A Real Live Hero

“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.”