Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (35 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
RACE
FOUND
HIMSELF
at the Rusty Anchor needing a drink. The place was filled as it usually was, and the minute Russ saw him belly up to the bar, he poured a shot of whiskey. “How'd you know?” Trace asked, lifting the shot in gratitude before he downed it in a single practiced move.

“You had a look that said beer ain't gonna do it,” Russ answered with a knowing grin, and Trace nodded. Either the man was a freaking psychic or Trace had his day written all over his face. “Troubles of the rich and famous?” Russ teased gruffly, and Trace wished that were his problem. Somehow that seemed easier to navigate than the situation with his parents.

“It's my folks.”

“Say no more. We've all got 'em and some are worse than others. Yours, though, have been through a lot. Losing Simone... Hell, that would've tore up the most stoic.”

“Simone died eight years ago. Isn't it time we all stop using her death as a crutch for every single bad thing we do in our lives?” Trace asked, tapping the bar for another shot. “I don't know...it just seems her ghost lingers a helluva lot.”

By his third shot, he was feeling good and he'd finally lost the tension cording his shoulders. The music was toe-tapping good and he was enjoying himself, shooting the shit with fellow bar patrons and laughing at raunchy jokes told by the deckhands.

That was until he heard a particular laugh filter through the noise. He swiveled on his barstool and searched the dim light for the source. He zeroed in on Delainey sitting in one of the corner booths, a single glass candle lighting the cubicle, with Otter Stout. Delainey was laughing at something and Otter was beaming at having been so witty. Something primal and possessive washed over him and after three shots of whiskey, his good sense had completely left the building. He signaled for a beer, and after Russ had put one in his hand, he sauntered over to where Delainey and Otter were having their little tea party for two.

“Hey, Trace,” Otter exclaimed with a smile. “How you doin'? I haven't seen you in a while. Miranda said you've been out busy with Search and Rescue lately. Any good stories?”

“Just the ones the news sees fit to blab about,” Trace said, his stare going straight to Delainey. Why was she so pretty? She was like a delicate piece of chocolate, sweet and decadent. And he was suffering from a sweet tooth something bad. “You guys catching up on old times or something?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but he really didn't like the way Delainey's eyes had lit up. He knew he didn't have the right to care but he did, and the three shots of whiskey were telling him he had
every
right.

“Did you want to join us?” Otter asked, preparing to move over, but Delainey cut him off before he could answer.

“I'm sure Trace has his own friends to visit with. He doesn't need to horn in on our time. Besides, I want to hear all about your decision to go into real estate. I've always dreamed of having a few investment properties.”

Trace snorted and she glared at him for the rude noise. Otter seemed to catch the odd current flowing between them and his brow furrowed. “Hey, you guys should catch up or something. We can chat later, Laney. I'll have those short-term rental papers to you first thing in the morning.” Delainey started to protest but Otter had scooted out and made his way through the throng of people to the front of the bar, where he then disappeared.

“Are you happy?” Delainey asked, glaring. “That was incredibly rude.”

“I know,” Trace admitted, but he smiled nonetheless. “You look really pretty tonight.”

His unexpected compliment seemed to rattle her, and he liked the effect. “How much have you been drinking?” she asked, standing and grabbing her purse and jacket.

“Probably too much,” he allowed with a shrug. “Are you going to be my designated driver tonight? I probably shouldn't drive.”

“I'll call you a cab,” Delainey said, moving past him, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, startling her. “What are you doing?” she asked, her gaze darting to see who was watching. “I can't be seen canoodling with the talent.”

“You haven't even begun to witness my true talent,” he murmured with a wicked grin. He ought to stop, but the whiskey was running the show now. He swigged his beer, but before he could finish she took it from his hand.

“That's enough of that,” she said, putting the half-finished beer on an empty table. “Let's get you a cab.”

“First, let's dance,” he suggested, pulling her into his arms and moving sensually against her to the beat of the music. She gasped and if the lighting wasn't so dim, he could've sworn she'd blushed. “C'mon, one dance, sweetheart. For old times' sake,” he said softly against the shell of her ear, and she relented with a shake of her head even as she looped her arms around his neck. “There...see? That wasn't so hard was it?”

“You're drunk, and if you weren't you wouldn't be wanting to hold me like this,” she reminded him with a sad smile.

“True and not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's true I'm drunk. Not true that I wouldn't want to hold you. Delainey, I always want to touch you. The difference being, when I'm sober I remember why I shouldn't.”

Delainey accepted his answer with a nod and instead of coming back with a sharp quip, she settled against his chest and they danced, a slow sensual movement in tandem with each other, as if the entire bar had disappeared and it was just them and the music. “Maybe I should get you drunk every night,” she said lightly.

“And why is that?” he asked.

“Because you're not as angry. This is how I remember you,” she said. Trace let that comment sit between them and finally the song ended and she drew away. “So, are you going to let me call you a cab?” she asked.

“No, but I'm going to let you drive my truck.”

“And how am I supposed to get home?”

He pulled her back into his arms. “You and I both know you're not going anywhere until the morning.”

She bit her lip. “We really shouldn't...”

“Honey, you're preaching to the choir, but I don't feel like being a good boy.... How about you? Do you feel like being a bad girl?”

Her gaze widened and she swallowed as she slowly shook her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

His grin widened. “Then let's get out of here before we both come to our senses.”

“Lord have mercy...”

You got that right.

Trace knew he was making a big mistake, but at the moment he didn't care. The morning would come soon enough. Until then...he was going to show Delainey all that she'd been missing the past eight years.

* * *

D
ELAINEY
WAS
LOSING
her mind. But the idea of feeling Trace's body against hers one last time was too big of a temptation for her to ignore. Screw good sense. They managed to make the front door and slam it behind them before they were both tearing each other's clothes off. Trace, smelling of whiskey and male, drove her insane with need as he ripped her shirt off, popping buttons as he went. She laughed and pushed his shirt from his shoulders and then giggled as they tumbled to the leather sofa, the room encased in darkness. Fingers, tongues, hands, even feet, went crazy as they explored each other in a frenzy that took her breath away. He never stopped, moving from one pleasure spot to the next, seeking out her erogenous zones like a bloodhound intent on finding the next target. She lost her mind several times, babbling and crying out as Trace wrung an orgasm out of her within seconds. And then just as she was coming to her senses, she heard a rapper tear and she mouthed “Thank God” because she wasn't going to be content with intense foreplay this time around.

She wrapped her legs around his torso and lifted her hips, and he drove himself home, burying his length deep inside. She cried out with pure, unadulterated pleasure as Trace rocked her body. The darkness and the taboo nature of their union pushed her to greater heights, and she was soon sobbing as another, more powerful orgasm clenched every muscle and stole her ability to think like a normal, rational human being. At that moment, she would've given Trace anything he wanted—even it meant leaving her career and popping out his babies. It was that good.

Had she ever been so consumed by another person? No. Not even close. She considered herself a sexual being, but this was ridiculous. Were those stars? Delirium, that's what this was. Orgasmic lunacy. And she wanted more. God help her...she wanted more.

Delainey recovered lying on top of Trace, their sweat drying in the cold room. After a long moment, she reached up and grabbed an afghan draped on the edge of the sofa and covered their bodies with it.

“Good thinking,” he murmured sleepily, his arms curling around her and holding her tight. “This is nice,” he added, and she wondered if it was the alcohol speaking. Probably, but she closed her eyes and savored it just the same. This felt right. She'd spent the past eight years bouncing from one bad relationship to the next, blaming circumstances for their failures instead of examining the real reason. She didn't want them to succeed. None of them had that essential quality—none of them was Trace. This man was like a drug in her system, and she'd been unaware just how much she'd needed a fix until this moment.

“I can hear you thinking,” Trace said, interrupting her thoughts.

“Sorry,” she said, feeling guilty for allowing anything to ruin the moment. “Are you cold?”

“I'm perfect. How about you?”

“I'm fine.”

“Want me to build a fire?”

“No. I don't want you to move.”

She felt him chuckle and she smiled. “Good, because I don't want to move yet, either,” he admitted, tightening his hold on her.

“Why were you drinking at the bar tonight?” she asked, hoping it wasn't her that had sent him straight to the bottle. She'd hate to think she was fodder for the chorus of a melancholy country song.

He exhaled a heavy sigh. “My parents.”

“What's wrong with your parents?”

“I didn't want to believe it but...my mom's a hoarder. Pretty bad actually. I don't know what to do other than calling Social Services.”

“What does Miranda or Wade have to say about it?”

“Miranda was the one who told me about it in the first place and Wade doesn't know. I haven't told him yet.”

“Maybe Wade should come home to help you deal with it.”

“Yeah, that's what Miranda said, too.”

“You're worried about your mom, aren't you?”

He nodded. “She looked old. I've never seen her age so quickly. And after I saw her living conditions, I knew why. It made me sick to my stomach.”

“What about your dad?”

Trace made a sound of disgust. “He's no help. He's just watching her bury herself as long as it doesn't interfere with his pot planting. That man's not the man I grew up with, that's for sure.”

Sadness for Trace and his family filled her chest. At one time, the Sinclair family had been like her own—more so, seeing as her family had been so dysfunctional. She didn't feel it was her place to offer advice nor did she think Trace would welcome it, so she remained silent and instead pressed a quick kiss to his bare chest. “I'm sorry, Trace,” she said quietly.

“Yeah...me, too,” Trace said, his voice heavy with more than drink and sexual satisfaction. “Let's go to the bed,” he suggested.

“Oh, are you ready for sleep?” she asked, surprised. Maybe the alcohol had sapped his stamina. She tried not to be disappointed, but then Trace surprised her by scooping her into his arms.

“I never said I wanted to sleep,” he said, thrilling her with the sensual suggestion in his tone. “I just thought you might like the bed more than the sofa when I bend you over.”

“Oh!” She gasped and buried her burning face against his chest, yet she was secretly delighted. She loved his dirty mouth. But she loved what he did with that dirty mouth even better...

As far as that little voice at the back of her brain whispering that she was making a huge mistake? She answered with, “Go big, or go home.”

And then she told that little voice to shut the hell up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A
WKWARD
BE
THY
NAME
was the morning after a hookup that never should've happened. Trace remembered everything—three shots and half a beer wasn't enough to obliterate his memory—although as he stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell was wrong with him, he wished it were.

Delainey stirred beside him and he tried not to think about her naked body beneath the blankets and how they'd blown through an entire minipack of condoms. At least he was proud to say he'd left a good impression if this was the last time they ever knocked boots again.
Yeah, that's what's important right now.

He scrubbed his face with his hands and climbed from the bed. The sunrise hadn't touched the horizon yet, which was a surprise given how little sleep they'd gotten. He pulled on jeans and an Alaskan Aces sweatshirt before padding silently from the bedroom to start a pot of coffee. A few moments later, Delainey appeared, looking delectably tousled, wearing his old bathrobe, with a blearily grateful expression the moment he placed a hot mug into her hand. He remembered how Delainey was a zombie before her morning coffee. Did it bother him that he remembered so many tiny details about her when he ought to have discarded them as useless information? A little. But then, he was also glad to have remembered certain things in the bedroom.

He waited until they'd both enjoyed a few bracing sips of coffee before launching into the most obvious question in the room. “What are we doing?” he asked.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don't want to talk about that right now. I'm exhausted and I have a full day on the schedule. Can we table this conversation until later?” she asked.

“Later when?” Another eight years from now? “Seems to me we've stirred a hornet's nest. I never imagined we'd ever be naked in the same zip code again, if you know what I mean, and frankly I'm not even sure how it happened. I could blame it on the whiskey, which is the easy answer, but I'm man enough to admit that I know there's more to it. So, I have to ask, what are we doing and are we going to keep doing it?”

She opened her eyes, irritated and frustrated. “I don't know,” she answered. “All I know is that I have a crew of eight coming in today and I still have auditions to hold for the reenactment. There are a million different details to handle before we can start shooting, and I don't have time to hash out the emotional aspect of our hookups. Maybe it's just rebound sex or reunion sex, or whatever they call it when exes hook up. It was fun—I enjoyed it immensely—but I really don't want to sit here and dissect the why and how. Okay?”

“You're such a grouch in the morning,” he muttered, fighting the absurd urge to laugh. Talk about déjà vu. He should've known better to come at her with a serious question before she'd morphed into a human through the power of intense caffeine. “I have to shower. Are you going to join me?” he asked, moving toward the bedroom.

“Yes,” Delainey answered grumpily. “Just stop talking.”

He laughed. “You are the only person on this planet who would ever accuse me of talking too much. Hurry up and drink your coffee. We have just enough time for a quickie before heading to the office.” Coffee and sex...he didn't know a better way to start the day. He supposed the questions—and their answers—could wait.

* * *

D
ELAINEY
GASPED
AGAINST
the shower wall, still trying to catch her breath. If Trace's arms weren't wrapped around her torso, she might slide to the ground. He flipped her around and buried his tongue in her mouth as deeply as his length had impaled her only moments earlier, and she melted against him. After a long, deep kiss, they broke apart and she said with a breathy moan, “Good God, I'll never be the same,” as she slowly recovered. Trace's powerfully built body glistened in the steam and moisture as he slowly let her go once she could stand on her own. “Why are you so amazing? You big jerk,” she added weakly, hating that he could turn her to Jell-O with a single touch. “You know it's not fair to do those things to me.”

“A man's got to have his advantages when it comes to women,” he said, smoothing a hank of wet hair from her face, his expression inscrutable.

“Yeah? And why is that?”

“Because women are much smarter than men. We have to level the playing field somehow.”

She grinned. “Well, that's true,” she said, grabbing the soap and beginning to lather it along the hard planes of his body. Her fingers glided across every muscled valley and corded length of skin, openly delighting at the feel beneath her palm. “I find it fascinating how much you've changed and yet stayed the same. Your body is as I remember it, only harder and more mature, and your face somehow became even more handsome, which isn't fair, of course, but your eyes are different.”

“Different how?” he asked, plainly enjoying her touch on his skin. She smiled a tiny smile at how his penis had begun to plump again. She thrilled that her touch had that effect on him, and she rewarded him by gripping the shaft with her soap-slicked hands. He sucked in a tight breath and his voice was strained as he warned, “Be careful or we'll never make it out of the house today.”

For a moment she contemplated how lovely it would be to spend the entire day holed up naked with Trace Sinclair, but then she remembered her many obligations and reluctantly let go of him to return to less sensual cleaning tasks. “Your eyes used to be soft and warm. Now your gaze is hard and filled with scrutiny, except when you're aroused.... Then they're fathomless.”

“Fathomless? How so?” he asked, regarding her with interest.

“I used to be able to read your thoughts because whatever you were thinking was reflected in your eyes. It's not like that anymore,” she answered softly, running her soapy hands gently over his chest. “You hide your thoughts behind a wall because you don't trust me anymore. Do you trust anyone?”

“No,” he admitted. “But that's not your fault entirely. A lot has changed. It's only natural that I would change, as well.”

She didn't have to say Simone's name to know she was the root. Poor Simone. A brilliant life cut short by circumstance. “I could see if my network might be interested in Simone's story...maybe get some more eyes on the case. Maybe her killer could finally be brought to justice.”

“Don't go there,” Trace warned, his voice hardening until he added with a softer, “Please” to lessen the sting. He drew a deep breath and she murmured an apology.

“I was just thinking out loud...thought maybe it might help. I'm sorry.”

“I know. No more talk of Simone, okay?” he asked, forcing a small smile. “It's a tough subject.”

She nodded and felt wretched for being so thoughtless. But Trace seemed intent on erasing all remnants of bad feelings as he removed the soap from her hand to return the favor, starting with her breasts.

“I think they're clean,” she teased after it seemed he'd spent an inordinate amount of time in that one area. She smiled when he pulled her close and their soaped bodies slid against one another, rubbing in all the right places. She glanced up at him with a coy expression. “Now, if we're not careful, we'll get dirty all over again.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the very same thing,” he said in a low tone that sent shivers ricocheting down her back. “The difference between you and me is that I don't mind getting dirty. In fact...it's one of my favorite things to do.”

And then he claimed her mouth again, and she knew they weren't leaving that shower anytime soon. In fact, they might run out of hot water before that happened.

“Only one more time,” she gasped as he lowered to his knees to press his hot mouth to her feminine core. “Only... Oh!”

And then she forgot what she was talking about.

* * *

Z
ED
SETTLED
INTO
his favorite chair and tossed the wad of cash from his last “friend” who had come by for a “visit” and pulled a ready-rolled joint from his personal stash. Normally, he rewarded himself after a good visit from loyal friends with some private time with his cache of pot, but this time as he lit up he wasn't celebrating. He was trying to escape the memory of his son's disappointment. At one time, he and Trace had been so close. He'd taught Trace everything he knew about tracking that he'd learned from the natives, and he'd been proud to pass it on to his children. Of his kids, Trace and Miranda had exhibited the most talent for the lost art; Simone and Wade had found the teaching tedious and a waste of time. It seemed a lifetime ago that he'd been of use to teach them anything.

One summer day, when the sky had been the bluest and the grass had smelled sweeter than honey, Zed and his kids had tromped into their back forty, armed with supplies in their packs and an adventure on their minds. Trace and Miranda had eagerly walked beside him, chattering about their discoveries, each clamoring for his approval, while Wade and Simone had hung back, both taking their sweet time and complaining about the miles they were going to log before they reached their campsite.

“Dad, this is dumb,” Simone had exclaimed with a pout. Her cute face puckered into a sour expression. “Sara invited me to a sleepover tonight and I really wanted to go. Now, instead, I'm looking for bear poop and staring at broken leaves.”

Miranda and Trace had scowled at their little sister's complaints and Miranda had said, “You just wanted to go to Sara's so you could flirt with her older brother, who is way too old for you anyway.”

“Shut up,” Simone had shot back, but Zed could tell by the way her mouth had tightened that Miranda had hit the nail on the head. Good Lord, he was going to have a time with that girl, he'd thought. Too pretty for her own good was what he'd thought. And he'd been right.

They'd spent the weekend tracking a bear for a few miles until they'd finally spotted him in a clearing. They'd stayed downwind so as not to spook him, but he wanted his kids to know how to navigate the forest and to know what lurked in the shadows simply by the clues they left behind. He hadn't thought to teach them about the threats that walked on two legs.

They'd ended the weekend hunting down a deer for Jennelle to cook up, and even though Simone had hated it, she did her share in skinning the animal and cutting up the meat to bring home. He'd been proud of his princess for rolling up her sleeves and getting the work done when he'd been sure she was going to shriek and protest. Sometimes Simone had shown that she was more than just a pretty face.

Had her killer been drawn to her beautiful face? Had that been her downfall? Too many times he'd wondered if there was anything he could've done differently in her childhood that might've saved her from dying at the hands of a murderer. Maybe he should've been more insistent that she pay attention to the tracking tools he was trying to teach. Maybe if she'd known how to navigate the forest by her wits, she wouldn't have frozen to death in the very woods she'd hiked as a child.

Eight years was an eternity when navigating through the bleak landscape of regret. He drew on his joint, the faint crackle of burning paper the only sound in the room, and held the smoke in his chest until it burned his lungs. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, absently spitting a stem from his mouth as he waited for the sweet oblivion to take him to a better place.

But his mind was stronger than the smoke, it seemed, because he couldn't escape the condemnation in his son's eyes nor the memory of Simone's smile. Worse, he knew his son was right and he'd never see his pretty baby again.

How could he tell his son he was aware of what was happening but was helpless to stop it?

Jennelle was killing herself in that house. And he didn't have the balls to do a thing about it. In his imagination, he saw himself marching in there and pulling her bodily from that prison and telling her that things were going to be different from now on. He was going to quit selling pot and go back to carving, just as Jennelle and his kids wanted him to. But as he mustered up the energy to make it happen, he remembered that it didn't matter if he stopped selling pot. His daughter was still dead; his kids never visited; and his wife was slowly losing her mind from unchecked grief.

The reality of his life wasn't a Hallmark card. There were no happy endings and nothing would change, even if he wanted desperately to try to fix what had been irrevocably broken.

And suddenly, faced with that knowledge, the will to change evaporated like the smoke that he'd come to cherish so much.

In the end, there was simply no point—so why bother?