by Debra Webb
“Don’t walk away from me, Claire.”
“Watch me.” Claire strode off the stage in the direction of the dressing room she’d been assigned. She forced a smile for each technician or crew member she met.
Trace followed her. She didn’t have to look back, she could feel his presence. Surely if she ignored him long enough he would go away. Trace Walker had too much pride to suffer a public brush off. He’d probably go back to the office and direct Gabe to draft a memo informing Claire of whatever it was he so wanted her to know.
Claire should have known better than to assume anything.
Without warning, Trace pulled her through an open door. He closed and locked it, trapping Claire against the solid expanse of wood with his big, muscular body. He placed a hand on each side of her head and stared down at her in triumph. Claire couldn’t hope to escape.
“This is Reba McIntire’s dressing room,” Claire warned. She pressed her palms to his chest and pushed against him, forcing a sparse splice of space between them.
“Is she here?” he asked curtly, one dark eyebrow lifting with unabashed arrogance.
“No,” Claire answered just as curtly.
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
“The problem is you, Trace.” Claire was angry now. How dare he carry on this way. “You can’t seem to get it through your thick skull that you don’t own me. I’m not some stock you can manipulate when the price feels right.”
“You’re going to hear me out whether you want to or not,” he growled.
Claire crossed her arms over her breasts so he couldn’t see the effect his nearness had on her. The thin, summery fabric of her dress and even thinner bra beneath did nothing to hide her nipples. They tightened and tingled with a will of their own. Heat flooded her body when she allowed her gaze to drift down to his sensuous lips. The memory of his kisses assaulted her senses with a fierceness that caught her off guard. Need rose so rapidly that she had to stifle a groan. Being this close to him hurt more than she could have imagined. For two weeks Claire had prayed she’d see him again, but the pain that accompanied the pleasure was almost too much to bear.
“So talk,” she goaded him with mounting impatience. She couldn’t take too much of this. “You have a captive audience.” Claire saw his jaw harden and his nostrils flare. Boy, he was ticked off. Good. She almost smiled. At least she wasn’t alone in her discomfort.
Then the anger slowly drained from his face, replaced by an utter desolation that tugged sharply at Claire’s heart. Loneliness, so profound that she found it difficult to look at, filled his eyes.
“I’m losing my mind, Claire,” he said wearily. His eyes searching hers. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t concentrate. Nothing matters anymore.”
She couldn’t breathe. He cupped her face in his hands, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Claire’s blood roared in her ears. Her heart felt ready to leap from her chest. Her lips yearned to mate with his. Had he finally admitted to himself that he loved her? Had he put the past behind him?
“I need you, Claire,” he murmured. “I can’t live without you.”
She stiffened at the impact of his words, shook her head slowly, her disappointment so complete, she felt weak from the loss of something she’d never even had. I need you, Claire. Not I love you. Need wouldn’t be enough. She couldn’t and wouldn’t settle for anything less than his love. At one time she had thought that would work but it hadn’t.
“That’s not enough, Trace.”
He let go a ragged breath, the warmth feathering across her mouth. “It has to be. I know you want me, too,” he whispered, his lips almost touching hers.
Claire shook her head again, the movement strained and barely visible, she knew, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. “Not like this.”
Trace threaded his fingers into her hair and planted a kiss at the base of her throat. And then another just beneath her earlobe. Desire sizzled through her when his lips caressed hers in the promise of a kiss.
Claire held on tightly to his shirt. Despite every command her brain gave, her lips responded to his. God help her, she wanted Trace Walker. Wanted him desperately.
“I...I don’t want this, Trace,” she breathed.
“Liar,” he whispered and then took her lips with savage force. His tongue invaded her mouth, searching, stroking, claiming. His taut body pressed against hers with complete confidence in his right to possess.
All reason dissipated as he filled her with a taste uniquely his—hot, wild and male. The strength of his need almost frightening, Claire felt her own need rising dangerously close to his. His hands skimmed down her arms, grasped her bottom and pulled her against his hard arousal.
“I need you so much, Claire,” he murmured between deep, fierce kisses. Trace slid his hands under her dress to cup her more intimately. “I need you now.”
As much as she wanted him, Claire knew she couldn’t do this. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. She pushed against his chest, but rock-hard resistance met her. “Stop, Trace,” she said, a half demand, half plea.
He hesitated, his glazed eyes struggled to focus on hers.
“I won’t settle for this anymore,” she told him in a much stronger voice. She had to make him understand that she needed more.
Trace licked his lips, tasting their kiss. “I’m willing to try to make this work. On mutual terms.”
Claire’s heart acknowledged the difficulty of the concession that came with that statement, but it wasn’t enough. “That’s just not good enough. I need more than a promise that you’ll try.” She pushed again, putting a tad more space between them. At least their bodies weren’t touching now. “I want it all. And...” she flattened her palms against the center of his chest, “...I want it to come from right here.”
Trace tensed visibly. “I don’t know how to give you that,” he said, pain flickering in his eyes.
“You’ve got to deal with your past, Trace. Somewhere, maybe locked up in a dusty old trunk in that big old house of yours, is your past. Family photo albums, your wedding ring.” Claire closed her eyes and shuddered at that thought. She would never wear Trace’s ring, never have his name. She forced her eyes open and went on. “Your guitar, awards and other pieces of yesterday. It’s all there... somewhere. Locked away so you don’t have to deal with it. Hidden from view so you can pretend it doesn’t exist—that it never happened. But it’s there.” Claire swallowed the thick lump in her throat and willed the stinging tears to retreat. “And, unfortunately for me, locked away with all those memories is your heart.”
Trace averted his gaze then.
Claire forced her next words past her lips. “When you’ve fought your demons and gotten your heart back, you can look me up.” She turned away from the hurt in his eyes and unlocked the door. Her vision blurred, she rushed down the corridor toward her own dressing room. She had to get her purse and get out of there.
Before she ran back and took whatever Trace had to offer.
~*~
Trace stared at the locked closet for a long while before he reached out a shaky hand to unlock the mahogany doors. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He clenched his fingers into a tight fist and jerked his hand back.
He couldn’t do this.
Not for anyone.
Not even Claire.
Trace closed his eyes and sagged with the guilt, the pain, hardly able to stand. Claire wanted something he wasn’t capable of giving her. If she could only understand that he’d gladly do anything in his power to make her happy, but he just couldn’t give her something he no longer possessed.
He pushed a hand over his face and released the breath he’d been unwittingly holding. Trace didn’t know if he still knew how to love, or if he was even capable of love. He banished that particular emotion a long time ago. But he felt strongly for Claire, there was no denying that. But could he love her? Could he take that chance?
Trace shook his head in def
eat. She had told him to deal with the past. He just couldn’t see how that would make a difference, but he had to try. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t. Could he live at all without Claire?
He didn’t think so.
He had to try.
Steadying himself, Trace reached again for the key in the brass lock. It protested the move, but turned. He swallowed hard as he grasped the brass handle and opened the door. The stale scent of disuse and age greeted him. He focused on the dusty, haphazardly placed contents of the storage closet. Everything was just as he’d left it all those years ago when he’d shoved it away.
A wide shelf ran the length at eye level. His hand trembling, Trace touched the cool surface of his Entertainer of the Year award and then the Horizon Award. He looked at the symbols of success. Platinum discs that represented the many millions sold. Adrenaline surged through his veins, fast and hard. An old, almost forgotten feeling of real accomplishment and self-satisfaction surfaced fleetingly.
Trace tightened his jaw and resolutely squashed it.
His gaze moved from the black Stetson hanging on a hook, to the Gibson flat-top guitar propped in the corner. Every nerve in his body buzzed in anticipation as he touched the smooth wood surface of the old guitar that had been a part of him for so very long. His fingertips glided over his own name.
Trace’s father’d had the guitar made especially for him when Trace signed his first recording contract.
A lifetime ago.
A thousand images and sensations flooded back when he picked up the instrument and held it in his hands. He gently strummed the strings. The resulting sound shattered through him in shards of memory. Adoring fans... the exhilaration of a live performance. A duet with an icon like Willie Nelsen. The pride in his parents’ eyes. The greed in Annette’s.
Trace’s fingers stilled on the strings. His fame had killed his family, and turned the woman he’d thought he loved into... he closed his eyes and shook his head. The loss of his parents, compounded by the tragic end of his whirlwind marriage had almost destroyed him. Annette had nearly driven him crazy. Nothing he did was ever enough for her. His professional life might have been a dream come true, but his personal life had been a waking nightmare. Could he ever trust anyone enough to open himself to that kind of pain? And if he did allow himself to love again, would he survive the pain if he lost that person?
Trace carefully set the guitar to the side and trailed his fingers over his black Stetson. He picked up the shiny gold wedding band that lay on the shelf near it and held it between his thumb and index finger. Annette had never loved him, she’d only loved what he stood for—money and fame. Deep down he’d known that her alcoholism and drug addiction wasn’t his fault, that he’d done all he could.
He deposited the ring back onto the layer of dust where it belonged. He took one last look at the items which had once meant so very much to him and then closed the door. He could never go back to that life. Never be that Trace Walker again. He couldn’t bring his family or Annette back, either. Nor could he prevent himself from feeling at least partially responsible for their deaths.
No matter what anyone said, Trace would always feel that responsibility.
He couldn’t not feel it.
Despite all his denial and his cowardice, he knew without doubt he could trust Claire. She wasn’t anything like Annette. He knew that, if he knew nothing else. But if he allowed himself to love her, how would he bear to let her out of his sight? Each time Claire walked out the door he would have to face the reality that he might never see her again.
How could he deal with that?
He couldn’t.
Trace strode out of the guestroom and downstairs to his office. He grabbed a glass and a half empty bottle of scotch and dropped down into the chair behind his desk.
His desk.
Trace poured a hefty measure into the glass.
His office.
He took a long, deep swallow of the liquid relief, then slammed the glass down on the desk.
His work.
Trace had his work that was all he needed.
Nothing more.
He emptied the glass.
Absolutely nothing more.
He refilled his glass. There was only one thing to do with a mood like this—drown it. A large, padded envelope lying on the edge of his desk caught Trace’s eye. He reached across the desk and dragged it toward him.
Claire’s name was across the front in Gabe’s distinguished lettering. After taking another long pull of artificial courage, Trace reached inside and withdrew part of the contents. Two nail files and a pink compact spilled onto the desk.
Claire’s personal things. She must have left them in the desk. Gabe probably cleared it in anticipation of the new secretary’s arrival in the morning.
Trace pulled the last item from the envelope, a framed photograph. His chest constricted as his gaze riveted on Claire’s smiling face. She was so incredibly beautiful. And her little niece, Shelby...
Trace touched the faces in the photograph as a bone-deep ache twisted through him.
How could he live the rest of his life and not know this kind of love? How could he never hold a child of his own in his arms? A little girl with chestnut hair and golden eyes just like her mother.
Just like Claire.
But how could he take the chance?
Trace swallowed hard and considered what he could do. He could decide not to play dead any longer. He’d done that long enough. Trace couldn’t pretend anymore that he didn’t want or need anyone else. No amount of liquid courage or denial would do the trick anymore.
He did.
He needed Claire.
The time he’d spent with Claire had scared the hell out of him, but it had also given him more joy than he’d ever imagined it was possible to feel. Claire made him want a future—a future with her in it. He wanted to be with her every minute. The last few weeks had been pure hell. He just couldn’t live without her. Rage had exploded inside him at the thought of her going out with another man. She belonged to him... in every sense of the word.
Did all these crazy, mixed-up emotions add up to love?
Was he capable of love?
He could love Claire.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. To make her happy. To have children with her. To share his hopes and dreams with her. To grow old with her...
He did love Claire.
The realization rocked him. The urgency of his need for her, the intensity of his protective and possessive feelings toward her. Yes. He loved Claire.
Trace smiled, a quickening feeling that reached all the way to his heart. He did know what love was. It was Claire. The woman had breathed resurrecting life back into him.
He loved Claire Carson. And by God, he would move heaven and earth to prove it to her.
Chapter Ten
“Ten seconds, Miss Carson,” the Heart Beat stage director announced.
Claire took another deep breath and focused inward for one final moment of meditation.
“Miss Carson!”
Claire whirled to find Trish, Ron’s assistant, come to a skidding halt next to her. Claire frowned. “Yes?”
“Today’s guest has been delayed—”
“What happened?” Claire asked in horror. Jake Shelton had sounded fine to her just one hour ago when she’d spoken to him on the phone. What could have happened in the past sixty minutes?
Trish shook her head. “Traffic. No time to explain,” she blurted as she made a frantic dash off stage. Her last remark, “Just follow the teleprompter,” sailed over her shoulder.
Traffic? Claire cringed. He had called from his cell phone to say he was en route. He must have gotten caught in the never-ending construction springing up all around Nashville.
This sort of thing happened occasionally, but it hadn’t in a very long time.
And, dear God, not today of all days!
“Five seconds!”
Claire watch
ed the final three, two, one, and the curtains slowly drew back. She snapped to attention and strode across the set. She smiled and waved at the applauding studio audience and forced a sense of calmness and serenity into place. She could do this. She’d done it before.
And this was the last time she would get to do it from this set. Tears welled in her eyes. Okay, girl, get through this show without breaking down.
Claire stationed herself in front of the white, overstuffed chair and faced the audience and cameras. “Hello, Nashville and welcome to Heart Beat.”
She paused for the ensuing round of applause and watched for the lines of dialogue to begin on the teleprompter screen. Careful to make eye contact with the audience and cameras as often as possible, she smiled. Her opening lines were her own, but she would feel much better when the information she would need—the information that followed her short monologue—appeared on the screen. She listened intently for any instructions related to the guest’s arrival that might be forthcoming in her earpiece.
“Today’s show is my last before moving to LA Confidential.” Her smile widened at another burst of applause. She blinked back the renewed rush of tears. “I want to take this opportunity to thank the wonderful people at Heart Beat for their support. And also to thank you.” She gestured toward the audience. “Without you, this dream would not have come true.”
A standing ovation followed. The tears slid past her lashes and Claire fought valiantly to maintain her composure. She loved these people, she loved this city.
When the applause died down, she continued, “I know you will all love Kira Jones, Heart Beat’s new host.” More applause echoed from the crowd. Her mind went blank... and so did the teleprompter screen.
What the hell did she say next? Panic inched its way up her spine. Claire moistened her lips and stared at the screen as if the words would appear by the sheer determination she focused in that direction. Even the garbled noise in her earpiece ceased as if someone called for radio silence.
Hurry, she commanded silently, I’m dying here!
