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She glanced at her wristwatch, wondering how much longer it would take to wrap this up.
“Dr. Spencer?”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“There was a question for you,” Belinda Barbara said.
“I’m sorry. Would you repeat it, please?”
A young man of about twenty stood at the microphone. A backpack slung over a shoulder and the WC T-shirt pegged him as a student at Wayside College. “I want to know what makes you as a psychologist think that everything in the world needs to be psychoanalyzed. Sometimes things, like Marcus Ambrose’s music, are just there. We don’t need a deeper meaning.”
Kara bit down a spark of temper. She lifted the piece of paper that outlined the topic of the night’s discussion. “I came here, albeit late, and I do apologize for that,” she added in an aside. “I came here to discuss the psychological influences of archetypes and stereotypes. That the discussion veered away from that topic was not in my control. From a psychological perspective, however, there was obviously a need for the community of those gathered here this evening to address these issues. And I’m more than happy to accommodate the puerile fascinations of an audience inclined to reduce the intellectual discourse to that level.”
The television anchor frowned. The college student looked perplexed. From the corner of her eye Kara saw Marcus grin.
Kara snapped her notepad closed and clasped her hands together on top of it.
“I agree,” Evelyn Grant said.
For two beats, no one spoke. No one in the audience even coughed.
“Well,” Belinda said, filling the awkward space, “are there any other questions?”
“I have one.”
The slow drawl shimmied along Kara’s skin and settled somewhere it had no business being. She tried to ignore her response to his voice.
“What is that, Mr. Ambrose?” she asked.
“Why are you so uptight?”
Applause erupted from parts of the audience and laughter from the wings where his entourage congregated.
Kara realized her mistake. She’d let her temper get to her. And she’d been doing so well in that area lately. Tonight, though, she’d come in late, rude and out of control—all because she didn’t have her own stuff together. That’s what came of trying to concentrate on too many projects.
“We’re waiting,” someone from the audience yelled out.
Taking a deep breath, Kara rose. Evelyn lifted the microphone from its stand and handed it to her.
“Thanks. First, I owe this young man an apology,” she said, pointing to the student who’d asked the last question.
He lifted his hands in an “all right” gesture.
“I think I proved the point of this panel discussion, don’t you?”
He didn’t look so sure then.
Kara gestured toward her fellow panelists. “We were here tonight to talk about stereotypes. We all have them. Many of you hold fast to the concept of a therapist being someone like Freud who wants to stretch you out on a couch and make everything about your mother. Right?”
People nodded. She saw Marcus Ambrose lean forward regarding her.
“The other stereotype people have about therapists and analysts is that they talk way over your head. Ms. Barbara, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Er, well, yes. I’ve done several interviews with psychiatrists and psychologists. I had to get a dictionary for the translation.”
“Then they weren’t doing their jobs and they were simply trying to impress you. A therapist is someone who can relate to you on your level, whatever that level is, whatever your experience is. I needed to make my point,” she said again to the student. “Your question gave me a good segue. I hope you didn’t mind.”
He shook his head.
Kara smiled and reached for the brochures she’d pulled from her bag. “I have some things here for anyone who’d like one. They burst some of the stereotypes you may have about therapy and counseling. The resources available to you here in Wayside are approachable and reasonable.
“Now,” she said, taking her seat and turning her attention back to Marcus. “Taking off one hat and putting on another. If you think I’m uptight, Mr. Ambrose, maybe it’s because you have some unresolved issues with strong, independent women. Would you like to sit on my couch and talk about them?”
People laughed, and Kara gave an internal sigh of relief that she’d been able to defuse some of the negative energy she’d created.
Marcus grinned. “You are something else, Dr. Kara. But I live in the real world.”
Kara glanced toward his crew. “Really? I find it interesting that your contribution to the night’s discussion has been based solely on your celebrity. Is it possible, sir, that you’ve forgotten—if you’ve ever known—what it’s like to live like a real person? Every one of the people in this room has something to contribute to society. Your contribution, though it may reach thousands—”
“Millions,” he interjected.
“—of people who tune in to the radio, buy your albums—”
“CDs.”
“—or watch you on the big screen, in no way makes you better than everybody else. It’s what you do. And what you do is so far removed from the real world that I doubt you’d be able to survive a month living like a normal person. Without—” she added with a nod stage left toward his entourage in the wings “—without an army of people at your beck and call.”
“Is that a challenge, Dr. Spencer?” His voice was low, measured, deliberately taunting.
“You can take it for whatever you want, Mr. Ambrose. My point has been made.”
“I accept your challenge,” he said.
She faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“On one condition.”
Kara looked around, surprised to find that she was standing up with two TV cameras locked on her, and that everyone in the audience seemed on the edge of their seats. What had she just done?
“You claim I don’t live in the real world, Dr. Spencer. Well, I posit that you don’t, either.”
Had he just correctly used the word posit in a sentence?
A man approached one of the floor microphones and addressed first Kara, then Marcus. “I don’t think either one of you have a clue. With all those letters after your name, you’re so high up in your ivory tower that you must constantly suffer nosebleeds at that altitude. And you’re just another brother pretending to be one of the people. At the end of the day, though, you go home to your mansion and pool in the Hollywood hills.”
Kara’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I made it clear that I was making a point about the stereotypes people have.”
“You made your point,” the man said. “But I think I made mine, too.”
“For the record,” Marcus said, “I don’t live in the hills of Hollywood.” He smiled. “And Wayside is as good a place as any to prove both of you wrong. I’m here for a month for the music and film festival. We’ll use that time to see just whose theory is true. Mine or Dr. Kara’s.”
Theory? What theory? Kara was starting to panic.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” Belinda Barbara cooed. “What an exciting conclusion to our evening. The gauntlet has been thrown down and the contest declared between Dr. Spencer and our special guest, Mr. Marcus Ambrose.”
Gauntlet? What gauntlet?
“Wait a minute,” Kara said.
But no one heard her over the TV personality’s voice and the excited buzz in the auditorium.
“Let’s give all of our panelists a big hand.”
Kara didn’t hear the applause. She didn’t hear the speculative murmurs from the audience. And she didn’t hear Cyril’s questions to her. The only thing Kara Spencer heard was the roar of blood rushing through her head. She plopped into her chair.
What had her temper gotten her into now?
Chapter Two
Marcus signed autographs for the fans, chatted up the print journalists and was aware of Kara Spencer’s every move. He knew she was itching to give him what for. With a jolt of surprise Marcus realized he relished the idea of a direct confrontation with her. No one, not even Nadira, his personal assistant—who knew him best—dared challenge him the way Kara had. He loved his fans—they’d helped make him what he was today. And he’d yet to hear an original question from a reporter. Kara Spencer, on the other hand, didn’t fawn. She didn’t pull any punches. She didn’t seem to even like him very much.
And she was headed his way to tell him just that.
Looking forward to the clash, he smiled as he signed a grocery-store receipt. The fan beamed.
“Hey,” he said, pointing at the rectangular piece of paper. “It looks like you forgot to buy eggs.”
The woman twittered, gushed about his latest release and asked if she could have a hug. Marcus obliged. A photographer snapped a picture. Through it all he kept an eye on Kara Spencer. Over the fan’s shoulder he saw someone pull Kara aside, asking a question. Looking distracted, she answered by shaking her head. He saw her say the word no. Several times. Marcus grinned.
A few minutes later, though, she tapped him on the shoulder. Without looking he knew fire danced in her eyes.
“I’d like a word with you, Mr. Ambrose.”
Marcus turned and winked at her. “Not now. Smile for the cameras.”
His face came close to Kara’s ear, so close he could smell the scent of her perfume.
Then, before she had time to get her bearings, three microphones were thrust in Kara’s face and the glare of klieg lights blinded her.
“So what’s at stake in this game?” a curious reporter asked. “What does the winner get besides bragging rights?”
He smiled down at her and in that moment Kara finally understood the appeal of a sexy voice on the radio and a poster on a wall. No wonder Patrice and millions of other women were so enamored with Marcus Ambrose. When he smiled it was honest and focused and devastatingly male.
Kara cleared her throat. Marcus put his arm around her waist and she almost jumped out of her skin.
“We haven’t come up with that part yet. You guys have any suggestions?”
The reporters, including ones from the local radio station and newspaper, chuckled.
“There seemed to be some tension between the two of you,” one said. “Was that a prearranged setup?”
“I’ve never met this man,” Kara said, insulted that someone thought she might fake a panel discussion on such an important topic.
“I noticed some personal sparks,” a female reporter said. “Have you two met before?”
“No,” Kara said. “And—”
“Marcus, tell us about this challenge,” a man with a microphone and shiny teeth said, interrupting Kara.
“There’s no challenge,” Kara said.
“Chickening out?” Marcus asked.
Belinda Barbara sidled up to Marcus. She linked her arm through his spare one. “I can suggest a personal challenge—just the two of us.”
An awkward moment ensued during which Marcus tried to extricate himself from the television anchor while holding on to Kara. Some of the reporters smirked at Belinda, and others looked embarrassed. It was clear to everyone standing nearby that Belinda, enchanted with Marcus, had lost her professional edge.
A teenager approached with a program in one hand and her mother behind her. “Ms. Barbara, may I have your autograph?”
“Of course.” Belinda preened. She sent one final, dazzling smile at Marcus and mouthed, “I’ll catch you later” before leaving with her own fans.
Kara tried to tug free of his embrace, but Marcus held her firmly.
The reporters asked a few more questions, which Marcus answered with an easygoing camaraderie. Without effort he’d charmed fans and journalists alike. She, however, was immune to that sort of thing. At least, that’s what Kara told herself.
Another forty-five minutes and the hall finally cleared. Marcus sent his legion of people on to do whatever it was they did for him. The journalists headed to their newsrooms, and the fans went home to tell stories about meeting the great Marcus Ambrose.
She knew not a mention would be made in the media or in living rooms about the real purpose of the evening’s forum—to raise awareness about the destructive role of stereotypes. The entire night had been a cliché. People could have been helped, but Kara’s message had been lost, drowned out by both her own temper and by the vacuous appeal of celebrity and a pretty face.
Kara stuffed the stack of ignored brochures into her satchel.
Marcus turned to Kara. “You’re going to be on the news tonight.”
“Unlike some people,” Kara snapped as she pushed her notebook into her bag, “I’m not so enamored with myself that I need to set VCRs to view my own image.”
He grinned. “You have a wicked tongue, Dr. Kara. I like that. The combination of beauty and brains is…” He paused, then smiled. “Refreshing.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
He chuckled. “May I walk you to your car?”
The old-fashioned courtesy surprised her. “I’m in a side lot,” she said. “It’s around the building. I’ll be fine. Your staff members are waiting for you.” She indicated a man standing sentinel at the door. Marcus waved him on and fell into step beside Kara as she headed up the aisle. The silence between them was not exactly awkward, but not comfortable, either.
“You like that word, don’t you?”
“What word?”
“Enamored. You used it twice tonight.”
