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’s it’s like to live like a real person? 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, “an army of people at your beck and call.”

“Is that a challenge, Dr. Spencer?” His voice was low, measured, deliberately taunting.

FELICIA MASON

is a motivational speaker and award-winning author. She’s a two-time winner of the Waldenbooks BestSelling Multicultural Title Award, has received awards from Romantic Times, Affaire de Coeur and Midwest Fiction Writers, and won the Emma Award in 2001 for her work in the bestselling anthology Della’s House of Style. Glamour magazine readers named her first novel, For the Love of You, one of their all-time favorite love stories, and her novel Rhapsody was made into a television film.

Felicia has been a writer as long as she can remember, and loves creating characters who seem as real as your best friends. A former Sunday school teacher, she makes her home in Virginia, where she enjoys quilting, reading, traveling and listening to all types of music. She can be reached at P.O. Box 1438, Dept. SH, Yorktown, VA 23692.

Sweet Harmony
Felicia Mason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I will sing of the mercies of the Lord forever:

With my mouth will I make known

Thy faithfulness to all generations.

—Psalms 89:1

For Pastor Lynn Howard,

who accepts calls from strangers in distress.

Thanks to Lee, Day and Carolyn,

who all know why.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

Kara Spencer was running late. Again. She managed to live by the clock with her patients and clients, yet when it came time for her own stuff, she was always rushing around as if she didn’t own a watch.

She grabbed her satchel, locked the car door and ran toward the side entrance to Bingham Hall. She yanked on the door. It didn’t budge.

“Arrgh!”

Any other time this door would be illegally propped open by summer school students who took shortcuts to get to the assembly room. Today when she needed to take the shortcut, it was locked.

Turning, she quickly assessed the options. Was the faster route across the lawn or around the front of the building? She glanced down at her shoes. Fifty bucks, on sale. It wasn’t as if they were designer originals. She dashed across the lawn.

As she ran down the hall, she pulled from her bag a mirror and a lipstick, hoping to get at least a moment to glance at her appearance before the start of the panel.

Three minutes later she stood at the door to the main auditorium. She caught her breath, applied the lipstick and shoved the tube and mirror back into her bag.

“Dr. Spencer has yet to arrive, so we’ll start without…” she heard the MC say.

Just her luck to have a punctual moderator. Kara pushed the door open. “I’m here.”

Two hundred heads turned.

Who in the world were all these people? Kara wanted to crawl under a rock. But she held her head high and made her way down one of the side aisles.

The moderator, one of the anchors from a Portland television station, smiled. “Welcome. We’re so glad you could join us. We were just about to begin.”

Kara ignored the note of annoyance in the broadcaster’s voice.

So much for making a good impression.

The TV personality indicated a spot for her to join three other panelists.

Kara took a seat at the table, nodding at the two men who rose when she approached. She knew Cyril Abercrombie, the local newspaper columnist, and had met Evelyn Grant, associate dean of the college’s School of Philosophy and Religion, in faculty meetings when she’d taught at Wayside College. Kara didn’t recognize the other man, and couldn’t quite see his name tent on the table, but he looked vaguely familiar. His angular profile showed a strong jaw covered in part by a black goatee. From this angle he was striking in a handsome but hard way.

He leaned forward and glanced over at her. Her breath caught. Handsome wasn’t the word for it. He was dynamic in that way all men aspired to, but few actually pulled off. He could be a prince in a foreign land, or the head of a multinational conglomerate.

Clearing her thoughts, she pulled a notepad and a stack of all-purpose brochures from her satchel. They listed information on referral services in town, warning signs of depression and tips on maintaining balance at home and in the workplace. She poured a glass of water and looked up. The moderator was patiently waiting for her to get settled. Kara truly wanted to die. Instead, she smiled and nodded. The moderator turned to the audience and completed her opening remarks.

Kara glanced at her notes, trying to remember if this was the panel about the role of religion and media in today’s society or the one about psychological influences of archetypes and stereotypes. Either could fit with these players. Cyril, who had a tendency toward snide remarks, could be a pain, but his credentials were up to snuff on either topic.

Who was that third guy, though? Another therapist? She’d obviously missed the introductions. Kara pulled out the correct letter of invitation, noted that the television anchor’s name was Belinda Barbara and that she, Cyril and Evelyn were the only listed panelists scheduled to talk about stereotypes. With a mental shrug Kara settled in for an hour of discussion. She’d catch his name during the question-and-answer period if the context didn’t provide it before then.

“Dr. Spencer, I’ll ask you the first question,” the moderator said.

For the next thirty minutes Kara fielded questions from the moderator, debated with Evelyn and had a flat-out disagreement with Cyril. Nothing new there. They’d gone head-to-head in dueling op-ed pieces in the newspaper. The fourth panelist didn’t seem to have much to say, and Kara wondered why perky Belinda didn’t pull him out more.

Then, as if reading her thought, the anchor paused. “And now,” she said, “we haven’t heard from our special guest.” She flashed a six-hundred-watt smile in his direction and Kara leaned forward trying to get a better look at the guy. Why was he singled out as being special?

In her work with the women’s shelter and even when she’d maintained an active practice, she impressed upon people the unique gifts each person offered themselves, the community and the world at large.

“Mr. Ambrose, do you think you have a responsibility to portray roles that debunk stereotypes?”

Ambrose?

The lightbulb finally flashed on in her head. No wonder he looked familiar. Giant twenty-four-by-thirty-six posters of the man papered a wall in her sister’s bedroom. He had to be Marcus Ambrose, the singer and movie star. Which would explain the big audience and the two TV satellite trucks she’d passed on the way in. Kara wondered if her sister Patrice— Marcus Ambrose’s biggest fan—was in the audience.

Kara also wondered how he’d contribute to the discussion, and leaned forward to hear him.

“Well, I find it interesting that Dr. Spencer and Dr. Grant come out on opposite ends of this argument. As for the roles I play, as you know, acting is just a sideline. I’ve had a couple of small parts,” he said with a self-deprecating but nonetheless charming shrug. “My first love is singing.”

The audience erupted in cheers and catcalls.

The anchor ate it up, encouraging them to heap adulation on the performer. “Maybe before we adjourn for the evening you’ll treat us to a little of that trademark soul.”

Kara rolled her eyes and exchanged a glance with Evelyn. Cyril was busy scribbling something in a slim notebook, probably his Sunday column. In a matter of moments the dialogue shifted from a panel discussion to a love fest about Marcus Ambrose.

Kara aimed to get the conversation back on course.

“Mr. Ambrose, what just happened here is a classic example of how we’ve allowed our culture to be overtaken with celebrity.”

“What did just happen, Dr. Spencer? Why don’t you enlighten us?”

A few snickers drifted up from the audience.

The snickers disarmed her. She glanced toward the audience, then cleared her throat and made her point. “One of the problems with the entertainment world today is that the focus is on the stars, the entertainers themselves, who are self-absorbed to the point of distraction, so much so that the real issues of the day go undiscussed. Unnoticed because they’ve been suffocated to death by frivolity. And on television,” Kara added with a nod toward Belinda Barbara, “the rule about ‘if it bleeds, it leads’ still apparently rules. At least, it does on the television news I’ve seen lately. So where does that leave the average American who is just trying to wade through the morass to find socially relevant commentary?”

“Reading my column, I hope,” Cyril interjected.

Marcus, Belinda and several people in the audience laughed. Even Evelyn cracked a smile.

“You’ve proven my point, Cyril. Everything in American society today is about a punch line, a sound bite, a high-speed Internet connection and the fastest drive-through service. When do we get to the main course, the serious matters?”

“I’ll have to agree with Dr. Spencer on this,” Evelyn said. “As a society we’ve completely lost touch with our spiritual and intellectual roots.”

“And you guys blame me for this?” Marcus said. “The only thing I claim responsibility for is giving people music to come home to, melodies to relax to. Music that makes it possible for them to declare their undying love for each other.”

“You tell ’em, Marcus!” someone yelled from the audience.

“Amen to that,” another voice said.

“And I find it interesting that you make such a blanket statement, Dr. Spencer. All entertainers are self-absorbed to distraction?

“If your lament held water,” Marcus said, his direct gaze focused solely on Kara’s, “there’d be no need for music or art or popular fiction. Those things aren’t necessarily meant to reflect the serious nature of our times,” he said, bracketing the word serious with air quotes. “Music, art and literature do, however, serve a purpose. A divine purpose, at that,” he added with a nod toward the theologian. “In the Psalms, David’s many chapters were odes to joy, psalms of praise and thanksgiving. Just as they do today, those psalms and the contemporary ones we find at the movies, in bookstores and even in popular music help us cope with those harsh realities you want us to dwell on.”

Applause erupted from the audience. Belinda Barbara nodded sagely, completely in his corner.

Kara was so stunned she didn’t know what to process first. The fact that he’d used the words lament and literature and Psalms and odes to joy, or that he’d managed to best her at her own game—and with such effortless style. Who was this guy?

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She snapped it shut, trying to think of a comeback. Since when did R&B singers know anything about the Bible or literature? Next thing you knew he’d be spouting Nietzsche or Cervantes.

“Dr. Spencer, do you have a rebuttal?”

“No,” someone from the audience hollered. “’Cause he’s right and she knows it.”

Kara blinked, then got herself together. “As a matter of fact, I do have a rebuttal, Mr. Ambrose. You won’t find any argument here about the relevance of, or the need for, the arts. I’m a great supporter of the arts. But tell me, sir, how ‘Baby, I’m gonna make you sweat and moan’ advances our cultural interests?”

The audience roared—people were on their feet whooping it up. Even Belinda let out a bark of laughter. Marcus, himself chuckling, just pointed his finger at her and said, “You got me there, baby.”

His smooth baritone made her skin tingle, and Kara got a clear understanding of what made him so wildly popular with women in Patrice’s age group—with women period, she amended. And if she did a reality check and was honest with herself, she’d have to add Kara Lynette Spencer, Ph.D., to that number.

Some people in the back of the audience burst into the refrain of the Ambrose hit, and it took the moderator a few minutes to regain control. When she did, she opened the floor for questions.

“There are two microphones located at the front of the aisles. Please state your name, your question and which panelist you’d like to respond.”

Not surprisingly, most of the questions were directed toward Marcus Ambrose and had little to do with the topic they were supposed to be discussing.

“When’s your next CD coming out?”

“Can I get your autograph?”

“I’m a singer and want to know how to break in to the industry.”

Kara sat back with her arms folded. Instead of wasting her time at this homage to Marcus Ambrose she could be at home working on the grant application that was due next week. But, as usual, she’d managed to commit to more projects than she had time to deal with. And it was just her luck that Marcus Ambrose had crashed this particular event.

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.”

She ignored the question. “Speaking of which, why are you here, anyway?”

“Ah, see, the tardy people miss the explanations.”

She glowered at him, but Marcus only chuckled.

“I’m in town for the music and film festival. It starts tomorrow.”

She nodded, remembering. “I did read something about that.”

He clutched his chest. “I’m wounded. You mean you didn’t circle the date of my arrival in your planner and count down the days?”

She sniffed. “Hardly. And you haven’t answered my question, Mr. Ambrose.”

He steered a hand behind her as they passed through the front doors. “Call me Marcus.”

She’d do no such thing. Was it her imagination or could she really feel the heat of his palm right through a jacket, a blouse and a camisole?

“And which question was that?” he added.

“About being on the panel.”

He nodded. “We got in a day early. The TV station thought it would be a good tease to their coverage of the festival.”

“Tease?”

“It’s just a term they use regarding promotion. You see it all the time.” He held a hand to his ear as if reporting live from a scene. “‘Coming at ten, details on today’s bad news.’”

“Hmm,” was all Kara said for a moment, but a slight smile tilted her mouth. “My sister is one of your biggest fans.”

“Ouch.”

She glanced over at him. He stood there pantomiming pulling an arrow from his heart. “Is there a problem?”

“The omission pierces me.”

She shook her head. “I must have fallen down the rabbit hole this morning. What are you talking about?”

“You said your sister is a big fan. Since you left out yourself, I take it you aren’t counted in that number.”

“My tastes run toward gospel, jazz and classical music.”

He stroked his goatee. “But you knew the lyrics to one of my early hits.”

“Only because my sister drove me to distraction singing it when I lived at home and we shared a room.”

“So, you’re the local feminist with a Freudian bent.”

Kara stepped back, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s not a slam. I happen to like intense, independent women. Strong ones, too.”

“I. Am. Not. Intense.”

He just chuckled.

“Marcus. Over here.” They both turned toward a woman near a white late-model stretch limousine. She wore an orange miniskirt suit, had a clipboard in her hands and a headset phone on her head.

“A little ostentatious for tiny Wayside, Oregon, don’t you think?”

He didn’t respond to that dig. Kara had been talking about the car, but now wondered if he thought she’d meant the woman. Great.

“That problem with the hotel,” the woman said, clearly picking up an earlier conversation. “It takes almost an hour to get out here from Portland. Given the drive-time traffic, we’re going to have a very early start every day.”

“Early like what?”

“Leaving the city no later than eight-thirty or nine.”

Marcus frowned. Kara rolled her eyes. Most working people were already on the way to their jobs if not already at their places of employment by the time nine rolled around.

“I checked out the places here in town,” the aide said. She shook her head with a tiny grimace. “There’s nothing suitable.”

Kara narrowed her eyes at the woman. “We have several innkeepers who operate charming bed-and-breakfasts. And the Dew Drop Inn is right off the highway. The dew is pretty in the morning.”

“The Dew Drop Inn?” The woman said the words as if Kara had suggested Marcus bunk down in a homeless shelter.

“Which bed-and-breakfast do you recommend?”

“Marcus.”

“The Wayside Inn is lovely,” Kara said. “So is Cherry Tree House, though it’s much smaller.”

Marcus nodded toward the headset woman. “Get the Wayside Inn for me, you, Carlton and Teddy. Put the rest of the crew and staff up in the Dew Drop. Rent a floor so they don’t disturb the other guests.”

“But Marcus…”

He turned to Kara. “Can I give you a lift to your car?”

Kara stared at him. “Surely you’re not planning to stay at the inn? For a month?”

“Why not? You just said it’s lovely.”

“But…” But it’s right here, she wanted to wail. In Wayside. In her town. In her space. He couldn’t stay here. “I’m sure you’ll find Portland more suited to your needs. The Benson and Riverplace in the city are four-star hotels.”

“She’s right,” the aide said.

Marcus never took his gaze off Kara. “I want to be able to explore all the charms in Wayside. We’ll stay here.”

The aide nodded.

Kara willed her heart to start beating again. She was sure it had stopped the moment he met her gaze and stared deep into her eyes declaring his questionable intentions.

With a shake of her head she scolded herself for falling into his smooth trap, a trap baited with smoky seduction eyes and an easy smile.

She could barely breathe with him this close. Having him underfoot for a month would be unbearable.

“Enjoy your stay.” She bit out the words. “Goodbye.”

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she turned on her heel and started moving along the pathway toward the lot where she’d parked her car.

“I’m not really such a bad guy.”

Kara jumped. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized he’d followed her. “What are you doing?”

“I told you, I’m walking you to your car.”

Behind them, down on the street, Kara saw the limo slowly trailing them. “That’s not necessary.”

“I know.”

Kara stared at the limo. “Do you have a normal car?”

He chuckled. “Yes. It’s in L.A. Why?”

“You might want to get a rental while you’re here. Wayside is a small town. That,” she said with a thumb jerk toward the long limo, “is a little much.”

“Wayside’s not that small,” he said.

Kara snorted. “Right. A big celebrity like you wouldn’t waste his time in too small a place.”

“I happen to be from a small town.”

“And I’d wager you don’t get back there often.”

He leaned close. “Are you a betting woman, Dr. Kara?”

“Certainly not.”

“But you challenged me tonight. That was a bet.”

“It was nothing of the sort. And there is no challenge between us. I don’t know why you kept intimating to those reporters that there was.”

He grinned. “I’m going to enjoy my stay here.”

He stepped in front of her and took her arm. “The panel discussion is over, Dr. Kara. You don’t have to maintain this fierce psychologist role.”

She yanked her arm from his grip. “I’m always fierce, Mr. Ambrose.”

“But not intense, of course?”

She glared at him, then stalked to her car, the only one in the deserted parking lot. She fumbled with the automatic unlock and ended up jamming the key into the driver’s-side door. From where he stood, Marcus Ambrose grinned. She slid in, started the car, then gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking area, passing the limo that idled nearby.

“And I thought my time here was going to be boring.”

Kara’s phone rang exactly eight minutes after the late news started. She knew because she’d been expecting the telephone to ring as soon as the TV anchor announced the story right after the break. She didn’t have to check Caller ID to know who it was, either.

“Yes, Patrice. That was really him.”

“Oh, my gosh! Oh, my goodness. Kara!” Patrice screamed in her ear. Kara held the receiver out a bit, giving Patrice time to get herself calmed.

“Ooh. Just look at him. And you, oh, my goodness. Kara, he has his arm around your waist. Was that heaven?”

Kara just shook her head as she, too, watched the image of that evening unfold in a spot on the late news. A moment later Belinda Barbara smiled a bright on-camera smile and told all her viewers to tune in for details about Marcus Ambrose’s visit and the Wayside Music and Film Festival.

“I am too jealous,” Patrice said. “Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be there?”

“I didn’t know until I arrived. He didn’t contribute much to the panel discussion.”

“Who cares? He could just sit there and I’d be enthralled.”

It stung that even her sister dismissed her work in favor of celebrity. Never mind that Marcus Ambrose had been Patrice’s hero and favorite heartthrob for years.

Kara shook her head. “Yeah, you would.”

“So what’s this challenge business? And when’d you start calling yourself Dr. Kara? You’re going all Hollywood now, huh, sis? Today Wayside, tomorrow Oprah.”

“Hardly. And I don’t know why she called me that. As for the so-called challenge, he said something that set me off and apparently the lughead took my reaction as some sort of personal affront.”

“Well, Belinda Barbara said…”

Kara gritted her teeth. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Something else? Marcus Ambrose is in town for a month. You’re cozied up next to him on my TV. What else is there to talk about?”

Kara sighed.

“Is he as gorgeous in person as he is on his CDs and in movies?” Before Kara could answer, Patrice let out another squeal of delight when footage from one of his concerts rolled.

She was eventually able to get Patrice off the line. But no sooner had she replaced the receiver than the phone rang. Again. And again. And again.

The next morning it was still ringing. Had everybody in Wayside been watching the news last night?

Kara fielded no less than a dozen calls from relatives, co-workers and the curious. Then the reporters started knocking on her front door.

Chapter Three

A rapidly growing crowd spilled off the porch of the Wayside Inn and along the sidewalk and street in front of the house. TV trucks and giggling girls holding posters of Marcus Ambrose caused even more disruption on the normally quiet street.

“Coming through, folks. Coming through.” A small path opened for the television crew headed for the porch. Right behind them came a woman balancing a large tray of pastries.

“Had I known this many people would be here, I’d have made an extra batch of pecan honey rolls,” Amber Montgomery said as the innkeeper held the door open for her while keeping at bay the camera crew from a cable TV entertainment show.

“You probably still have time. These people aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Then, louder, for the reporters. “Mr. Ambrose said he’ll be making a statement later today. Over at the college. At three-thirty.”

No one moved. Ophelia Younger sighed.

Amber followed her to the kitchen. “So, the famous Marcus Ambrose is camping out at the Wayside Inn.”

“This has been a nightmare from the moment that limo pulled up followed by those TV people. Mr. Ambrose and his staff, well, they’ve been incredibly nice, but what a disruption.” The innkeeper filled Amber in on all the details. “What’s this challenge thing they’re up to? I read Cyril’s story today in the Gazette. He had more to say about the verbal fireworks between Kara and Marcus than anything else.”

Amber shrugged. “If I see her, I’ll ask.” She pulled out the invoice from her catering company, Appetizers & More, and placed it on the counter. “I saw Kara on the news last night. She didn’t look like a happy camper.”

Upstairs, Nadira Wilson set a cup of green tea in front of Marcus and picked up her clipboard.

“This place is lovely, but it’s never going to work as an office for the next month.”

Marcus grunted. He’d come to that conclusion about three in the morning when, with his mind on Dr. Kara Spencer, he’d gotten up to head to the fridge for a snack, only to discover the kitchen door locked with a discreet little sign that said “Off-limits to guests.”

“Find me…”

“A house.” Nadira finished the thought and placed three sheets of paper in front of him.

He looked at the three houses for rent and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Radar O’Reilly.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nadira said. “The one on top comes furnished. The other two don’t. The furniture rental place can be here within three hours. The office equipment tomorrow. In addition to a large great room and several bedrooms that can be converted into office space, the middle one has a guest cottage on the property and a home theater with surround sound and a popcorn machine. The third house isn’t nearly as large. Just four bedrooms. But it’s located right next door to the woman you debated last night.”

Marcus perked up at that. “One more time?”

Nadira pulled out the sheet from the real estate company and placed it on top of the others. “This one is neighbor to Dr. Kara Spencer’s house. The real-estate agent made a point of letting me know that. He saw you two on the news last night.”

Marcus nodded. “Make it happen.”

Smiling, she placed a contract in front of him. “I figured that would be your choice.”

“Smarty-pants.” He glanced over the rental agreement, then thought of the man’s taunt last night. “Is there a pool?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I’ll show her some real-world living up close and personal.” He scrawled his name on the agreement. Then his mind jumped to something else, something he couldn’t live without. “See if there’s a fitness center here in town. If so, get a thirty-day pass. If not, see if some weight-lifting and workout equipment can be rented along with the furniture.”

She made a notation on the ever-present clipboard.

“And get me a couple of…”

Nadira placed two pain relievers on the table in front of him. He would have smiled if his head hadn’t been pounding so much.

Stress. That’s what the doctor said caused them. But there’d been no reason for one to develop now. He was here in Mayberry, R.F.D., also known as Wayside, Oregon, about to enjoy a month of what should amount to R and R. A month away from the press and call of Los Angeles and the nonstop flying across country for gigs. The only problem was that he had a backlog of business to tend to.

The good news was that the work he’d contracted to do for the music and film festival would take all of two weeks to complete even though it was spread out over the month. Theoretically, that left him with enough free time to settle down, get caught up on breathing lessons and to unwind a little.

Between studio time, touring dates and video and movie production schedules, Marcus rarely found time to just kick back.

Now when he’d been blessed with the time, the headaches were pounding his head again. He wanted to get a jump on the early applications for the foundation he headed. The deadline loomed, still a week away. That meant the bulk of applications would pour in on the very last day. Nadira had already arranged to have them overnighted to Wayside. They’d reviewed about ten already and still had a box to go through.

He rubbed his temples.

“Do you want me to call Dr. Heller?”

The concern in Nadira’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. He shook his head. “I’m fine. But just in case…”

“I’ll get the prescription filled.”

He nodded. “You should give yourself a raise while you’re at it.”

“You already pay me a sinfully large amount of money.”

“And you earn every penny of it. You anticipate every need before I even voice it.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks, boss man. Now, as for the agenda today…”

He shook his head and rubbed his temples again, not really up for the task in front of him. But putting off the workload would simply make things snowball. “I need some time first.”

“All right.” She glanced at her to-do list. “Marcus, I know we’re pretty tied up here, but would it be all right if I swing down to L.A.? My dad’s not doing so well and I want to check on him.”

“Not a problem.”

“I’ll make sure someone’s here when I’m gone. Just a day on the weekends or when there aren’t any events.”

Absently, he nodded. “Tell him I said hello.”

“I will.” She put copies of the Los Angeles Times, Billboard, the Wall Street Journal and the Wayside Gazette on the table in front of him. Marcus made a habit of keeping up with the news from home when he was on the road, and he always liked to know the issues affecting the locals, whether he was in a large metropolitan city like Chicago or Dallas or in a one-stoplight place like some of the towns he’d been in while in Alabama and Mississippi.

“How much time do you need?”

Marcus glanced at the papers and at the breakfast Nadira had talked the innkeeper into letting him eat in his room. “Give me an hour.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Normally they worked through breakfast. When the door closed behind her, Marcus let out a weary sigh. He had sixty minutes of peace before Nadira brought in the files of requests they’d spend several hours reading and critiquing.

Despite his grousing, Marcus truly enjoyed giving back to the community through the JUMPstart activism grants he’d created. The first two donations had been anonymous ones to programs he’d heard about. Shortly thereafter, he’d developed a mechanism to provide funding to worthy community groups through a foundation he headed. But he took not a word of credit for it. For six years now he’d been playing Santa Claus, and he loved it. But the volume of applications to JUMP grew each year. If the early submissions were any indication, this year would set a record.

It seemed everyone wanted a piece of the action, whether they knew he was the backer or not. He got plenty of legitimate requests that had nothing to do with the JUMP program. Then there were the diatribes demanding that since to whom much is given much is required, he should therefore fork over considerable assets to whatever cause célèbre the requester named. Marcus liked to keep a handle on where his money went, even though staff weeded out the true crazies. That still meant he had a lot to wade through.

Then there were the résumés and pleas for work in his production company and the songwriters and musicians pitching projects.

Usually he loved it, but lately it all just seemed to wear on him in ways that made it difficult to remember what his purpose was supposed to be.

Last night Kara Spencer’s questions and issues had pricked his conscience. For a long time now, his public work had run far afield of his original intentions and plans. Every now and then someone like Kara or something he’d see or hear would remind him.

And the music she’d called him on, particularly the lyrics, no longer held the appeal it once had. On his past four releases he’d slipped in a track or two that only careful listeners might recognize as more than his usual fare.

Thinking about the project he worked on when he couldn’t sleep, he got up and put the cassette tape in a player. A moment later his own voice accompanied by nothing except the piano he also played rang out. These lyrics, about grace, restoration and redemption, didn’t fit with the unfinished studio project waiting for him back in L.A.

Marcus ran a hand over his face. He sighed.

Instead of reaching for one of the newspapers or even his fork, Marcus pulled his Bible from his suitcase and settled in the comfortable chair at the window. But before he even opened the Bible, a knock sounded at the door.

“It’s open, Nadira.”

The door swung open a bit. “Mr. Ambrose?”

Marcus rose at the innkeeper’s polite inquiry. “Hello, Mrs. Younger. Come in.”

He liked Ophelia Younger. In looks and temperament she reminded him of Mayberry’s Aunt Bee.

“Mr. Ambrose, I’m honored that you’ve chosen to stay at Wayside Inn, but we just aren’t prepared or equipped to deal with this. Had we had some advance notice of your needs, maybe I could have worked something out.”

He took the older woman’s hand in his. “Not to worry, Mrs. Younger. I’ve just found a house to rent for the duration of my stay here. It’s over on Brandywine Street.”

Tension drained from the innkeeper’s face. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s not that we don’t love the idea of a celebrity here. The reporters, though, and the girls, they’re all camped outside and it’s been a distraction. I’ve gotten complaints from other guests.”

He apologized for that, even though he himself wasn’t to blame. Then he added, “Reporters? How’d they find out I was here?”

“Well, it isn’t every day that a white stretch limousine is parked in front of the inn. We’re more of a sedan and minivan place.”

Kara’s words came back to him. A little ostentatious.

“She was right.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Marcus shook his head. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Your assistant told me to tell them you’d be over at the college at three-thirty.”

He took both her hands in his. “Thank you. I’m sorry we’ve put you out.”

Ophelia shook her head slightly. “Those people wonder why the media gets a bad rap. Someone’s trampled my impatiens.”

Marcus went to the window, but didn’t see or hear the circus she described. “Are they all gone now?”

“Goodness, no. But I did send someone out with brownies and pecan rolls. For sale, of course.”

Marcus grinned.

“This room is at the back of the house, so you can’t see them,” Ophelia explained. “I thought you’d like a garden view. The trucks and the girls and my ruined flowers are outside in front.” The innkeeper twisted her hands together. “I don’t think the nasturtiums will ever recover.”

“I apologize. And I promise to make it right, whatever damage has been done,” he said. “The entertainment reporters and paparazzi can be pretty relentless until they get what they want.” He shrugged. “Some people think it’s news every time an entertainer sneezes. I’d hoped for a nice quiet month here in your town.”

The innkeeper grinned. She hooked her arm in his. “You said your house is on Brandywine?”

He nodded.

“To my recollection, the only empty one over there is Mrs. Abersoll’s house, God rest her soul. It’s a lovely home. And it’s next to Kara Spencer’s place.” As soon as she said it, a sly smile crossed her mouth. “I saw the two of you on the news last night. Kara’s a nice girl. And she’s single, you know.”

Marcus got more than a whiff of preliminary matchmaking in the works and decided to remain neutral. “The forum was well attended and she was on the panel.”

The innkeeper chuckled. “Umm-hmm. But the electricity between you and our Kara was pretty intense.”

“Well, uh…”

“I know how to outsmart them,” Ophelia said.

“Who?”

She jerked her head toward the front end of the house. “Here’s what you have to do.”

“I don’t have a comment,” Kara kept trying to tell the smiling reporter. The card the woman had thrust into Kara’s hands announced that she was a field correspondent for All Urban Entertainment, a cable program Kara had never heard of.

This was the third crew she’d dealt with already. At this rate, she’d never get any work done today.

“Don’t be shy, Dr. Spencer. All of Marcus Ambrose’s fans want to know what’s at stake in your challenge. Is it true that you’re the reason he abruptly broke it off with actress Cameron May?”

Another name she failed to recognize. “Who? No, I—”

“He proposed to you last night and if he wins the challenge you’ll marry him? Is that it?”

“What?”

The cameraman leaned forward, zooming in first on Kara’s waist and then her ring finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Dr. Kara, it’s obvious—”

“That you all shouldn’t be picking on the good doctor.”

Three heads snapped toward the deep drawl behind them.

Marcus leaned against the railing leading to Kara’s front porch.

“Good morning, Dr. Kara.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

The reporter whipped around. “Marcus, delighted to see you again. We understand you’ve found a new love.”

While they were preoccupied with Marcus, Kara slipped back into her house and closed and locked the front door. In the kitchen she put a kettle on a burner to boil water for tea, then dumped cut-up apples into a cast-iron skillet. Water, sugar and cinnamon followed.

She should toss a load of clothes in the wash and eat a late breakfast, but that grant application still waited.

She’d just put a foot on the first tread of the stairwell when the front doorbell rang. Again.

Kara wasn’t a swearing woman, but a few choice words came to mind. She snatched the door open. “I have no comment!”

“All right, then. I do. I’m sorry about all of this.”

Her gaze rose and met Marcus Ambrose’s. She hated the way her breath caught.

“This is exactly the point I was making last night before the forum turned into a Marcus Ambrose fete.”

“May I come in? If they swing back and see me here they’ll just keep ringing the bell.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“May I come in?”

Kara nodded. Just as soon as she acquiesced, she wondered why she didn’t send the man packing. He’d disrupted her entire morning.

“Wow. Something smells great.”

“My casserole,” she said.

He followed her to the kitchen. Decorated in blue and white, the room had a country chic look and feel to it. Blue-and-white gingham curtains fluttered at open windows at the sink and behind a table with four chairs. The pattern repeated on the chair pads and place mats. But the appliances and all the kitchen accoutrements were top of the line.

She checked the breakfast casserole in the oven. Five more minutes.

“About last night,” he began. “It was great meeting you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you. The music and film festival.”

Kara shook her head. “No. I mean here.” She pointed to the floor. “In my kitchen.”

He shrugged, and Kara got a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a boy. Ready to charm his way out of anything.

“The inn was overrun with media.”

“And so you led them here? How could you?”

“Mrs. Younger showed me a shortcut.”

Kara nodded. “Through the alleys?”

“Bingo.”

“Well, thanks for getting rid of that reporter. You may leave now.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me to breakfast? Whatever’s in that oven smells too good to miss.”

The look on Marcus Ambrose’s face held such little-boy longing that Kara couldn’t resist.

He had rescued her, after all. Though, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t have been in need of rescuing—and she could take care of herself, thank you very much—if it hadn’t been for him. Still, there was plenty of sausage casserole. Would it kill her to be nice to him?

Yes!

But instead of kicking him out, she heard herself say, “The dishes are over there.”

Marcus set the table with a skill that surprised her.

She brewed two cups of tea. “I’m trying to wean myself off coffee,” she said. “I had a six-cup-a-day habit. But I can make a pot, if you’d like.”

He grinned. “I only drink green tea.”

“It figures,” she muttered.

“Is that a slam against Californians? Another stereotype, maybe?”

“Not at all.” She didn’t want to admit they had something in common. “You’re in luck, then, song man. I happen to have some green tea.” She tried to grab a canister of tea leaves without him seeing her extensive collection of teas, greens in particular.

“Song man?”

Kara blushed. Had she really said that? “I’m sorry. It’s what I always used to call you when my sister rhapsodized about you. She drove me crazy. She thought the sun rose and set for you.”

The telephone rang. Kara sighed. “Who now? The phone has been ringing nonstop all morning. I’ll never get any work done.”

“Would you like me to answer it?”

Horrified, she jumped up. “No.” She snatched up the cordless phone from the base. And a moment later she relaxed and sent a bright smile his way. “Hey, Patrice. I was just talking about you.”

That genuine smile, filled with affection and a hint of teasing, rippled through him the way the notes of a new song did. He relished the feeling, even though the chances of anything developing with the very attractive Kara Spencer were nil. She’d made that abundantly clear.

“Yeah, you left them over here. I put them in your room. Okay.”

She rang off and rejoined him at the table.

“Grace?”

Marcus bowed his head and said grace over their meal.

When was the last time he’d done that? He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal at a kitchen table. Anybody’s table.

This felt so good.

“I’m glad you recommended the inn. It’s great.”

“I told you.”

“But I’m not staying there. I’m looking for a house to rent while I’m here,” he fudged.

Kara nodded as she chewed. After washing her food down with orange juice she said, “There are several mansions over on Cherryville Drive that are available for lease. The paper did an article about them a couple of weeks ago.”

Something told Marcus that the hospitality and truce they were enjoying would end the moment he told her he’d actually found a house, next door, not one of the mansions. So he kept quiet. She’d find out soon enough. And she’d bite his head off then. No need to spoil a good breakfast.

A knock at the back door did that before he had a chance to.

Chapter Four

Before Kara even moved, the door burst open and a whirlwind blew in wearing jeans and a cropped T-shirt, a riot of corkscrew curls cascading down its back.

Kara groaned. “I’m sorry about this,” she told Marcus.

“Sorry about what?”

“Oh, my gosh. It’s really you!”

Marcus put down the forkful of breakfast casserole and stared up at the young woman. Then, remembering his manners, he rose.

“Patrice, Marcus. Marcus, this is Patrice Spencer, my sister. Your number one fan.”

“Well, hello. It’s always nice…”

She grabbed his arm, then let it go as if she’d been burned. “I have every one of your CDs.” To prove it, she plopped a gold tote bag on the table and then upended it. CD cases clacked against the table, and several of them hit the floor.

Marcus reached for them at the same time as Kara. The two bumped heads and then hands. A jolt of electricity ran up Kara’s arm. Her gaze connected with his and she felt again that sense of awareness, an inexplicable bond.

“I…”

“I’ll get them,” he said.

Kara nodded and rose. “Have you eaten?”

Patrice pulled out a chair and sat gazing at Marcus, a dreamy smile filling her face. “I just can’t believe.”

Kara waved a hand in front of her sister. “Hello. Earth to Patrice.”

“Here you go.” Marcus handed the CD cases to her.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. Right at my kitchen table.”

He glanced up at Kara. “Your kitchen table?”

Patrice blushed prettily. “Well, you know what I mean. What’s mine is hers, and vice versa.”

Kara set a plate in front of Patrice.

She helped herself to apples and some of the casserole. “There’s a mob over at the B and B. I think they’re looking for you.”

Marcus winked at her. “That’s why I’m over here.”

Kara thought her sister might swoon. A playful wink from Marcus Ambrose would provide at least six to eight months of quality retelling.

It was easy to see why Patrice was so infatuated with him. Marcus was easy on the eyes. But a relationship needed more than smoky eyes and a playful smile. Kara, while not actively looking for companionship, wanted more substance than style, more commitment than flash and dash. That’s why she and Howard Boyd made a great team. Howard didn’t upset her equilibrium.

With intense dark looks that radiated sex appeal both from his album covers and on the big screen, Marcus Ambrose was definitely the flash-and-dash type. Then there was that smile. Kara studiously ignored the little flip in her midsection when that smile—that Tom Cruise, Denzel Washington, Mel Gibson melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hands smile—was aimed her way.

Since at the moment Patrice found herself the lucky benefactor of that gift, Kara figured it was time to make her getaway. Something akin to jealousy flickered through her. Patrice could get cozy with her hero, and Kara could get back to her laundry and then work on the grant application, without distractions.

She had to remind herself that she liked confident men, not cocky ones, and he’d definitely been full of himself last night.

As if on cue, Patrice asked, “So what’s this challenge between you two?”

“There is no challenge,” Kara said. “It was just hype for the television cameras. Mr. Ambrose was merely drumming up attendance and support for the film and music festival.”

“Actually,” he said, the word a slow drawl that Kara found oddly disconcerting, “I was serious. And so were you, Dr. Kara. You were quite passionate in your belief that those in the entertainment industry are a bunch of selfish, self-serving prima donnas.”

Kara winced. “I never said that.”

“But that’s how it came across. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?”

“She’s our resident headshrinker,” Patrice said.

“I am not a psychiatrist.”

Patrice tossed her head, and curls spilled over her shoulder and down her back. “She’s a psychologist. But lately she’s been spending more time cooped up with books than with patients.”

“I don’t maintain an active practice. You know that, Patrice.”

“So you’re writing a book?”

Flattered that he’d think she had the skills to write a book, Kara smiled. But the smile and the good feeling toward him disappeared in the next moment.

“I hope you’re not doing one of those female empowerment books.”

“What’s the matter, Mr. Ambrose, are you afraid that a thinking woman will see beyond the veneer?”

He smiled. “No, Dr. Kara. I’m looking forward to one who has the guts to try.”

Something in his tone—a real challenge, perhaps?—put Kara on alert. She sensed he spoke of more than what he actually said. He’d surprised her last night, and he seemed to have more surprises at the ready. “Forewarned is forearmed, Mr. Ambrose.”

“Let the games begin,” he said.

“See, that’s his problem,” Kara told her best friend a few hours later. She and Haley Cartwright Brandon-Dumaine sat at an outdoor table on the patio café at Pop’s Ice Cream & Malt Shoppe. “Everything’s a game.”

The two women made an eye-catching pair, each wholesomely pretty in her own way—Haley’s golden blond look to Kara’s rich caramel. Friends for years, the two claimed to covet the other’s assets, Haley wanting Kara’s petite figure and Kara wanting Haley’s tall, lush curves.

“Lighten up,” Haley said. “You looked great on television. And just think what the exposure will do for your programs—not to mention that JUMP grant you’re applying for. You could say you’ve appeared with Marcus Ambrose. And that would be true.”

Kara nodded. Getting that JUMPstart Activism community block grant would go a long way toward establishing two of the outreach projects she’d long advocated. According to the program material and the level of funding Kara sought, the granting committee liked applicants to already have established a support base in the community, a base that could be counted on to get the word out and act as foot soldiers.

To those looking in from the outside—people like superstar Marcus Ambrose—Wayside might appear to be an idyllic community, a perfect little slice of Americana. But Wayside had its fair share of problems. From homelessness to poverty.

Patrice was right, and so was Haley. Kara spent more time with her pet projects than she did with some of her original client work. She’d slowly phased that out of her practice, converting it instead into a one-woman resource bank for people in need.

She nodded her agreement, then scooped up the last of the hot fudge on her sundae. “Maybe I can turn this around into something worthwhile.”

Marcus Ambrose wanted to have a little amusement at her expense. Well, Kara could prove her point and win this so-called challenge.

Haley narrowed her eyes at Kara. “I don’t like that look in your eyes.”

Kara smiled and spread out her hands. “I’ve nothing to hide,” she said. “But I’m not above taking advantage of an opportunity.”

“What are you up to?”

“I just figured out how to best Mr. Ambrose at his own game. He wants to carry out this challenge. Well, he can start by picking up some of the slack on the Adopt-a-Spot program.”

Haley’s brown eyes widened. “He’s a star. I don’t think picking up trash is going to sit well. You can’t make him get down and dirty like that.”

Kara’s grin said otherwise. “Then he can help build a house for a low-income family.”

Shaking her head, Haley didn’t look convinced that either plan would work. “Matt is going to invite him to sing at a service one Sunday while he’s here.”

Kara wasn’t too thrilled about Marcus getting ensconced at their church. Haley ran the Sunday school division, while her husband, Matt Brandon-Dumaine, led the music ministry at Community Christian Church. Since he was a former nationally known gospel singer, it stood to reason that he’d want to connect with a fellow musician.

Nevertheless, she would have expected Marcus to hook up with one of the town’s larger churches, one that would showcase him to the largest number of people. With its 250 families, Community Christian was hardly a first stop on a celebrity tour—that, after all, was why Matt had sought refuge there.

“What did Reverend Baines have to say about that?”

Haley flashed her right hand in what was apparently meant as a careless, carefree gesture. Diamonds sparkled. “You know Cliff. He’s always excited about spreading the word through any ministry that will reach people.”

“And what’s this?” Kara reached for her friend’s hand, a twinkle in her eye as she waved her other hand around as Haley had been doing.

“I thought you’d never notice.” A big grin filled Haley’s face as she wiggled her fingers. “Matt gave it to me. To mark our first anniversary.”

Kara appropriately oohed and aahed over the anniversary band. “I can’t believe you guys have been married for a year already. What happened to the time?”

Since the question was obviously rhetorical, Haley didn’t respond to it. She instead asked one of her own.

“Guess what I gave him?”

“What?”

“A calendar.”

Kara groaned. “Haley, honey, you’re not really supposed to follow that anniversary guide from the card stores. Paper is so, well, cheap. Unless, of course, it’s stock options or bonds. And even those aren’t worth much in today’s economy.”

Haley’s eyes sparkled as much as her ring. The late-afternoon sun hit the blond highlights in her hair, providing what looked a lot like a halo around the Sunday-school director. “This was a special calendar. It had a date highlighted on it.”

Kara lifted her brow in an “And?” expression.

“And that date is almost nine months away. Well,” she added on a shrug, “it was almost nine months away when I had the calendar made.”

But Kara’s squeal drowned out the last of Haley’s words. The two friends were up and hugging each other, Kara crying and Haley beaming. Kara eyed her friend’s flat stomach.

“When? When are you due?”

Haley gave her the details. Marcus’s appearance at their church forgotten, the two women spent the rest of their time together talking about baby names and nursery colors.

That’s how Marcus and his entourage found them.

“Man, this place looks like it got lost in a time warp. Talk about Mayberry R.F.D.” someone said.

“It doesn’t look like Mayberry. It is,” another one of Marcus’s hangers-on said, casting a glance about Main Street.

Kara and Haley looked up at the crowd of people surrounding their outdoor table. Marcus and about six others stood not three feet away. The woman with the headset and clipboard stood sentinel at Marcus’s side, though she seemed to be having a rather heated conversation with someone. She touched him on the arm and motioned her head. Marcus nodded and she slipped away, pressing the earpiece closer and saying, “I don’t care how much it costs….”

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Marcus greeted them, the trademark smile operating at force ten on the weak-in-the-knees scale.

Haley, instantly charmed, held out a hand introducing herself when Kara didn’t seem inclined to do so.

“Hi, I’m Haley Brandon-Dumaine. It’s a pleasure meeting you. Welcome to Wayside.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’d like any information on the town, I volunteer over at the library and I’m also on the historical committee, so don’t be a stranger.”

Marcus smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And you know Kara.”

He smiled. “Yes, I know Dr. Kara.”

For her part, Kara couldn’t believe that he’d rendered her speechless.

Patrice needs to come get her man, she thought, because he’s wreaking havoc with my senses. She tried to bring up a mental image of Howard, her on-again, off-again companion and escort—he could hardly be called a boyfriend. But Howard’s squinting image blurred in her mind with a computer monitor, just like the one he always sat in front of. An IT specialist, Howard Boyd lived and breathed computers. They’d last gone out three weeks ago—to a computer show and sale. It was his idea of a hot date, her idea of purgatory.

“Hello, Dr. Kara.”

She nodded. “Mr. Ambrose.” A man with a video camera edged around the group and aimed his equipment toward Haley and Kara. “I see you’re still being hounded by the local media.”

Marcus glanced at the cameraman. “Actually, he’s with me. I went back to the bed-and-breakfast, made a statement over at the college and gave a few personal moments and we’re all clear.”

Gave a few personal moments. For some reason that statement didn’t sit well with Kara. It was as if he could just push all the right buttons and get just what he wanted in his charmed world.

“We’re just doing a little filming to get a record of the town.”

“A video scrapbook,” Kara muttered.

“Yes, something like that.” He reached into his pocket, came up empty and called for the clipboard woman. “Nadira.”

She turned, and was instantly at his side holding out four slim tickets.

“I’d like you to be my guests at the opening reception for the film and music festival. It’s a blacktie gala followed by a miniconcert.”

“Why, we’d love to,” Haley said. “My husband is a musician, as well.”

“I look forward to meeting him. And you?” he said, addressing Kara. “Will you be bringing a date, as well?” His voice clearly conveyed the message that he hoped she wouldn’t.

Standing tall, Kara nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Marcus fingered his goatee. “That’s too bad. I should have known someone as pretty as you already had a boyfriend.”

“Oh, Kara doesn’t have a…” A quelling look from Kara silenced Haley. “Uh, what I meant was—”

“We double-date all the time,” Kara smoothly interjected. “So my friend and I look forward to your event. Tell me, Mr. Ambrose. Do you ever go anywhere alone?”

He smiled. “Would you care to find out?”

Kara blushed and backed down on the verbal aggression.

After a couple of people in Marcus’s group got ice cream cones to go, the entourage moved on. Haley turned to Kara.

“What was that about a boyfriend and double-dating? Since when are you dating anyone?”

Kara dropped her head into her hands. “I cannot believe I said that.”

“Neither can I. And where are you going to get a date for—” she glanced at the tickets “—Friday night?”

Kara looked miserable. Without even trying, Marcus Ambrose made her reckless. “That’s a good question. Maybe Howard is free.”

Haley wrinkled her nose. “He’s a computer whiz, but Kara, he’s…” She floundered for a word.

“Boring?”

“Well, there is that.”

“Haley, what have I gotten myself into?” Then she had a brainstorm. “What about Amber’s brother?”

Haley shook her head. “He’s out of the country. Deacon Prentiss from church can always be counted on as an escort, though.”

“Great,” Kara said, her shoulders slumped. “Just what I need to impress Marcus—an eighty-year-old pity date.”

The next afternoon Kara found herself no closer to landing a date to the gala than she’d been at Pop’s the day before. According to his voice mail, Howard was at an IT conference in Seattle. He’d left a phone number where he could be reached, as well as a pager number and an instant e-mail address—all in the event of an emergency.

“This is an emergency,” Kara mumbled.

But she didn’t page him, phone him or e-mail him.

She was about to pick up the phone and call in a favor with one of her male cousins when a truck backed into her driveway and over the flower bed that marked her property line with the house next door. She dropped the phone and scrambled outside.

“Hey! Hey, what are you doing?”

The truck driver looked out his window and winced. “Sorry about that, lady.” He drove forward a bit, then cut the engine, hopping down from the cab. Kara heard the other door slam, as well.

Her carefully tended flower bed was in ruins, the V-grooved treads of two tires running right down the middle of her impatiens.

“What are you doing?”

He held out one of those electronic order processing boards for her signature. “Furniture’s here.”

“Furniture? I didn’t order any—”

“Yoo-hoo! Excuse me.” A moment later Miss Ever Efficient, today in a lime-green miniskirt suit, tiptoed around the ruined flower bed. “We’re over here.” The woman made it to where they stood without getting her heels caught in the lawn. Kara had to admire the skill—and the shoes.

Her gaze was still on the shoes when another set of feet appeared. This one looked to be about a size twelve encased in Timberlands. Her stomach knotted, and Kara knew even before her gaze roamed up the man’s body and landed on his face.

“You.”

He grinned. “Hello, Dr. Kara. I seem to be bad news for flowers in this town. Maybe I need to buy some greenhouse stock. Nadira?”

“I’ll have quotes for you this afternoon.”

“My fl…”

Before Kara could get the rest of the words out, he’d motioned to the assistant, who nodded.

“Hello, Dr. Spencer. I’m Nadira,” she said, extending a hand for a quick, efficient handshake. “We’re very sorry about the lawn. I’ll have a landscaper over here to fix it pronto.” She then directed the delivery driver to the house next door and started talking on her phone again.

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I rented a house.”

“But…” Kara waved a hand at her home, and then at—his! “But that one is…it’s right next to mine.” She pointed back and forth between the two houses as if they might disappear if she blinked. “You can’t possibly plan to live there.”

“Not me. My staff and I,” he quickly added. “We’re all set up, except for furniture.”

“But…”

“I was glad to see there’s a path between the two houses.”

Kara winced as she looked back at the winding stone path that led from her back door to the neighboring one. Laid by her next-door neighbor’s late husband, the path had linked the two homes in fellowship and friendship for more than forty years. Kara had kept up the tradition when she moved in five years ago. The now treacherous path had been perfect when Mrs. Abersoll lived in the house next door. Kara had checked on her elderly neighbor every day. Together they’d maintained the flower beds that ran the length of the driveways. But Mrs. Abersoll had gone on to be with the Lord six months ago, and her big house had remained empty. Until now.

“So, we’re neighbors,” Marcus said.

Kara wondered how fast shrubs could grow in place of the flowers.

“So I see,” she said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice.

It was one thing to be friendly toward Marcus Ambrose when she thought he lived across town in one of the big houses on Cherryville Drive. It was another completely to have to face him not just on the unlikely off chance that their paths would cross at a shop in town or one Sunday morning at Community Christian, but every single day! Kara’s sunroom faced his kitchen. If she sat in her favorite chair, he’d think she was staring straight at him.

He was an R & B singer, at that. Would a band take up residence in the garage, disturbing the tranquillity of their tree-lined street with their practices and late-night musicians’ hours?

And even more important, would Kara be able to tamp down the flicker of jealousy she felt every time the able-bodied Nadira sidled up to Marcus with her ever-ready clipboard and telephone?

Kara knew herself to be more than able and efficient, but the fact that she’d worked herself into an emotional frenzy in fifteen seconds flat didn’t bode well—and over someone whose lifestyle she couldn’t respect. She promised to do some deep breathing exercises—just as soon as she established the ground rules with him.

“It looks like these two houses have a connection,” he said.

“Yes,” replied the conversationalist.

“I hope we’ll be good neighbors and can maintain it.” He smiled. “You never know when one of us might need a cup of sugar.”

“Sugar. Yes, well.” Kara watched his mouth say the words, but her mind was elsewhere, like on the lyrics to one of his songs. Something about a cup of love. Patrice used to sing it constantly.

And that’s the thought that saved her.

As the oldest Spencer child, Kara had moved out first. Faye followed a year later when she’d married. Patrice and two other siblings still lived at home with their parents. Benjamin came and went as his graduate studies demanded. Knowing how difficult it could be to find privacy in the large, busy household or even to stake out any significant personal bathroom time, Kara had slipped her sister a key under the proviso that she not let Erica, Benjamin, or Garrett know that she had complete run of Kara’s place. Of course, their mother had a key, but that was just for emergencies. And in the five years Kara had lived here, there’d been just one emergency.

With a focus again, Kara visibly brightened. “You’ll be pleased to know that my sister Patrice spends a lot of time over here. More than she does at home.” That was the truth.

She was aware that she was thrusting Patrice at him in an attempt to quash her own persistent interest in him. Since Haley’s wedding, Kara had spent time imagining her own happily-ever-after. She’d had a hard time superimposing a groom’s face into the fantasy. Until now.

“Well, then, having two beautiful neighbors will be even better.”

Kara’s knees faltered as if an earthquake shook the land beneath her. Had anyone else felt the tremor? His compliment warmed her, shook her foundation.

“Mr. Ambrose, I need you to sign this form. And an autograph for my daughter if you don’t mind,” the delivery driver added with a sheepish grin.

Marcus acknowledged the man, but his attention didn’t immediately leave Kara, nor hers him.

If she hadn’t been watching him so intently, Kara would have missed the brief, though distinct, flash of irritation that swept over him at the man’s polite request. Not so much as a muscle moved on his face, but she knew that he was annoyed. It must be tough to always live in the spotlight, with people demanding things from you.

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