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