Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (30 page)

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

T
RACE
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.”

* * *

D
ELAINEY
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

D
ELAINEY
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.

* * *

T
RACE
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.