Kitabı oku: «A Real Live Hero»
Go big, or go home
TV producer Delainey Clarke thought she was done with Homer, Alaska. Until a last-ditch attempt to save her career lands her in town, filming a reality-show pilot about expert search-and-rescue tracker Trace Sinclair. Trace is also the man whose heart she broke in half years ago. A man whose kisses are as powerful as the grudge he still holds against her.
Delainey can’t afford to let Trace’s attitude interfere with production—any more than she can resist falling back into his bed. But for how long? Because Delainey isn’t trading Hollywood for Homer…not even for Trace.
“I don’t care what you have to say.”
Trace pointed to the door. “You can show yourself out.”
“Trace, please?”
“No.”
“The least you can do is just humor me and listen to what I’ve got to say?”
“And why should I do that?” he asked. “Because we parted on amicable terms? Because you’re a decent person? Because you always have everyone else’s well-being in mind?” Delainey’s stare narrowed and he laughed because they both knew none of those reasons were true. “My point exactly. You have no leverage with me. The minute I saw that fake smile you pasted on for my benefit, I knew you came with something in mind.”
“Fine,” she said with a dark glower. “You’ve caught me. I need your help.”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Is that all you’ve got for me after everything we’d been through?” she countered, her eyes glazing a little. “At one time, you loved me.”
“A long time ago.” He stared, unable to believe she’d thrown that card down. “A very long time ago.”
Dear Reader,
I love writing complicated love stories—ones with twisted, gnarled attachments and entanglements—and that’s exactly what you’ll find with Trace and Delainey. Difficult choices, painful pasts, and yet the heart wants what the heart wants, right? That’s how I felt about these two lovers, both strong and stubborn at the same time, neither willing to admit that they were wrong, but the love they share refuses to die. How romantic!
But this story isn’t only about two lovers, it’s about the sphere of influence surrounding them as they struggle through the complicated mess that is their life, which includes family, friends and career. Life isn’t always pretty, but the joy is that much sweeter when you search for it.
I hope you enjoy Trace and Delainey’s love story; I certainly enjoyed writing it.
Hearing from readers is a special joy. Please feel free to drop me a line via email through my website, at www.kimberlyvanmeter.com, or through snail mail, at Kimberly Van Meter, P.O. Box 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.
Kimberly Van Meter
A Real Live Hero
Kimberly Van Meter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Van Meter wrote her first book at sixteen and finally achieved publication in December 2006. She writes for the Mills & Boon Superromance and Mills & Boon Romantic Suspense lines. She and her husband of seventeen years have three children, three cats and always a houseful of friends, family and fun.
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A writer relies on many research tools to aid the task of creating a completely fictitious world, and while the internet has become an invaluable tool in that endeavor, talking to knowledgeable people cannot be beat.
To that end, I’d like to thank Hollywood producers Jeff Mercer and Christina Villegas for answering my many questions about producing a reality show on location in Alaska.
Any mistakes are my own and no reflection of their true talents!
And to my son, Jaidyn…I am so proud of the young man you’re turning into.
I know you’ll go far no matter where you go or what you do in life.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
“TOUGH BREAK ON Vertical Blind.”
Delainey Clarke glanced up at the sympathetic voice and offered a tight smile in response, but hurried all that much more quickly down the brightly lit hallway, hoping she could reach her small cubicle of an office and hide.
She managed to slip inside and dropped the fake smile the minute she was safely behind the closed door.
Tough break? More like death knell. Vertical Blind had been her last chance at making her mark at the network as an associate producer, and it had bombed so badly her boss had not only passed on picking up the pilot but had given her newest idea the sardonic brow, as if to ask, “Are you kidding me?” which did not bode well for her future.
Hollywood was a rough town—no, actually, it wasn’t a town at all because that would imply that it was inhabited by people. Hollywood was a shark tank, and she was definitely feeling more like chum than a predator at the top of the food chain. What was she going to do? At this rate, she needed more than just a hit, she needed an award-winning, knock-it-out-of-the-park hit in order to restore her status around the network before someone else came along and booted her from her tiny, cramped office.
Suddenly, the back of her head connected with the door as someone tried to enter, and she stumbled away, rubbing the back of her skull with a scowl as Hannah Yaley walked in looking day-spa fresh and plainly perplexed.
“Delainey...were you leaning against the door?” she asked.
Speaking of sharks. Delainey smiled for Hannah’s benefit, though why she even bothered, Delainey wasn’t sure. They didn’t like each other, but for the sake of appearances they played the same passive games as everyone else in this fake town. “What can I do for you, Hannah?” she asked, smoothing the tiny wrinkles from her slim skirt and wondering how Hannah always managed to look as if she’d just collected her clothes from the dry cleaners. “Congratulations on the ratings of Hubba Hubba,” she added with false cheer while gagging on the inside. Reality shows were cheap to produce and easy to make a good impression on within the right demographic, but shooting a reality show about the wild shenanigans of college coeds during spring break was like shooting fish in a barrel. Hubba Hubba had beaten out every other show in its demographic, making Hannah Yaley the new network darling. And Hannah hated Delainey.
“Thank you, we’re very proud of our team,” Hannah murmured with put-on modesty. Then her expression crumpled appropriately as she added, “I was so bummed to hear about Vertical Blind. I had such high hopes.”
Sure you did. “Well, I should’ve known... A drama about rock climbing was a logistic nightmare, not to mention expensive, and if you don’t get the right time slot...” She let the rest of the excuses trail, knowing she sounded like a pathetic loser and preferring to act as if the failure was simply an unfortunate casualty of the business and no real tragedy to her personally.
God, if only that were true. Hannah nodded in complete understanding, but her eyes glittered with undisguised mirth as she said, “Well, I just wanted to pop in and see how you were doing. I was worried you might’ve taken this recent failure a little hard. But I should’ve known you’d handle it with grace. You are such an inspiration, Delainey. If I were you, I’d probably end up sobbing in a corner, sucking down vodka and cranberry until I died of alcohol poisoning.” She emitted a sharp laugh at her own joke, and Delainey gave her a brittle smile in return.
“Yes, well, where I’m from, giving up isn’t an option.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re from Alaska....” Hannah shuddered delicately. “Must be murder on the skin. But then, it’s not as if there’s much opportunity to show much skin when you’re bundled in a parka, right?”
Delainey affected a surprised expression as she glanced at the wall clock. “Damn, I have an appointment to get to,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Thanks for checking up on me. It means a lot that you care.”
Hannah’s expression was mildly frosty as she replied, “Of course. We girls have to stick together in this boys’ club.”
“Absolutely,” Delainey agreed, yet wished she could roll her eyes so hard she saw her brain. Just once, she’d like to call Hannah on all her fake bullshit, but Hannah was the favored one right now and Delainey was already getting appraising glances from the other producers, the vultures. She shouldered her purse and followed Hannah out into the hall. “Anyway, good chatting with you. On to bigger and better, right?”
Hannah’s expression was patronizing as she said, “That a girl. Such spirit...” before walking away—and if Delainey wasn’t mistaken, her shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
Argh! Delainey wished she had a real appointment to dash off to. That might lift her spirits at least a little bit, but as it was, her calendar was depressingly free of appointments. No one was interested in taking a meeting with Delainey Clarke.
Not even the public access channels.
When she’d first arrived in California, she’d been hungry for a new life. Everything had been new and exciting, and she’d been eager to learn the rules of Hollywood’s brutal social game. But the bloom had certainly worn off the rose at this point. You’re just depressed over Vertical Blind, she told herself, trying to prop up her ego and heal her bruised feelings. This is the nature of the business that you love.
Did she love it? Not at the moment.
Delainey detoured to her favorite coffee shop, and even though she knew she shouldn’t spend the money on such a frivolous purchase, she really didn’t think she could face the rest of the day without something sugary and caffeinated.
She needed a hit. God, please. She’d come too far to fail now. She’d do anything to succeed. Just send me something I can work with...
* * *
TRACE SINCLAIR FOUGHT the urge to bat the microphone out of his face as he cast the reporter at the other end a dark look. “I’ve already given a statement,” he said curtly, pushing his way past the throng of reporters all clamoring for an exclusive that he’d already said repeatedly he wasn’t going to give. Damn nuisances. He was just doing his job. Why didn’t they pester someone who was interested in flapping their jaws about themselves?
“Is it true you’re the best tracker in the state of Alaska?”
“How did you know where to find Clarissa Errington?”
“Were the conditions a hindrance to your tracking skills?”
“How close to death was the governor’s daughter when you rescued her from the mountain?”
“Please, Mr. Sinclair, don’t you know you’re a hero? Wouldn’t you like to tell your side of the story?”
“No.”
“Mr. Sinclair!”
Trace climbed into his truck and gladly put the horde behind him, finally able to breathe. But before he could fully relax, his cell phone rang. He peered at the evil piece of technology that he abhorred and restrained himself from chucking it into a snowbank when he saw his boss’s number pop up on the screen. He bit back a muttered curse and answered the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Would it kill you to grant an interview or two? It’s really good publicity for the Search and Rescue program, and we could use a little good press, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s not my job to pander to the press. It’s my job to find people. End of story. I don’t remember reading anything in my job description that said one word about granting interviews that no one’s going to care about when the next big story hits.”
“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.
