A Real Live Hero. Kimberly Meter Van
faltered just a tiny bit as she stared up at him. He hoped she saw the burn in his eyes as he said, “You think you’ve won, but you might want to think twice. I’ve spent the past eight years cultivating a deep and abiding hatred for you, and now you’ve just given me an outlet. You might find me a difficult person to manage.”
She swallowed and in the background Peter sputtered in indignant embarrassment at Trace’s harsh words, but Trace didn’t back down. And she knew he meant every word. She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin, like a badger staring down a predator that was twice its size, and finally said, “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Sinclair.” Her voice didn’t shake, but there was the slightest wobble to her bottom lip that gave away her nervousness.
That’s right, honey. You’re right to be nervous. You just bit off more than you can chew.
And Trace hoped she choked.
“Get everything in writing—every last dime she promised,” he called over his shoulder as he left. “Delainey Clarke has a bad habit of making promises she never intends to keep.”
* * *
DELAINEY STRUGGLED TO keep her expression professional and unaffected by Trace’s parting comments, but she felt sliced to ribbons. He hated her? How could he say something so cruel after everything they’d shared? Just because she’d had bigger dreams than their little Alaskan town, suddenly she was the villain? How about the fact that he hadn’t been the least bit interested in helping her achieve her goals and had simply tolerated her aspirations as the ramblings of a dreamer?
Before she realized it, she was clenching her fists. It was several seconds before she registered Peter’s voice trying to smooth things over, as if he were afraid she’d change her mind after Trace’s rude display. As if she could change her mind. She was just as rooted in circumstance as Trace was, not that the jerk cared. “He’s got a tough shell but he’s a softie at heart,” she heard Peter saying, and she absently nodded with a forced smile. “I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said about hating you. He’s just mad at being pushed against his wishes.”
Oh, she had no doubt that Trace meant every word, but there was no sense in throwing a fit over what he’d said. The past was dead and she was here to see a job done. “It’ll be fine, Peter,” she assured him, snapping up her papers and tucking them into her slim briefcase. “Hollywood is filled with difficult people. Trace Sinclair isn’t even a blip on the radar. I’ll have my office email the necessary paperwork from legal.”
“Of course,” Peter said, fidgeting a little as he walked her to the door. “Search and Rescue appreciates the opportunity and the donations. I can assure you, it’s a great cause.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said, smiling. “Now...” she continued, pausing. “Would you be able to recommend a good hotel? My reservations got mixed up and I find myself without a place to stay for the time being.”
Peter winced. “Oh. That’s terrible. Unfortunately, we’re right in the thick of moose season. All the hunters from out of the state come to bag a prize to take home. The hotels book months in advance.”
She held her smile but froze inside. Crap. She’d forgotten about moose season. “No worries. I’m sure I’ll find something.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you for your assistance in persuading Trace to participate in the show.”
Delainey navigated the muddy snow in her heels, careful not to slip as she made her way to her rental, and quickly processed her situation. Great. She had Trace locked in but now she had nowhere to stay.
She blew out a frustrated breath and gripped the steering wheel tightly to rein in the scream building beneath her breastbone. Why couldn’t something work out in her favor for once? Was it too much to ask for a little grace?
Her only choice was staring her in the face. Bile rose in her throat until she felt it clawing up her esophagus. Jerking the car into Drive, she pulled onto the main highway and headed east—back to her father’s house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DELAINEY FOUGHT THE welling sense of panic and desperation as she took a moment to collect herself, determined to appear strong and undeterred by this most recent setback. She was Delainey Clarke and she was stronger than any challenge hurled her way. Yes. No. Why hadn’t she remembered about the damn moose season?
If only she’d kept in contact with some people then she might’ve pulled some strings, but she’d cut ties quite brutally so what could she expect? The problem with burning bridges was that they weren’t there when you found yourself needing to retrace your steps.
She blew out a breath and climbed from the car, retrieving her luggage and making that walk back to the front door. Now that she knew her father had remarried, she noted more details she’d missed the first time. The house still looked old and worn, but there were small attempts to pretty up the exterior. Delainey’s mother had tried, too, with varying success. When her mother had been alive, she’d attempted to grow flowers that were wholly unsuited for the bitter cold of Alaska, but it seemed Brenda had fared much better with hardy peonies. Delainey stared at the small bright patch of color against the faded house siding and wondered how she’d missed them the first time.
She closed her eyes and drew a faint memory of her mother, digging in the hard topsoil, trying desperately to bring some of her native California to life in Alaska, but ultimately crying when her ill-suited choices shriveled and died in the harsh temperatures.
“Why won’t anything grow here?” Anna Clarke had muttered under her breath, nearing tears. She sank back on her heels, dirt clinging to her gloves and staining her knees. “This place kills everything with its constant shadows and brutal cold. I hate it here.” The last part came out as a hiss, and Delainey had stared with widened eyes as her mother had broken down and sobbed hard for reasons Delainey couldn’t fathom.
Delainey wondered why her mother had never left. She’d died in the very place she despised, yet couldn’t get away from.
Why was she thinking of that stuff? Wasn’t her situation bad enough? She didn’t need to dredge up painful memories of the mother she’d barely known. She knocked once and then let herself in, steeling herself against the looks and the questions, just wanting to get some sleep. Jet lag had begun to set in, and she was quickly losing her tentative grip on her sanity.
* * *
TRACE FOUND HIMSELF at the Rusty Anchor, needing to blow off some steam. He was still percolating at a pretty hot clip at how neatly Delainey had maneuvered him into a corner, trapping him as easily as an expert hunter on the trail of his quarry. It burned how he’d underestimated her desire to succeed. She’d truss up her grandmother and put her on a spit if she thought it could get her ahead.
“You’re looking meaner than a hungry bear tonight,” Russ, the bartender, commented with a wry grin as he slid a beer across to Trace. “Who pissed in your cereal tonight?”
Trace offered a grim smile but otherwise remained silent. He didn’t want to talk about Delainey. Hell, he didn’t want to talk at all, not that Russ or anyone else who knew him would find that odd. Trace had never been what anyone would call a Chatty Cathy. Russ took the hint and moved on, but someone else had noticed him and took a seat beside him. Chanel No. 5 assaulted his nostrils and he knew, without turning, who had sidled up beside him.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Cindy Sutton nearly purred, leaning toward him and giving him more than an eyeful of what she was offering. Cindy wasn’t hard on the eyes and it’d been a while since Trace had enjoyed the company of a woman. But just as his libido kicked to life, someone else walked into the bar, effectively killing anything that might’ve risen to the occasion.
Cindy tracked his stare and her mouth gaped open. “Is that? Holy hell... She looks different, but I’d swear that’s Delainey Clarke.”
“It’s