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, were you worried you might have a repeat of what happened with your youngest sister, Simone Sinclair?”

      That one question had frozen Trace’s lips and he’d simply stared at the woman, immediately filled with disgust. “I’m not here to talk about the past,” he said, shooting a glare at Peter for putting him in this predicament. Peter looked chagrined but motioned for him to continue. “We can talk about the Errington case and that’s it,” he practically growled, but the woman was a bulldog and didn’t let it go.

      “Tell me how it felt to save young Errington and how it contrasted with not being able to save your sister. Are you in this business because of your sister? Did that one tragedy—”

      “This interview is over.” He ripped off the mic clipped to his shirt and tossed it to the ground. The reporter looked aghast and shocked, which only went to prove that she didn’t have the sense God gave a goose. He sent Peter a stony look, and Peter dropped his head in his hand in frustration. The last thing Trace saw before he left was Peter talking to the reporter. Whether Peter was trying to smooth things over or trying to stand up for Trace was unknown, and Trace didn’t care. It was time for that beer.

      One beer had turned into two, then three and then he lost count.

      And now he was paying for his indulgence.

      He made his way into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, then gulped down three aspirins with a swallow of water while he waited. Trace bent over the sink and splashed his face several times with ice-cold water. The frigid shock chased away the grogginess but made his head want to explode. Just as he was about to pour a blessed cup of the strong, dark brew, he was stalled by a polite but firm knock on his door. What the...? Very few knew where he lived and even fewer visited. And those who would, rarely bothered because he was never home.

      He stalked to the door and jerked it open, ready to scare off whoever had the misfortune of knocking on his door today, but when he found who was standing on his doorstep, for a moment all he could do was stare in total shock as awareness rippled through him like an unpleasant virus bent on destroying him from the inside out.

      “Hello, Trace.”

      An attractive but entirely too thin platinum blonde stood smiling at him with white gleaming teeth. Was this some kind of joke? Some kind of sick prank? She looked different but he’d recognize those green eyes anywhere— Hell, he’d stared into them enough times to sear them into memory forever. “What are you doing here?” His voice was flat, emotionless and entirely unwelcoming, but she didn’t seem to notice. She started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Forget it, I changed my mind. I don’t care.” And then he slammed the door in her face.

      Delainey Clarke had balls of steel to show up on his doorstep. Balls of ever-lovin’ steel.

      “C’mon, Trace, don’t be rude,” she said from behind the door. “I need to talk to you.”

      “There’s nothing you could say that I would want to hear,” he called out, going to his coffeepot and pouring himself a cup. He lifted the cup to his lips and heard the door opening. She’d always been a pushy broad, which probably worked in her favor in California. He turned with a scowl, but she didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t exactly ushering her in with open arms. “Don’t you understand what a slammed door means? It means you’re not wanted,” he said, emphasizing the words.

      “Once you hear what I have to say, you’re going to thank me,” she assured him with a bright, completely fake smile that he could see right away was part of her gimmick.

      “I don’t care what you have to say,” he disagreed, pointing to the door. “You can show yourself out, the same way you showed yourself in. And lose my address.”

      “Trace, please?”

      “No.”

      The sudden tightening of her jaw nearly made him laugh. Delainey had never been much of a poker player. Everything she felt and thought ran across her face like a ticker tape. “Why do you have to be such a jerk all of the time?” she asked, crossing her arms. “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, almost conversationally. “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. I don’t care what you’re selling. And trust 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, and if there was anyone else on this planet I could ask I would. But of all the dumb bad luck, you’re the only one I can ask.”

      “Sucks to be you.”

      “Is that all you’ve got for me after everything we’ve 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 threw that card down. “A very long time ago.”

      She held his stare and after a long moment said, “Listen, I suppose you have no reason to care any longer, but I’m on the verge of losing everything if I don’t succeed in convincing you to become the next star of the network I work for.” At his incredulous expression, she pushed forward in a rush. “You don’t understand. This could be good for both of us. I’m not asking you to do something for me without being compensated. Trust me, the money is good. And if the pilot gets picked up, it could mean even more money with endorsements and commercial deals, and I could help you navigate the tricky contract—”

      “You mean you would help me negotiate a legal document?” he mocked, and she stopped her spiel. He gave her a patronizing look. “I wouldn’t trust you to negotiate my cell phone bill.”

      “I could lose everything if I don’t land this deal,” she said, her eyes filling for real this time. “Please help me, Trace. All you have to do is agree to film the pilot, and anything after that we can renegotiate. I need this. My last three shows have tanked and no one wants to hear my pitches anymore. I’m like the black plague of Hollywood.”

      Trace sipped his coffee, unable to believe her nerve and unwilling to believe her tears. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re a resourceful girl.”

      “Damn you, Trace,” she muttered, wiping at the moisture leaking from her eyes. “I never realized how much of an unfeeling bastard you are.”

      His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Funny, I thought the same thing about you when you threw my offer of marriage in my face right about the time when my entire world was crumbling. I guess what they say about karma is true.”

      “That’s not fair and not even the same,” she said hotly. “Are you such a weak individual that