A Real Live Hero. Kimberly Van MeterЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      DELAINEY OPENED HER EYES after a fitful night’s rest on an old lumpy mattress that had definitely seen better days and wondered what she’d done to deserve such adversity in her life. Milky morning light filtered in through the thick window covering, and she rubbed the grit from her eyeballs. Today, she would fax the signed contract paperwork to the network and then she’d start the process of getting her skeleton crew up here to start shooting. The hardest part would be finding a hotel for them to hole up in for the duration of the shoot. Her mind was already picking at the challenges ahead, even sluggish as she was without her morning espresso to jolt herself alert.

      She knew her father was likely long gone, having woken up at the crack of dawn to take the boat out, so at least she would be spared the awkward and uncomfortable recap of last night’s reunion. But she could do nothing about the memory.

      “There she is,” Brenda had announced, smiling as Delainey had opened the front door and walked in. Delainey had forced a tight smile when Brenda added, “I was going to tell you that moose season is upon us and every hotel would be filled to capacity with tourists, but you ran out of here so quickly I didn’t get the chance. But we knew you’d figure it out soon enough when you couldn’t find a room.”

      “Yes, well, here I am,” Delainey said, her cheeks burning. Her father sat in his recliner, wordlessly watching her with a hard expression, and Delainey had fought the urge to say something terribly immature. “Is the room still available?” she managed to ask with some semblance of civility.

      “House hasn’t changed,” her father answered gruffly.

      “A simple yes would suffice,” she mumbled, moving past him and pulling her luggage behind her.

      “Seems to me that you’re hell-bent on changing who you are and where you came from,” he remarked, and Brenda shushed him.

      “Now, Harlan, give the girl a chance to get settled. Can’t you tell she’s nearly dead on her feet?” Brenda shook her head, chuckling at her husband’s gruff attitude, and Delainey thought the woman was insane for finding anything about Harlan Clarke appealing. He was mean, ill-tempered and rude on his best days. Was it any wonder her mother had been miserable? “Don’t pay him no mind. He’s happy to have you home for a few days.”

      Delainey held back a snort while Harlan shot his wife a dark look. Yeah, right. He was clicking his heels with joy. “I’ll do my best to find suitable accommodations as soon as possible,” she said, finished with the conversation. “Good night.”

      Unfortunately, the walls were incredibly thin and Delainey caught their conversation even as she closed the door behind her.

      “Now, why’d you go and say something like that, you old poop? That wasn’t nice at all.” Brenda had admonished her husband with open disapproval. “She’s never going to come around again if you don’t start being nicer.”

      “I don’t care what she does,” Harlan said, and the recliner squeaked as if he were adjusting his position. “And that woman ain’t my daughter. I don’t recognize that woman at all. She’s a stranger.”

      “Something tells me that she was a stranger before she got all fancied up. You two have a lot to talk about.”

      “Like hell we do.”

      “Oh, Harlan. Now you’re just being stubborn. You need your children right now.”

      “I don’t want to talk about it, Brenda. Leave it be.”

      Delainey frowned. What was Brenda talking about? Was her father sick? Delainey sat on the bed, extreme fatigue pulling at her. Wouldn’t Thad have called her if their father were sick? Of course he would’ve. Perhaps Brenda had a penchant for the dramatic and there was nothing truly wrong with the old goat. An odd pang of worry pierced Delainey’s chest, even as she tried to dispel it with reason and logic. Everything was fine and she was exhausted. Delainey fell back on the bed and closed her eyes, so tired that she thought she could sleep the minute her eyelids fluttered shut.

      But that’s not what happened. In fact, she’d been so tired, she actually couldn’t sleep. Nervous energy kept her from finding sleep, and before she knew it she was heading to the Rusty Anchor for a nightcap.

      And that had turned out equally fabulous, she wanted to groan as she rolled to her side and put her face into the pillow. She’d known that Trace wasn’t going to be warm and welcoming, but she hadn’t expected him to be so damn mean. Had she really messed him up so badly that now he hated women? Or maybe it was just her?

      Delainey rose from the bed on stiff limbs and made her way to the bathroom to shower. The questions in her head had no answers; there was no point in spending so much time wondering about the whys and what-fors. Trace hated her and he was going to make the next few weeks as miserable as humanly possible. Deal with it and move on. She’d handled difficult people before without breaking a sweat. She would just have to treat Trace as she would a hostile, pain-in-the-ass star—smile and nod, then at the end of the day, enjoy a really big glass of wine.

      Delainey drew a deep breath, moderately comforted by her plan. But even as she armed herself with the details, her insides trembled and she felt a little sick to her stomach. She didn’t want Trace to hate her. Truthfully, sometimes private memories of Trace and his love were the ones that insulated her against the worst moments in her career. She knew he didn’t love her any more, but there was a time...a sudden lump rose in her throat. Ugh. Why was she doing this to herself? Masochistic, that’s what this was. What good would come of wallowing in the past?

      Move on, Delainey—there’s work to be done.

      * * *

      “TRACE, I KNOW YOU weren’t keen to do this project, but once you get started, I think you’ll enjoy—”

      “Peter, don’t try and sell me on this project. It’s a waste of your breath and my time. You and I both know why I’m doing this, and it’s pretty much extortion no matter how you try and pretty it up.”

      “That’s harsh, Trace.” Peter glowered but didn’t deny it. “You’ve got no head for administration, son. Times are tough. Call it what you will, but if an outside entity such as Hollywood comes waving dollar bills under our nose, by damn we’re going to do what we can to make it happen. You think I like cutting programs? Well, I don’t. But when I see a relatively easy way to make the budget expand rather than constrict, I take it.”

      “Yeah, well, I was strong-armed into taking this gig, and I don’t feel right about it.”

      “You have the right to your feelings,” Peter said. “Even if they’re wrong.”

      Trace did a double take. “What do you mean by that?”

      Peter sighed. “You’re a good man and an even better tracker, but you’re stubborn as the day is long and sometimes when you dig your heels in about something you’re as immobile as an ass pulling against the lead. Why don’t you tell me what your beef is with that pretty producer? She seems real nice.”

      He snorted. “Delainey Clarke is like the first freeze across the water. It might look solid but it’s deceiving, and if you trust it with your weight, you’re liable to crash through the thin surface and drown. She’s not trustworthy and she’s not a nice person. Don’t let her pretty face trick you.”

      “You two have history?”

      Trace didn’t want to admit it, but he figured if Cindy Sutton remembered his past with Delainey, chances were someone else was going to remember, too, so it was best to just let it out. “Yeah, we’ve got history. Plenty of it. We were together. I even asked her to marry