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
