is long and sometimes when you dig your heels in about something you’re as immobile as an ass pulling against the lead. Why don’t you tell me what your beef is with that pretty producer? She seems real nice.”

He snorted. “Delainey Clarke is like the first freeze across the water. It might look solid but it’s deceiving, and if you trust it with your weight, you’re liable to crash through the thin surface and drown. She’s not trustworthy and she’s not a nice person. Don’t let her pretty face trick you.”

“You two have history?”

Trace didn’t want to admit it, but he figured if Cindy Sutton remembered his past with Delainey, chances were someone else was going to remember, too, so it was best to just let it out. “Yeah, we’ve got history. Plenty of it. We were together. I even asked her to marry me—eight years ago before she took off for California and left her boot prints on the backs of every single person in this town she stepped on to get out.”

“Guess that was before my time here,” Peter said. “Eight years is a long time. Maybe she’s changed. Seems harsh to hold her to decisions she made when she was practically a kid.”

“She wasn’t a kid when she split.”

“You forget, anyone ten years or more younger than me I consider a kid. That includes you.”

“Trust me when I say that Delainey Clarke hasn’t changed. She’s just as manipulative and cutthroat as she was when she left. Take my advice and steer clear.”

“Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think you could be a little nicer to the lady. I don’t know your history, but you’re going to be working with her. Don’t you think things will go a lot more smoothly if you’re not constantly sniping at one another?”

“Hey, nowhere in the contract did it state I had to be nice.”

“No, but I expected more from you,” Peter said, surprising Trace. Peter was, generally speaking, pretty easygoing, but he was taking a firm line on this issue. Somehow Trace’s attitude toward Delainey struck against some inner chivalrous code that Trace never knew Peter adhered to. “And frankly, your behavior doesn’t reflect well on the department. I’m not saying you have to be buddies, but you need to be professional. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“Why would I joke about something so important?”

Trace realized Peter truly wasn’t joking, and he shook his head at the ridiculousness of the situation. He was being ordered to be nice to the woman who’d trashed his heart at the worst possible time in his life, and yet he was the one being difficult. Hell’s bells... But what could he do? Peter was his boss, and for whatever reasons Peter wasn’t letting up the pressure. Trace threw his hands up. “Fine, I’ll be civil and professional. Should I put that in writing?” he asked caustically.

“No, your word should do. She’ll be here today to debrief us on the shooting schedule. You’ll get to put your acting skills to the test. I’d better see a reformed man.”

“I’m not an actor,” he growled.

“Well, you’d better learn a few tricks, because otherwise...”

“Yeah? You gonna fire me?”

“Don’t make me go there. I want to think positive. You start thinking of the Junior Search and Rescue program if nothing else works. I know how you love those kids and the program. If nothing else matters to you but that...then know that the success of this project is resting on your ability to play nice.”

Great. Thanks for setting me up for failure.

Time to practice that fake smile.

And with impeccable timing, just as Trace was exaggerating his “nice” face, Delainey walked in looking like a winter Barbie doll with her Ugg boots, skinny jeans, sweater and scarf wound around her neck, and Trace couldn’t help but stare just a little because the woman knew how to turn heads. Too skinny. Too fake. Too Hollywood.

Remember that.


CHAPTER NINE

DELAINEY WALKED INTO the conference room, determined to keep her head held high, but when she saw Trace her nerves trembled and her resolve faltered. Why did he have to be so handsome? After all these years, couldn’t time have stomped on his good looks a little? It would’ve been far easier to hold the memories at bay if she’d returned to Alaska and found Trace looking nothing like she remembered. But of course, that wasn’t the case. If anything, the man had become even more handsome—which didn’t seem fair—and even though there wasn’t a hint of warmth in those eyes, a woman could still drown in their depths if she weren’t careful.

“Gentlemen,” she announced with a smile as she entered the room. “I appreciate you meeting with me this early to go over the production schedule. If, while we’re going over the schedule, you see something that concerns you, please let me know and I’ll make a note. We want this production to go as smoothly as possible for everyone, and I want you to feel your input is important.”

“This is going to be a new experience for us all,” Peter said cheerfully. “And to be honest, I’ve always been curious about the movie business. Seems like a whole different world. It’s not often we get a glimpse of what happens behind the wall. Right, Trace?”

“Personally, a world full of fakes and liars doesn’t interest me,” Trace muttered, and before Delainey could say anything Peter shot Trace a warning look. Trace got the message but didn’t take back his sarcastic comment, not that Delainey expected him to. Trace was as intractable as a brick wall. “Let’s get this show on the road,” Trace said brusquely. “I’ve got more on my plate than going over your production schedule. Some of us are less than thrilled over this sudden detour in the norm.”

“Of course,” Delainey said, forcing a smile at the difficult man. Trace and her father could write a book on how to alienate people. “If you’ll turn to page one in the production schedule packet, you’ll see a breakdown of the typical shooting day. Now, it will be very important that we all stay on track so that we can stay on budget. It is very easy to lose daylight hours and start spinning into overtime. Nobody wants that to happen. Least of all me. The sooner we get our shots, the sooner we’ll be done for the day.”

“Wait a minute...” Trace started, a frown building on his forehead. “This is a full eight-hour day. What the hell are we going to do for eight hours in front of a camera?”

“Actually, eight hours is fairly conservative. It’s likely we will have several ten-hour days. Filming, particularly on location, has certain challenges. We can’t always stick to the schedule as it is planned. However, I would like to try.”

“And how am I supposed to actually do my job, if a camera is stuck in my face all day?”

Delainey smiled. “Don’t worry about the cameras. Just go about your day like you normally would.”

“That’s a contradiction. Most days I don’t even keep my cell phone on. And now I have to have a camera crew in my face? I don’t know. This whole idea sounds stupid.”

Peter cleared his throat and the two shared a look. After a tense moment, Trace finally backed down with a glower, saying, “I think this will be the most boring show ever aired, but it’s your dime. As long as the check clears for the program, I guess that’s all that matters.”

“Great. Now back to the schedule. If you’ll turn your attention to the second page, you’ll see that we have a reenactment scheduled. Part of the reason that you attracted the attention of my boss is because you saved that little girl. So I think it would be great if we could start off the series with a reenactment of you finding her. Of course we will hire actors to play the governor and his daughter, but I think that would be a really great way to garner interest in the pilot.”

“A reenactment?” Trace, clearly displeased, muttered, “This is getting better by the minute.”

“I know it sounds weird, but I think it’ll really translate into good footage. I’ve watched the news coverage and I’ve read the newspapers, but I’m really going to need to interview you to get a feel for how it actually happened, as I’ll be writing a short script for the segment. And I would like to do that today. Do you think you could clear your schedule to talk with me about that incident?”

Peter answered for Trace. “No problem. I’m sure Trace would enjoy telling the story. It’s nice to have a story with a happy ending. As you can imagine, we don’t always get to save the day.”

“Thank you, Peter. Now that that’s settled, I need to ask where can I possibly find lodging for my crew. I can’t have my crew staying with me at my dad’s. There has to be at least one hotel that isn’t booked solid. I thought maybe you could help me find one.”

“Well, unfortunately, it’s moose season so all the best hotels will be taken.” Peter looked perplexed, scratching his chin in thought. “But, if you’re not picky about your accommodations, there might be a hotel with some vacancies that I can look into for you. It won’t be the Hyatt, but it’ll be warm and dry with a clean bed.”





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