by EMILIE ROSE
“No one cares about lost tourists—but everyone cares about a lost thirteen-year-old girl who just happens to be the governor’s daughter. It might not be your thing, but it’s big news, and you will give the press a story.”
“If I said ‘bite me,’ would you fire me?” he asked.
“No, because that’s exactly what you’d want me to do so you could get out of talking to the press. C’mon, Trace...take one for the team. We need this.”
Trace swore and shook his head, knowing Peter would badger him almost as incessantly as the press, and frankly, it would be harder to avoid his boss than the reporters. “One interview,” he said. “And I mean—one.”
“I guess if that’s all I can get out of you,” grumbled Peter, adding a sharp, “But it’d better be a good interview. Plug the program several times and make sure you mention how you couldn’t have found the girl without your support crew.”
“Yeah, sure,” Trace said. “Gotta go. Set up the interview and let me know when and where. I’ll show up with bells on.”
“Sure you will,” Peter said, not believing him for a second. “If you don’t show up...”
“I will,” he assured Peter, sighing. “I promise.”
“Good.” Peter clicked off and Trace tossed his phone onto the seat, freshly irritated. He didn’t understand what the big fascination was with him doing his job. Nobody got this fired up about the mailman delivering the mail. Why should anyone care about what he did? In a perfect world, everyone minded their own damn business and left each other alone.
He hated reporters.
He hated the limelight.
And he most definitely hated toeing the line for someone else’s agenda.
The only thing that made this situation tolerable was the fact that Clarissa Errington hadn’t been frozen solid by the time he’d found her.
He swallowed the sour lump in his throat. Clarissa had cried with relief when she’d seen him appear from the dense forest, his orange vest blazoned with Search and Rescue in bold black lettering, and she had stumbled into his arms, terrified and sobbing, so cold she could barely hold on to him.
It wasn’t that he was flippant about saving a child’s life; it was that he simply didn’t want accolades for doing his job. He wasn’t a hero, and he hated when anyone used that term to describe him.
He was no hero. He was just a guy trying to make a living doing the only thing he’d ever been good at.
What was so interesting about that?
He needed a beer. Maybe two or three. Was it considered bad form to show up to an interview drunk? Celebrities did it, so why couldn’t he? That ought to quash any more of that hero talk that kept getting tossed around.
Peter would likely blow his top if he walked in three sheets to the wind, and Trace didn’t want an earful from Peter’s wife, Cindy, who’d blame him for causing Peter’s blood pressure to skyrocket.
Nope, he realized. Stone-cold sober was the only way available to him.
Just get it over with and be done with it, he told himself.
Twenty minutes of his life and then he could put the nuisance behind him. After that, everything could return to normal and the rest of the world would find something else to chew on while he went back to doing his job—quietly and without microphones being shoved in his face.
CHAPTER TWO
DELAINEY SETTLED INTO her leather-backed chair, ready to throw everything she had into this pitch meeting, having spent a week brainstorming for the most interesting and stellar idea for a new show in the hopes that the gods of television were smiling down on her and would grant her a boon.
Her nerves buzzed from too much caffeine, but she was operating on too little sleep and couldn’t chance that she might doze off at the most inopportune time. Calm down, she told herself sternly, working hard to breathe slowly and steadily to still her shaking fingers. This is only the single most important meeting of your life, so why stress? Ugh.
Frank Pilcher, head of programming, sat at the head of the long conference table, looking as austere and foreboding as ever, and no matter how many times Delainey tried smiling and putting on her best face, he rarely appreciated her efforts. In short, that man terrified her—more so now than ever because that baleful stare seemed centered on her more than anyone else. Or maybe she was just being paranoid....
“Vertical Blind has, in the history of this network, lost more money in the first six weeks than any new show given the green light from this company in the past five years. What have you got for us to lose money on this time, Ms. Clarke?”
Oh. Maybe she wasn’t being paranoid. Was it possible to slide down in her chair and slink from the room on the power of her own mortification? A shaky smile fit itself to her lips and she opened her day planner with all her notes and ideas, but her eyesight had begun to swim.
“Well?”
“Uh, yes, well, Vertical Blind did not perform as well as we had hoped,” Delainey admitted, clearing her voice when a small shake betrayed her. “But, I have been studying the demographic test groups and have found that—”
“Conversely, Ms. Yaley, your show, Hubba Hubba, is blowing all projections out of the water,” Frank said, cutting Delainey off in midsentence, causing her cheeks to flare with heat as she had no choice but to sit and nod in response to Frank’s assessment. “The kids seem to like watching one train wreck after another ad nauseum.”
“Yes, sir. We are very pleased with the momentum of Hubba Hubba,” Hannah said with a smile. “The show easily snags the seventeen to twenty-five age bracket, and already we’re getting calls from quality advertisers eager to place their product in the commercial slots. Overall, I’d call Hubba Hubba a smashing success, one the network can be proud of.”
“It’s lucrative for sure, but something to be proud of? I wouldn’t go that far,” Frank said, surprising both Hannah and Delainey. “Although Vertical Blind dropped like a stone, the concept was, at least, less inane than Hubba Hubba.”
Hannah lost her smug smile and nodded, unsure of how to respond, not that it mattered because Frank had moved on. “There was a time when we made quality programming. We need to find a way to do that as well as continue to make money. Thus far, we’ve missed that mark. I want to hear ideas that do both. And I don’t want to hear any more ideas about shows that follow young, drunken idiots around all summer,” he warned the group with a dark glare. “I want to hear something people can really get behind and care about, and not because it’s filled with debauchery or alcohol-soaked shenanigans.”
Hannah pretended to study her notes, as if she’d actually jotted something down that might fit the criteria, but Delainey knew for a fact that since Hubba Hubba was a hit, Hannah had been looking for several different ways to copy its success, relying mainly on the same format and concept.
Which left the floor open for Delainey to take the stage and show Frank what she could do. “Actually, as I was saying, I think I may have some ideas you might like,” she started, flipping the pages until she came to the circled ideas. “I was thinking there aren’t any cooking shows aimed at teens—”
“Teenagers don’t cook,” Ira West interrupted drily. “I should know. I have two at home who barely know how to operate the toaster.”
“Right, scratch that,” she said, drawing a line through the idea and moving to the next. “So, America loves an underdog. I was thinking of something along the lines of—”
“Alaska!” Frank snapped his fingers with a wide smile that looked wholly unnatural on his face, and her hopes plummeted when she realized he hadn’t been listening to a word she’d been saying. “We need that guy who saved the little girl from the mountains.... What was his name? It’s been all over the news. Fascinating stuff. He’s a tracker. I didn’t even know that people still did that.”
Tracker? In Alaska...? She
stared in confusion, hating that she’d spent all that time scribbling notes on pitches she’d never get to present when she should’ve been watching the damn news instead. She looked around the table, and confused expressions mirrored hers until Ira ventured, “I think his name is something like Trick? Trent? It’s a weird name, I remember that much....”
Suddenly, Delainey’s lips felt numb. Could it be? No way. It wasn’t possible. But...he was the only tracker in Alaska who might’ve had the skills to rescue that girl.... What the hell...she’d take the chance and hope she was right. “Might it have been Trace Sinclair?” she supplied in a small voice, hoping to God that fate wouldn’t be that cruelly interested in watching her squirm like a gutted worm on a hook.
Much to her chagrin, Frank snapped his fingers with open glee. “That’s it. Trace Sinclair. That’s a name with charisma. And his job is interesting, too. Sort of a throwback to the old ways. Is he an Indian of some sort? Maybe his skills were passed down from his ancestors....Wouldn’t that make a good story?”
“He’s not a Native Yupik. He’s as white as you and I,” she murmured, hardly able to believe they were discussing Trace Sinclair around the war room table. “But he’s the best tracker in the state of Alaska, or so I’ve heard.”
Hannah turned slightly hostile as she asked, “And how do you know so much about this man?”
That was privileged information and she was not about to spill her private details, but when she saw the avid interest in Frank’s eyes as well as the envious looks around the table for having valuable information, she immediately sat a little straighter and smiled more brightly as she answered without hesitation. “Oh, Trace and I grew up together in Homer. We’re great friends. He and I chat all the time—when he’s not out saving lives, of course,” she proclaimed, hoping she wasn’t struck down by lightning for blatantly lying through her teeth. It wasn’t that she didn’t know him—oh, Delainey knew Trace better than anyone on this planet—but she’d definitely lied about their close ties.
Truth was, Trace probably wouldn’t spit on her if she were on fire.
But no one else had to know that, least of all anyone at this table.
“So if you’re such close pals, how come you didn’t know who Mr. Pilcher was referencing?” Hannah asked, suspicious.
“Honestly, sometimes I forget that what Trace does is so exciting. And my mind was focused on all the great ideas I’d planned to pitch today,” she said, trying to steer the conversation back to her advantage.
Frank waved everyone else into silence as he pinned Delainey with an expectant look. “Schedule a meeting with this man,” he said. “I want to meet him.”
A flush of fear crept up her neck as she faked an airy laugh. “Oh, Mr. Pilcher, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Trace is way too busy for a trip to California, even if it were to meet someone as important as you. But the next time I chat with him I’ll let him know you’re a fan.”
“I think he’ll want to hear what I have to say,” Frank said. “I think the next big thing is going to be the heroes of Search and Rescue, like your friend, Trace. Imagine this...cameras following Trace—is he good-looking?” Frank paused for Delainey to answer.
“Very,” she admitted. “The camera would love him. The female fan mail would be astronomical.”
Frank liked her answer. “Excellent. The cameras follow Trace as he tracks people in the Alaskan wilderness, saving lives. We could play up the dramatic element—will he or won’t he save them? You have to watch to find out! This could be big.”
“I’d 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.
