Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (31 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

D
ELAINEY
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.

* * *

“T
RACE
, 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

D
ELAINEY
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.”

“That's all we need,” Delainey said, smiling with relief. If Peter managed to scrounge up a hotel for them, she'd happily kiss the man because it would mean she could get out of her father's house. “I'll need about five rooms, six if you can get it. How soon can you find out?”

“I can have an answer for you by the end of the afternoon.”

“Excellent. In the meantime, Trace and I will conduct the interview and get that out of the way.”

Peter rose. “You need me here for the interview?” She didn't know if Peter was asking for her benefit or Trace's, but when Trace gave a minute shake of his head, Delainey realized it had been for Trace's. “All right then, I'll leave you to do your interview while I try to find a hotel.”

Sooner than she was prepared, she was sitting alone in the conference room with Trace. Her heart hammered hard against her chest and she tried to tell herself he was just like any actor she'd prepped for a role. Except, that was complete crap. “Do you mind if I record this?” she asked, pulling out her recorder. “I take notes, but I like the safety net of the recorder so I don't miss anything important.”

“What did you come back here for?” he asked, throwing her off. He leaned forward and she actually found herself holding very still so as not to betray a single emotion. There was something about Trace that was primal and always had been. His energy buffeted her, and for a moment she rocked against the feeling that there were tangible sparks between them. It had always been this way between them, except before they'd had no reason to pull back. The sex between them had been explosive, and she'd yet to find a lover who could make her body sing like Trace had. More's the pity. She colored at the sizzling memories that jumped to mind, and she had to refocus on the here and now before she embarrassed herself.

“You know why I'm here,” she answered, busying herself with straightening her pad and readying her pen. “Shall we begin?”

“What was the first thing that went through your mind when you heard
my
name in your little meeting? Did you think for a second that I was just going to fall into your arms and do whatever you say because at one time we had a history?”

Her hand trembled as she straightened her papers again, needing something to do. She couldn't stand the subtle sneer in his voice. It was such a contradiction from the Trace she remembered. Maybe she deserved his hatred, but it hurt just the same. Be that as it may, he needed to get a grip. “Trace, unlike you, I don't live in the past. I was just as surprised when your name came up in my meeting. It just so happens that I was the best person for the job. It really wasn't personal,” she lied. If she were going to go to hell for lying her ass off, this would've been a prime example used to send her to the hot seat. “Can we get back to the interview, please?”

Trace chuckled and leaned back in his chair, regarding her intently. “You'd do anything to avoid talking about anything of substance, wouldn't you?”

“This is neither the time nor the place.”

“Well, as I recall, you didn't give anyone a chance to talk about anything before you left. As far as I know, you haven't even talked to your old man or brother. It was like you just wanted to forget everyone and everything from your past.”

She couldn't deny it, and having it pointed out to her didn't make her feel any less like a self-centered jerk. “I talk to Thad now and then, but we're both busy people. As far as my father... You know he and I have never had a close relationship. I'm sure he was happy to be free of me.”

“You're so delusional,” Trace said, shocking her. “Whatever you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you turned your back on everything and everyone. Plain and simple. Yeah, you and your dad weren't close, but he was still your father and you abandoned him and your brother like day-old bread.”

“What a hypocrite,” she countered, unable to hold back. “Funny thing about small towns. Everyone seems to know everyone else's business and just loves to share. I happened to run into Molly Cavanaugh at the gas station, and you'll never guess what she had to say.” Delainey didn't wait for Trace to jump in, gaining speed as her anger rose. “Word on the street is that you've become a hermit and your own family is falling apart. I left Alaska, and in doing so, left behind some people in my life. But you stayed right here and did something far worse—you just ignored everything around you because you didn't want to be bothered.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” he said, glaring. “Neither you nor that busybody Molly Cavanaugh knows shit about my life or my family.”

“No, but plenty in town know enough to gossip. Everyone likes to talk about the Sinclairs, and you all have given them plenty of topics to choose from.”

It was a low blow—one that would've shamed her if she'd had any integrity left, but she'd long become conditioned to seeking out the vulnerable spots of her opponent, and she didn't hesitate. The kidnapping and murder of Simone Sinclair had been the town's most shocking tragedy, and as such it was still the favorite topic of gossip because Simone's killer had never been found. At Trace's stony silence, she said, “Doesn't feel good to be judged, does it?”

“No, it doesn't,” he agreed in a hard voice.

“Then I suggest you stop throwing stones in your glass house and start focusing on the here and now.”

“Do you really think we can work together?” he asked, and she realized he wasn't asking to be a jerk.

She had similar concerns. They had too much baggage between them to pretend that they didn't. But she didn't have a choice. Her career was on the line.

“I can start with good intentions, but the minute I see you...I'm angry all over again,” he said.

“You signed a legally binding document, so I suggest that you try and figure out a way to be professional.” She sighed. “Trace...it's a few weeks of your life. Surely, you can find a way to shelve your personal feelings about me for that long.”

“Maybe.” His answer was noncommittal, and she knew that was the best she was going to get from him at this point. If she were braver, she'd admit to him that she wished she'd handled things differently when she'd left, but that would mean admitting that she'd made some serious errors in judgment, and that would lead to admitting she may well have sacrificed everything she had for nothing. Tears threatened at the idea, and she sucked them back before they had a chance to betray her. She could not show any hint of weakness to Trace.

“Do you want me to apologize for leaving? Would that make everything better? Is that what you want from me?”

His stare became two chips of ice, and she knew she'd said the wrong thing. “Honey, I don't want
anything
from you except your absence. But since I can't have that and I'm stuck in this devil's deal, I guess I better make the best of it. Let's get back to the interview and leave the personal stuff out of it.”
Oh, that was rich. He was advising her to keep things professional?

“I don't need you to tell me to be professional. You're the one who is being a jerk.” She stabbed the recorder on and fixed him with her most glacial stare. “Interview One with Trace Sinclair—the rescue of the governor's daughter. Please tell me in your own words how you came to rescue a lost little girl.”