A Real Live Hero. Kimberly Meter Van

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ