Читать книгу A Real Live Hero - Kimberly Van Meter - Страница 16

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 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.