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,