A Real Live Hero

by Kimberly Van Meter

  New tears welled in her eyes. “Really?” Her expression filled with shame. “I’ve been a terrible sister. I don’t deserve his love or admiration. I never gave my brother a second thought. I mean, I called him now and then just to let him know I was still alive, but they were really perfunctory calls without any real meaning to them. But I love my brother. I really do.”

  “I know you do. He’s going to need you when your dad dies. Are you going to be there for him?” Trace asked, wondering.

  “I will try to be.”

  Under different circumstances Trace might’ve called her on her noncommittal answer, but he didn’t feel it was necessary to pound her over the head with more guilt. She definitely had bigger fish to fry at the moment, and he knew she was barely holding it together. Fate had a funny way of jerking the rug out from beneath your feet when you least expected it.

  Of all the troubles he had with his own family, he knew if either of his parents were to die, their absence would leave a hole in his heart. When Simone had died, the pain had been surreal. To never hear her laugh, never tell her funny jokes or make fun of her incessant chatter were things he could barely manage to accept. In the early days, he’d dreamed of her every night. Sometimes it’d hurt to close his eyes, knowing Simone would be waiting for him in the landscape of his dreams. But he had soldiered on, and that’s what Delainey would have to do when her father died. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered, rubbing at her eyes. “I think I need a hot shower and then to go to bed. I’m exhausted and I don’t want to think anymore. Is that okay?” She looked to him for permission. When he nodded, she smiled with gratitude, saying, “I know I don’t deserve having you with me right now, but it means so much. I don’t want to think about what we’re doing or what’s going to happen later. All I want to do is feel you next to me and know that for a short time everything is going to be all right. Can we do that?”

  He answered by brushing her lips with a soft kiss. He had questions, misgivings and concerns about what he and Delainey were doing, but he knew he couldn’t walk away from her, not right now when she needed him the most. He wasn’t hardwired that way. He’d probably end up paying for it later, but for now he was looking forward to crawling into his bed beside her and forgetting the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DELAINEY’S EYES OPENED before the sun came up, and for a long moment she wondered if she ought to call the shoot off. It was one thing to say that the show must go on but another to march on when faced with something truly catastrophic. She’d slept like a baby wrapped in Trace’s arms, and for a heartbeat she’d been able to forget what was awaiting her. But with the breaking dawn, she knew it was time to make a decision.

  She really couldn’t fathom sitting in a hospital room, watching the clock as her father’s life slowly ran out. It was too horrific for words. She also knew that if she managed to force herself to sit in that room with him, her mind would return to the production and all that was being lost. If she let this project go, it would mean saying goodbye to everything that she had worked her entire career for. And she wasn’t ready to do that. Not by a long shot. She hadn’t sacrificed and endured every indignity foisted upon her in the past eight years to back down now.

  Perhaps that was a testament to how her father had made her strong. It was a backhanded compliment for sure, but she couldn’t deny that being raised by Harlan Clarke had definitely strengthened her backbone.

  Trace stirred beside her and she regarded him silently. He always looked so innocent, so sweet when he was asleep. She used to love to watch him in the quiet moments before the dawn, before their life had taken a disastrous turn. She remembered the phone call as if it were yesterday.

  Young, pretty Simone. Gone. The news had been too awful to comprehend. Everyone had loved Simone. She’d had that effervescent quality you couldn’t fake—either you were born with it or you weren’t. Some called it charisma, others called it an angel’s grace, but whatever it was hadn’t kept Simone alive.

  If Simone hadn’t died, maybe Delainey would’ve stayed. Not because she didn’t have dreams and aspirations—no, quite the opposite. It was that Delainey might have swallowed her dreams and goals in an effort to hold on to the one person she loved more than anything. But when word came down that Simone had died, the shock of it had created a sonic wave of awareness that had made Delainey desperate to get out of Alaska. Simone’s life had been cut short. Her death had been the wake-up call to Delainey’s slumbering psyche, and she’d kicked to life with a vengeance. Tomorrow wasn’t promised to anyone, and by God she was going to take her tomorrow by the throat.

  “If you’re going to lie there and stare at me, the least you could do is make coffee,” Trace said, his sleep-roughened voice teasing. Without opening his eyes, he reached over and pulled her to him. “You still talk in your sleep,” he said. “You’d make a terrible spy. No state secrets would be safe with you.”

  She smiled. “And what exactly did I say?”

  “Something about walking the dog and feeding the parakeet. Do you have pets?”

  Delainey with a pet? She could barely keep a plant alive. “No. My condo doesn’t allow pets. It was one of the top selling points for me.”

  He chuckled and nuzzled her neck, still sleepy. “About that coffee...”

  “I’m a guest. Isn’t that your job to see to my needs?”

  “I don’t normally allow my guests to sleep in my bed, but then again I don’t have guests, either.”

  His admission made her feel warmly possessive. It was wrong and selfish, but she was so grateful that he hadn’t married or found anyone to replace her. A sudden, wild thought came to her. “You know, you could come visit me in Los Angeles sometime.” She let the offer dangle, almost holding her breath as she awaited his reaction.

  “And why would I want to go to L.A.?” he asked.

  “One of the best things about California is the weather,” she answered. “And you don’t have to wear a lot of clothing. In fact, there are days I walk around my condo in nothing but my G-string. It’s hard to do that here.”

  Just as she anticipated, she felt his erection nudging her leg, and she laughed. “That was easy,” she teased.

  “What can I say? Men are simple creatures,” he quipped, seconds before climbing on top of her. Fully awake now and raring to go, Trace stared down at her with open desire in his eyes. “If you’re not going to make the coffee, then we might as well make good use of the time we have before we have to leave. If your production schedule is to be believed, call time is at 8:00 a.m. That gives us just enough time for a little of this—” he bent down and suckled her neck “—and this—” he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss “—and definitely this—” he pressed his stiffening length against her pubic mound, teasing her with his hard shaft.

  She gasped and squirmed beneath him, delighted with his version of a wake-up call. “We can always pick up coffee on the way in,” she managed to suggest, groaning as he began to remind her of all the reasons why he was hard to forget.

  Her last thought before she could think of nothing at all was that a girl could get used to this.

  And that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER Trace and Delainey were heading into town to round up the crew. The afterglow of their morning interlude was already fading and nerves were setting in. He was walking into a foreign environment, completely out of his element. It’d been a long time since he had to do anything that he wasn’t prepared to handle.

  “It’s going to be great,” Delainey assured him, noting his sudden quiet. “I know you’re nervous. But it’s going to be fine. I’ll help guide you through this process. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “I’m no actor,” he warned her. “I don’t want to end up looking like an idiot,
either.”

  “You think that I would let you look stupid? This is my career on the line, not only your reputation. People want to know about how you do what you do. The fact that you saved a high-profile person is the icing on the cake. Your rescue of Clarissa Errington was heroic. I know you hate that word, but it doesn’t change the fact that it was. Please trust that I know what I’m doing.”

  He wanted to trust her, but Trace was short in the trust department, particularly with Delainey. He didn’t know what they were doing and he didn’t know where it was headed, and the fact that he already wanted her to stay when she was likely planning to go only served to put him on edge. However, he’d made a promise and he planned to stick to it.

  He pulled up the driveway of the rental house where Delainey’s crew was staying. He followed Delainey into the house and tried to remember not to be antisocial. He hated meeting new people. He hadn’t always been this way, but having a younger sister die the way Simone did had caused him to be wary of strangers. Seemed as if no one wanted to talk about anything but his sister’s death and how it’d affected him and his family. Eight years of that crap was bound to change a person.

  They walked into the small living room and nearly tripped over camera equipment. “Trevor,” Delainey called out, clearly irritated as she moved the camera equipment herself. “I’ve told you not to leave the cameras lying around like this. If you have a couple hundred thousand dollars lying around to buy a new camera, then so be it. But somehow I doubt that’s the case. Take care of the equipment, please.”

  A tall, lanky man in his late twenties or early thirties with spiky hair emerged from the bathroom wearing an artfully shaved face that told Trace the man spent more time in front of the mirror than Trace had his entire life. “Watch out, the boss lady is here. She’s already busting skulls.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Keep it up and I won’t hire you again,” Delainey muttered before heading out of the room to find the rest of the crew.

  Trevor sauntered over to Trace with a cocky smile on his face. “You must be the golden boy. The man of the hour. Pleasure to meet you. I’ll be the man making you look good. The name’s Trevor Gann.” He held his hand out for Trace to shake, which Trace did reluctantly, already finding the man irritating as hell. “So, you’re a tracker? Are you like an Indian or something?” he asked, pulling a North Face sweatshirt on and bouncing up and down to settle the garment. “That’s wicked, man. I have totes respect for you and what you do.”

  “Thanks,” Trace said, looking for Delainey. “So...you’re a camera guy.”

  “One of the best,” Trevor bragged, earning a snort of derision from another of the crew rolling up his sleeping bag and tucking it away.

  “Yeah, Trevor is the best at whatever he does, just ask him,” the man said, moving to his equipment bag, which looked filled with sound equipment.

  “Don’t mind Neal,” Trevor said with a crooked, arrogant smile. “He’s just jealous because he doesn’t have what it takes to do my job. All he can do is hold a boom mic, which I’m pretty sure a monkey can do.”

  “Boys,” Delainey warned, returning to the room. “Try to be professional. Trevor, start loading the gear since you’re already set to go.”

  “No problem, boss,” Trevor said, hefting the large camera box. “I’m on it.”

  Once Trevor had left the room, Neal introduced himself, and already Trace liked the quiet, unassuming young man. “Pleasure to meet you. I remember watching the news footage of the rescue and all I could think was, that man is one badass. I mean, without GPS most people would drop off a cliff. No sense of direction at all. What you can do is...pretty damn awesome.”

  “Thank you, but anyone can do it. Just takes time to learn.”

  “Maybe you could teach me a few tricks,” Neal said, and Trace shrugged.

  “Sure. It’s not that hard. If you’re an observant person, you can pick it up.”

  “Well, I think I have the patience of Job to put up with Trevor for months at a stretch. He’s the most annoying man on the planet.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He turned to Delainey and gestured to Neal. “More of this guy, less of that other. Sound good?”

  She laughed. “Trevor is a character but he’s good at what he does, just like Neal is good at what he does. My crew is handpicked for this project. Nothing but the best for you, Trace. Remember how I said to trust me? This is part of that request.” He grunted a nod and let it go. Guess there was no turning back now. Delainey smiled and gestured for him to follow her into the bathroom. He furrowed his brow and she explained. “We’ll do your makeup here. It’ll be easier than trying to apply it on the location.”

  “Makeup?” He took a step back. “I’m a man. I don’t wear makeup.”

  “You do when you’re on camera. Not a lot, just so your face doesn’t look washed out. Everyone does it.”

  “Well, not me. I don’t care if my face looks washed out. It’s my face. If your audience wants the real thing, they’re going to have to accept all of me. Washed-out face and all.”

  “Trace,” Delainey protested, her brow scrunching in irritation. “Just get over here so I can put some powder on your face so you don’t shine.”

  “Just powder?”

  She sighed. “Just powder. I promise.” But once she’d gotten him into the bathroom, she added under her breath, “And maybe a little foundation...”

  He reached around and pinched her sweet little behind. He smothered a grin as she glared at him and grabbed a wand of something, saying, “Just for that...mascara.”

  “You get near me with that mascara and I’ll ruin your reputation.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “Easy. I’d push you up against that wall and remind you how quickly I can make you weak in the knees. It’d probably be quite a show for your crew.”

  She flushed and dropped the mascara tube back into the makeup container with a hasty, “Powder is all we need,” and he smothered a laugh. Maybe this celebrity gig wouldn’t be so bad after all. He kinda liked working with Delainey.

  But he liked undressing her more.

  Too bad there wasn’t a way to do both more often.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ONCE THE CAMERAS started rolling and the focus shifted from her problems to the immediate needs of the production, a heavy weight slid from her shoulders. She was in her element and loving every minute of it, even though she felt a lot like the chief cook and bottle washer of the small production as she wore many hats to accommodate the tight budget. Trace, on the other hand, was not having as much fun.

  She could tell he was trying to be accommodating, but each time Trevor got too close, he’d look straight into the camera with an irritated expression, breaking the fourth wall, which was a sin unless the script called for it. And the script they were working from did not.

  “You have to stop looking at Trevor,” she told Trace when they’d taken a lunch break. “I know it’s unnatural for you to have someone at your shoulder filming your every move, but I need you to pretend that Trevor isn’t there.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Part of what I do, I do in silence, and having a crew tromp along beside me is weird and distracting. Plus, I feel like an idiot pretending to follow tracks that aren’t there.”

  “You know the tracks aren’t there but the audience doesn’t. In postproduction we’ll add the voice-over track, and it will be very convincing.”

  “I don’t like it. Feels like a bunch of crap.”

  “C’mon, you’re doing great,” she assured him. “We need a few shots of you looking pensively into the distance, though. Just try to remember how it felt when you were searching for Clarissa.” He graced her with an expression of open annoyance, and she smiled. “Go grab something to eat. I think we have sandwiches.”

 
Trace muttered something under his breath that she probably didn’t want to hear and stalked off to get something to eat. Maybe after he’d eaten he’d be in a better mood, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Whether he liked it or not, the camera loved Trace. She had butterflies in her stomach watching him do his thing, and she knew America was going to fall in love with him—which, of course, Trace would hate and find intrusive. She withheld a sigh, fighting against what she needed for her career and what was best for Trace. Why couldn’t they mesh for once?

  “Make sure you get plenty of close-ups,” she reminded Trevor as she scribbled notes to remember later. “Oh, and if you can, give Trace some space. He gets unnerved by the cameras, and I’d like to be as organic as possible in his process.”

  “What process? He stares at dirt and leaves, and then pokes at them a bit. Are you sure this is a good idea?” Trevor complained, biting into his sandwich. “I mean, I’d hate to think we’re wasting all our energy on another Vertical Blind.”

  She bristled. “Not that it matters, but this pilot was ordered by the head of the network, so whether we get hours of footage of Trace picking his nose because that’s how he makes his magic work, that’s what we’re going to deliver. Got it? What is your problem, Trevor? You’re always an insufferable ass, but since landing here in Alaska you’ve been an aggravating jerk at the same time.”

  “Sorry...I just think this shoot is boring. There’s nothing to look at but trees and more trees. Whoever said we’re facing deforestation has obviously never come here.”

  “Well, a better attitude, please. I have a lot riding on this and I need you at your best. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. One spiffy new attitude coming right up.”

  Ugh. The man was incorrigible. “Great,” she said drily as she walked away to check with Scott, her second camera operator. “Tomorrow, I want you shooting plenty of B-roll footage, okay? Crowd shots, small-town life, et cera. But today, I need you to get some different angles of Trace.” She probably had enough but seeing as she was wearing the director hat as well, she wanted to be sure.