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Talk To Me
Jan Freed


By the Year 2000: CELEBRATE!What have you resolved to do by the year 2000?Talk! Pillow talk. Small talk.Double talk. Baby talk. Can we talk?Kara Taylor has a few questions when it comes to men. Why won't they talk about their feelings? Why can't they admit they're wrong? And what is it about The Three Stooges?Travis Malloy has some things he'd like to know, too. Why do women go on about emotions? Can't they see that actions speak louder than words? And since when is shopping a sport?Maybe if they'd had some answers nine years ago, their marriage wouldn't have ended in disaster on their first anniversary. Sure, Kara and Travis were crazy about each other, but that wasn't enough. They were mismatched from the start.They still are. But now it's time for Kara and Travis to start talking–because everything's at stake if they don't….







So Travis had done well for himself (#u723b95cb-f26f-504d-85d6-8ecdde4b94a6)Letter to Reader (#u404b649b-e72a-523f-ae1c-3979e0effadd)Title Page (#ucd4f36fc-d219-5023-b40f-663fb1af1fc4)Dedication (#uf7b4b239-7b4c-5229-bcae-b91ac0add360)CHAPTER ONE (#u53728fdf-9eac-5337-be9a-ed1f4ff0bbcf)CHAPTER TWO (#ub697e62f-7cdf-593f-8a11-7a0fccbd909b)CHAPTER THREE (#ub6cf5f6d-04fd-5a2d-8749-10fb0b7d8247)CHAPTER FOUR (#u1870d385-11b0-51be-83ef-9647f7f86a60)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


So Travis had done well for himself

Why shouldn’t he have earned a reputation as a great fishing guide? The man had been obsessed with the slimy creatures, after all. If he’d put half as much effort into understanding her, she wouldn’t have fled the fishing camp crying so hard she could barely see to drive away.

The return drive would be different, Kara promised herself. She wasn’t a defenseless, brokenhearted girl anymore, but a mature, capable woman. As the Mercedes turned into the five-acre clearing Travis had christened Bass Busters Fishing Camp, she clutched tightly to her righteous courage. A puny shield against the merciless pounding of her heart.

The place hadn’t changed at all!

And there, glittering a shade deeper than the cloudless sky, extending as far as the eye could see across the horizon, was a magnificent faceted sapphire reflecting the October sunshine.

Lake Kimberly, her beautiful enemy

Kara schooled her features into a mask of indifference. If it killed her, she wouldn’t reveal the power of this place—or its owner—to hurt her again.


Dear Reader,

Growing up in a home filled with five females, I often observed that my father would say something, then be totally baffled by the predictable feminine reaction. I also spent many happy hours as a tomboy at the ranch he and his brothers enjoyed as a weekend hunting retreat. At some point while sitting around a potbellied stove or acting as a human bird dog, I learned the language of Texas men—which is the same language other men speak, only cockier.

Hence, long before Ph.D. experts wrote books about the subject, I knew that men and women are from different planets when it comes to communicating and interpreting speech. I’ve explored this fascinating phenomenon to some extent in each of my novels, but never so specifically as in Talk to Me. And talk to me Travis and Kara did!

In telling me their story, they confirmed my belief that love alone can’t sustain a relationship between a man and a woman. Good communication skills are essential, and acquiring the ability to listen carefully can be even more important than learning to speak openly and from the heart. Oh, and both Kara and Travis stressed (in separate private interviews so as not to hurt the other’s feelings) that developing a good sense of humor is a definite plus.

I hope you enjoy Travis and Kara’s journey to enlightenment. If the road gets a little bumpy at times, at least (with these two) it’s never boring!

Sincerely,

Jan Freed

P.S. I love hearing from readers and invite you to write me at: 1860 FM 359 #206, Richmond, TX, 77469. Or visit my web site at: www.superauthots.com (http://www.superauthots.com)




Talk to Me

Jan Freed







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my editor Laura Shin,

who listens carefully to both my writing “voice”

and my author insecurities.

Many thanks for improving my craftsmanship, preventing my hyperventilation and having a great sense of humor!


CHAPTER ONE

AS TOPICS WENT, “My Significant Other Never Listens To Me” was about as interesting as a tractor pull. But apparently the rest of Houston had a love life.

Settling into her sixth-row seat, Kara Taylor glanced from the guest chairs and TV cameras on stage to the rapidly filling George R. Brown Convention Center auditorium. Amazing. Hundreds of busy people had wrangled with bosses, baby-sitters and “five o’clock traffic” that actually started at three to get here by four. All for a chance to see the touring Los Angeles-based Vanessa Allen Show.

Scanning the arriving crowd more closely, Kara arched a brow. Who would’ve thought so many silk ties and mid-heel pumps would attend the taping?

Oh, she’d known the tabloid talk show was popular. But she’d assumed most fans would be traditional homemakers or senior citizens, like the seventy-three-year-old woman sitting to her right. Gram looked positively giddy at the prospect of seeing her favorite talk-show host in person.

But then, so did the working professionals in the audience—some of whom looked younger than Kara, who’d hit the big three-oh two months ago.

Twisting back around to face the stage, Kara smoothed her navy wool skirt, adjusted her matching jacket, centered the gold heart pendant on her delicate neck chain. Hmph. If she hadn’t feared disappointing Gram, who’d raised Kara with unflagging love and selflessness since she was four, no way would she sit here and watch couples air their tawdry dirty laundry. She certainly had better things to do.

Like produce a sleazy lingerie catalog.

Oh God.

Kara battled her flush of chagrin with righteous rationalization. Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures. And Mystery Woman merchandise wasn’t sleazy. Sexy, yes—to both sexes. At least, it was according to the catalog’s photographer, Lisa Williams. Kara would have to continue to trust her best friend’s judgment about the fantasies of men.

She would never in a million years comprehend the male psyche.

Women, however, she understood perfectly.

And the delicately feminine, exquisitely detailed lingerie in her catalog would make any woman who wore it feel sexy and beautiful. Results from her first secret experimental mailing had exceeded her wildest hopes. Especially since almost half of the orders had come from men.

If a second city-wide drop pulled the same ten percent response, she wouldn’t have to worry about paying double the current rent when Taylor Fine Foundations’ lease expired in three months. She wouldn’t have to liquidate stock and close the last remaining store in the family’s once-thriving chain. She wouldn’t have to admit she’d failed to make up for her mother’s unforgivable sins.

By the year 2000, she would beat back the wolves from her family’s estate and ensure her grandmother’s happiness. At least she would if a miracle occurred and those catalogs got mailed out soon.

Yet here she sat in early October, wasting precious hours she couldn’t spare, because Gram refused to drive on the freeway, and Major McKinney had bailed from escort duty at the last minute. Wimp. So the retired army officer was running a little fever? He should try running a store with walking pneumonia, the way she had last year, and then complain.

A squeeze on Kara’s forearm captured her attention. She glanced down at the hand, as fragile and spotted as a quail’s egg, resting on her navy wool sleeve.

“I’m so nervous,” Esther Taylor confessed, her pale blue eyes anxious. “Last week a woman in the audience had a big piece of spinach or something in her teeth. It was so embarrassing.” She wrinkled her brow. “Do I need more lipstick? Did my hair get mussed in the parking garage?”

Kara’s irritation dissolved in an overwhelming rush of affection. Her grandmother was supremely vain.

She checked the vivid pink of Gram’s lips, the crisp edges of youth fissured by time and yearround gardening. Her helmet of silver-blue curls hadn’t budged, of course. No puny gust of wind could penetrate two coats of Final Net.

“You look wonderful, Gram. Quit worrying.”

“You’re right. It’s not as if Vanessa will pick me out of all these people to ask a question on camera. But don’t you think this is exciting?”

About as exciting as a bass-fishing tournament. “Hmm-mmm,” Kara hummed vaguely, the best she could manage without choking on a lie. Together with a pat on bony knuckles, the sound appeared to satisfy her grandmother.

Just then a frazzled-looking man wearing headphones broke apart from the camera and lighting crew to walk center-stage. He picked up a microphone lying on one chair and tested the sound level, stirring up a buzz of speculation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?” he asked, then repeated the question until the large room quieted. “Ms. Allen will be out shortly. But I’d like to go over a few rules before we start taping.”

Kara then learned she was to stay in her seat at all times, applaud and even laugh on cue, listen carefully to each couple’s dialogue on stage without shouting comments—as if she would do such a thing—and raise her hand, rise calmly and state her viewpoint succinctly into the microphone if Ms. Allen singled her out of the audience for an opinion.

For the first time since entering the auditorium, Kara experienced a flutter of anxiety. She reached up casually, patted her sleek chignon and tucked a few errant strands into place.

Unnecessary. Vain and silly. She had no intention of raising her hand. Gram was the star-struck fan who’d be thrilled to share the spotlight with her idol.

“All right folks, let’s get started,” the prompter concluded. “Everybody please give a warm welcome to... Va-nes-sa Al-len!”

The familiar theme music swelled. Kara clapped on cue. A tall striking redhead in signature blueframed glasses entered stage-right carrying a cordless microphone. Her olive-green silk jacket and pants were stylish, but Kara could think of two Mystery Woman camisoles that were prettier choices than the one Vanessa wore.

Smiling warmly, the forty-something celebrity waved and shouted, “Howdy, Houston!”

Cheers erupted. Gram warbled a loud, “Howdy!”

“Gosh, I love this city! People here are so friendly. This is my first visit, can you believe that? I thought you’d all have oil wells and, you know, horses and stuff in your backyards, but you don’t. You guys have something better.” She paused impishly. “Great shopping.”

As laughter broke out she grabbed her knees and hitched up both pant cuffs. “Look what I bought today. Ernie, can you get a close-up of these babies?”

Two large screens mounted high on each side of the stage showed the studio audience what the television viewers at home would see. The camera zoomed in on taupe ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

“Aren’t they beautiful? Rodeo Drive eat your heart out!” She grinned delightedly.

The crowd roared its approval. Vanessa had acknowledged the city’s cosmopolitan status and Texas pride in one fell swoop. No wonder the country loved her. The woman had natural charm and showbiz poise to spare.

Too bad the show’s guests often seemed dredged from the bottom of America’s barrel of apples. Watching rotten characters unpeeled and exposed on TV was not Kara’s idea of entertainment.

Viewing the same process—live and unedited in her naive past—had been bad enough.

“We have some interesting guests for you today,” Vanessa was saying. “Each of the couples you’ll meet is at the brink of breaking up because of a communication problem in their relationship. Let’s see if we can help these people out. What do you say, folks?”

Kara squirmed through the audience’s enthusiastic response and Vanessa’s introduction of Bill and Dorothy, an overweight, middle-aged couple from Rosenberg, Texas.

The two settled in their chairs, his finger prying more space between red neck and shirt collar, her fists tugging less space between knees and skirt hem. They fidgeted self-consciously while Vanessa headed down the stage steps and into the center aisle. Two men bracing cameras on their shoulders followed, as well as the stage manager who’d opened the show, carrying a second microphone.

Esther squeezed Kara’s arm and drew in a sharp breath, then released a disappointed sigh when Vanessa passed by their row.

About halfway up the aisle the TV host stopped and turned.

“Now then, Dorothy, let’s start with you. You told our producer that your husband hasn’t talked to you in twenty-seven years of marriage, and that you can’t take it anymore. Do you honestly mean to say he hasn’t spoken to you in all that time?”

“Oh, he’s spoken, all right. He just hasn’t talked to me,” Dorothy clarified in an unpleasantly shrill voice.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Well, like about a week ago? He comes home from work and I ask him how his day was. ‘Okay,’ he says, like it was business as usual. So later I’m watching the news, and there’s a story about a chemical leak at the plant where he works.”

She flicked a resentful glance at her husband, who gazed stonily ahead. “He could’ve been hurt bad, and I have to find out about it on Channel 2! Does that sound like an ‘okay’ day to you?”

“Nobody got hurt,” Bill spoke up, frowning at the audience. “They cleaned up the spill and I was back on the job in a couple of hours. Like I said, it was an okay day.”

Huffing, Dorothy turned in her chair to face him directly. “What about last night during Walker, Texas Ranger? I asked if you were nervous about being on the show today, and you never even looked away from the TV.”

“I answered you, didn’t I?”

“You said ‘yeah.’ Period. What kind of answer is that? For all I know you didn’t even hear me!”

Bill winced and stuck his little finger in one ear. “The whole trailer park heard you, Dorothy. How can you think I didn’t?”

Predominantly male laughter swelled in the audience.

Kara bristled.

She knew how Dorothy had thought her husband hadn’t heard. He hadn’t looked at her, that’s how. Without the connection of eye contact, a wife simply couldn’t be sure her husband was paying attention.

Poor Dorothy’s cheeks were tomato red. “If you’d told me how you were feeling, if you’d talked to me I would have known you heard me. But all you said was ‘yeah.’ And then when I told you I was nervous, too, and that my stomach felt queasy every time I thought about being on TV, you got mad.”

The couple fumed silently.

Vanessa jumped in fast. “Is that true, Bill?”

His scowl deepened. “I guess.”

Kara’s indignation on his wife’s behalf rose. From the outbreak of feminine murmurs in the crowd, she wasn’t alone.

“Why would her sympathy make you mad?” Vanessa sounded sincerely puzzled.

Slouched in his chair, Bill retreated into himself and stared at an exit sign. Rudely silent. Aloofly distant.

Annoyingly familiar.

Kara wanted to rush up on stage and shake an answer out of the man.

“See what I mean?” Dorothy turned away from the husband who hadn’t looked at her since they’d entered the stage. “It’s hopeless. When he’s at the pool hall with his buddies, he yaks his head off. But he won’t say squat to me, who’s given him three children and cooked and cleaned for him twenty-seven years. I give up.”

“No, no,” Vanessa protested. “Give the audience a chance to help. Okay folks, who’d like to comment on Bill and Dorothy’s problem?”

Hands, including Esther’s, shot up everywhere. But Vanessa was plunging into the opposite section of the auditorium.

“Let’s get a man’s take on this, first. The gentleman with the dark hair, sitting in the middle. Yes, you, I’m heading your way.”

Kara twisted and craned along with everyone else to watch Vanessa’s progress. Too many heads blocked the view.

“Stand up, sir—whoa! Hello up there. Everything is bigger in Texas, isn’t it? Love the T-shirt, by the way.”

Kara jockeyed for a glimpse of the man. Dam it, she couldn’t see!

“Turn toward the camera so we can zoom in for the folks at home. That’s it. Women want me. Bass fear me,” Vanessa read, her tone amused.

Kara’s heart stopped cold...then lurched into heavy slamming beats.

Remembering the big-screen monitor, she whirled to the front. The camera had focused on thin gray cotton stretched tightly over a muscular chest. Dead center, a hooked bass thrashed out of the water, the once-vivid greens and blues faded, the words above imprinted forever in Kara’s memory.

“Tell us what your name is, sir, and where you’re from.”

Even before the camera moved, even before the man answered, Kara knew.

Oh God, oh God.

“My name is Travis Malloy, and I’m from Lake Kimberly, Texas,” drawled the deep baritone that had so enthralled a young woman accustomed primarily to feminine voices.

Gram gasped.

The camera pulled back.

Kara stared at the shaggy sable hair, the slightly crooked nose, the square masculine jaw sporting stubble—not for fashion’s sake but because his beard grew at the speed of light. She took in the bronzed skin and deep squint lines of an outdoorsman, the dark intelligent eyes of a voracious reader.

Then she assembled it all into the heartbreaker of a face she hadn’t seen in nine years. The face of her ex-husband. The man who had, in fact, broken her heart—and had the supreme gall now to wear the T-shirt she’d given him for their first-year anniversary celebration.

The same occasion he’d ended their marriage for good.

STANDING IN THE beam of a remote-camera spotlight, Travis silently cursed the irritation that had sent up his hand, along with seventy or so others.

To his right, obnoxious cackling heated his neck. He probed with his heavy boot until he bumped rubber, then carefully planted his full weight on top of a sneaker.

“Okay, Travis,” Vanessa said above Jake’s strangled groan. “What did you want to say to Dorothy and Bill?”

Since “never mind” would make an even bigger fool out of him, Travis eased off his little brother’s foot and onto the subject at hand. “Just that I think I know why Bill got mad when Dorothy told him she was nervous and queasy.”

“Really? Why?”

He’d had nine years to refine his answer.

“Because instead of focusing on him, she brought the conversation right back to her. Why should he ‘talk’ to her about his feelings when she doesn’t respect them enough to devote her full attention to them?”

Vanessa appeared surprised, then intrigued. “Interesting. I see a lot of men in the audience nodding their heads. What about you, Bill?” she said, tuming to the stage. “Can you confirm Travis’s theory?”

Bill had snapped to military attention, amazed gratitude replacing his earlier scowl. “Yeah. I could never quite put my finger on it before, but that’s exactly right. Hey, thanks, buddy.”

Travis shrugged modestly. Unlike most women, he could be right without making a federal case out of it.

“I’m impressed, Travis. Thank you,” Vanessa told him in a dismissive tone.

He gladly sank out of the spotlight into his seat, ignoring the low singsong, “teacher’s pet” from his right. Give Jake an inch of encouragement and he’d dole out a mile of abuse.

Travis couldn’t think why he’d accepted tickets to the Vanessa Allen Show in lieu of his normal fishing-guide fee. Or why he’d compounded the mistake by inviting the Malloy family clown to accompany him to the show.

“Dorothy, you look a little shocked,” Vanessa continued. “What do you think about all this?”

Dorothy closed her sagging jaw. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Do you really think I don’t respect your feelings, Bill?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“For heaven’s sake, look at me, please.”

Travis cringed, the words fingernails on the blackboard of his memory, a slate he’d yet to wipe clean. He should never have made the rare trip into Houston today.

When Bill finally gazed at his wife, his expression was long-suffering. “All I know is, whenever I tell you something personal, you always say how you’re feeling or what happened to you that was almost the same. Like what I feel isn’t important”

“But—Bill, honey, that’s not at all what I think. When I say those things, I only want you to know you’re not alone, that I’ve felt the same way. I thought that knowing I understand how you feel might comfort you.”

“Well, it doesn’t. It never has.”

“I didn’t know.” Dorothy’s strident voice was subdued, her two screen-monitor faces sincere and misty-eyed. “I swear I didn’t know. I...I’m sorry.”

Travis shifted uneasily. The conversation slowly faded into the background of his mind. A soft melodious voice crept forward from the past.

Look at me, please.

Talk to me, please.

I know exactly how you feel about not making the boat payment on time. The late fees I paid on rent for my apartment in college would add up to a nice little nest egg. Don’t worry about it, Travis.

Had his ex-wife possibly meant to comfort him instead of belittle his real worries about the future?

Uh-uh. No way, José. Did not compute. Nice try, but no bananas.

She’d had no interest at all in helping him establish a fishing camp on the shores of Lake Kimberly. It was as simple as that. They’d been as mismatched as caviar and catfish bait, their marriage doomed from the start.

Of all the females he’d never understood—which at age thirty-four was a hell of a long list—Travis had never understood Kara Taylor the most.

Men, on the other hand, were an open book. As proof, he’d developed Bass Busters Fishing Camp into a thriving operation.

An elbow in his ribs jabbed Travis into the present.

“Man, can you believe this?” Jake muttered, gesturing to the stage. “The Simpsons meet The Munsters.”

Travis checked out the teenage couple sitting next to Bill and Dorothy, and felt his lips twitch.

The big brawny dude wore black jeans, a black T-shirt and black biker boots. He had massive shoulders, a low ridged forehead and a flat-top haircut. Put bolts in his neck and he could pass for Herman Munster’s little brother. The girl’s long black hair, flowing black dress and cadaver-pale face with heavily lined eyes made a fitting match.

Vanessa spoke from the center aisle. “Since we heard from Dorothy first, last time, let’s start now with you, Terrence. Tell us why Tiffany doesn’t understand you.”

Travis and Jake shared an incredulous look.

“Terrence?” Jake mouthed silently.

“Tiffany?” Travis mouthed back.

They both snorted at the incongruous names.

“She’s always puttin’ me down, man. and then acts all hurt when I say so. Like, the other night at Sonic? They’ve got this deal where if you don’t get your order delivered in fifteen minutes, you get it free?

“So I’m keepin’ an eye on my watch, ya know? The waitress skates up with our burgers, and I tell her she’s five minutes late. But Tiffany, she says—real load—that I’m wrong and the food’s not late. And everybody’s car windows are down for the trays.”

Travis winced in sympathy.

“Why doesn’t she just scream ‘Loser’ to my face?” Terrence asked the audience.

“Oh, puh-leez!” Tiffany rolled her eyes, a startlingly melodramatic sight given her heavy make-up. “Your watch was fast. Kim wasn’t late. She gets in trouble if she gives out too many coupons in a night.”

“Whose side are you on? Hers or mine?”

“That’s stupid. You’re my boyfriend. I’m always on your side.”

“Then why did you put me down?”

“I didn’t put you down. I helped out a friend!”

“See? You’re on her side.”

Tiffany let out a frustrated shriek, lifted her hands and strangled an invisible neck.

As the women in the audience laughed, Vanessa moved to the section opposite Travis and Jake.

“Who has a comment?” she asked, weaving into the crowd. “Yes, sir, tell us your name and what’s on your mind.”

A short, balding man stood and thrust out his chin. “Harold Stokes. And I think if she was really on his side, she wouldn’t have contradicted him in public.”

“Thank you, Harold.” Vanessa moved closer to the stage. “The men are all nodding again. Let’s get a female point of view. Ah, there’s a woman of experience. Hang on, I’m coming. Okay, what’s your name?”

The sound of amplified breathing filled the auditorium.

“Don’t be shy, dear. We’re all friends.”

Travis’s gaze sought the closest monitor—and widened.

Good grief! He’d recognize that sweet face surrounded by immovable gray curls anywhere.

Esther Taylor stood frozen in the spotlight, prime for gigging or a truck bumper in her gut. She eyed the extended microphone as if it were a hand grenade with the pin pulled.

The audience started to mumble and snicker.

Move on to someone else. Don’t prolong the old girl’s misery.

Esther sat abruptly, yanked down by an unseen force, and a mint-julep voice spoke. “I’ll comment, if you’d like.”

Travis’s heart sputtered like a flooded outboard motor. Even before the camera moved, he knew.

“Wonderful! Stand up and tell us your name.”

Of all the crazy rotten luck

“Kara Taylor. And the lady who just sat and will kill herself when we get home is your biggest fan—Esther Taylor, my grandmother.”

Travis stared at the tall elegant woman who’d disarmed the restless audience as quickly and easily as she’d once entranced him.

Her generous curves were disguised by a severe navy jacket and skirt, her only accessory a dainty necklace. Her glorious platinum-blond hair was tortured into some sort of do only women liked. Her bewitching green eyes were underscored by shadowed half moons of fatigue.

Together they formed the heartbreaking beauty he hadn’t seen in nine years. His ex-wife. The woman who had, in fact, broken his heart—and had the incredible gall now to wear the heart pendant he’d given her to celebrate their first-year anniversary.

The same occasion she’d ended their marriage for good.


CHAPTER TWO

K ARA WONDERED when the prickles at her hairline would drip tears of sweat for all of America—and Travis—to see. The spotlight was incredibly hot... both literally and figuratively.

“So tell us, Kara, what do you think about Terrence’s claim that Tiffany always puts him down?” Vanessa tipped her microphone.

Esther Taylor would expect a ladylike answer. But Kara figured Gram owed her. “Well, I don’t know what Tiffany ‘always’ does. But what she did at Sonic was act in a mature, caring and responsible way that had nothing to do with anyone but the waitress. I think Terrence needs to grow up,” Kara said bluntly.

A smattering of applause broke out from some of the women in the audience, along with a few grumbles from the men.

Vanessa perked up at the scent of a lively debate. “Them thar’s fightin’ words, Kara. Can you define the phrase grow up?”

Where to start, that was the harder question. “Let’s backtrack to Bill and Dorothy,” Kara began. “He said she doesn’t respect his feelings, yet he doesn’t supply her with any clues as to what they are. So she prods and probes and shares her own feelings in hopes he’ll cough up some of his. Which of course, he doesn’t.

“After all, that would be the mature thing to do. Instead, he expects her to read his mind, then pouts like a three-year-old when she isn’t psychic.”

The spontaneous applause and grumbles were louder than before.

Vanessa held up a quieting hand. “Danny?” She searched the auditorium and located the stage manager. “I want to stay with Kara a minute. Can you work that side of the room for the male point of view?”

He nodded and moved toward the back row.

Vanessa’s gaze returned to Kara. “And Terrence ? How was his behavior immature?”

Blocking out the camera and her grandmother’s distressed gaze, Kara concentrated on the gleam of encouragement in Vanessa’s eyes.

“First of all, he seems to think the world revolves around him. As if everyone at Sonic was more interested in what he was doing than in eating their fries. I mean, get real. That’s so arrogant, so typically male.

“And so what if everyone did hear Tiffany correct him about the time?” Kara continued, picking up steam. “I’ve got a news flash for him. His watch was fast and he was wrong. But did he apologize to the waitress? No-o, that would’ve been the mature thing to do.

“Instead, he got mad at Tiffany and accused her of embarrassing him in public. Because, bottom line, most men don’t care if they’re actually right or not. The only important thing to them is that other people think they are!”

A thunderous wave of applause and feminine cheers buoyed Kara’s ego. This was starting to get fun. She glanced at the monitor just as a teen in full rapper gear rose from his seat and lowered his mouth to Danny’s microphone.

“A woman shouldn’t dis her man, you know what I’m sayin’, Mama? An’ if she does—” he hitched one shoulder and looked away, then gazed deliberately back into the camera “—he should dump her ass! Wha’ dya think of that?”

Kara waited for the rumble of male approval to fade, then said, “I think you missed your nap this afternoon.”

The audience erupted into laughter, a balanced mix of high and deep tones. Gram reached up and squeezed Kara’s hand briefly, whether in approval or caution wasn’t clear.

Still smiling, Vanessa shook her head. “I should put you up against that fish guy—what’s his name?”

Uh-oh.

“Travis!” Gram trilled.

Great, Kara thought Now she talks.

“Oh, yeah, Travis. Danny, head over his way would you? I’m dying to know what he has to say. You men in the audience want to let him speak for you?” Vanessa cocked her head and cupped an ear. “What’s that?”

The men roared yes.

Kara watched the monitor sickly as the camera zoomed in on Travis, who was being prodded and shoved into standing by the man sitting next to him. Good grief, was that grinning replica of her ex-husband really Jake?

“Hi, Travis.” Vanessa directed a beauty-queen wave across the auditorium. “I want you to meet Kara. Kara, say hello to Travis.”

Kara opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“You’ll have to do better than that, girl,” Vanessa teased amid the chuckles. “The women here are counting on you. So Travis, do you agree with Kara that Terrence should’ve apologized to the waitress instead of getting mad at Tiffany?”

“No. Kara always—I mean, from what I’ve seen, she appears to lose the big picture in favor of petty details. The issue here isn’t whether Terrence was right or wrong about the food being late. The issue is respect and loyalty.”

That old song and dance?

“I’ve got a question for Kara,” Travis continued. “Let’s pretend the shoe was on the other foot and Terrence had told Tiffany in a real loud voice that...oh, that her hair needed washing, for example. And everybody at Sonic heard. Are you telling me that Tiffany wouldn’t get mad at him?”

“That’s different and you know it. You’re talking about an intimate comment on a person’s appearance, whereas I’m referring to a correct or incorrect fact. The waitress was either late, or she wasn’t. Nothing personal involved.”

“See now, Kara, you weren’t listening to me.”

Ladies do not scream obscenities or foam at the mouth.

“The larger issue isn’t about time or dirty hair,” he continued in the condescending tone that had always set her teeth on edge. “It’s about having enough respect for the other person that you either lower your voice so the whole city can’t hear you, or postpone the conversation until you’re alone.”

She sniffed. “As I said, what complete strangers think is more important to a man than what his significant other thinks.”

“That’s so irrational, so typically female,” he mimicked, twisting her earlier words to his advantage.

“Oh, really?” Disconcerting, talking to a television monitor. Especially when his image kept dissolving into hers.

Kara turned toward the tall, spotlighted figure near the back of the auditorium. She didn’t need to see his features to sense his every blink. “Then tell me why a man won’t stop and ask for directions?”

A beat of silence. “Excuse me?”

“If men don’t care more about what a complete stranger thinks than what their significant others think, why will they keep driving in circles when we’re tired and hungry and ready to get there, instead of stopping to ask a stranger for directions?”

Every woman in the audience chuckled at that one, but Kara barely heard.

All her senses were tuned into the signals crackling above the sea of heads. A confusing, exhilarating, frightening exchange she hadn’t experienced in nine years.

He shifted his stance, and the connection broke. “We don’t stop and ask complete strangers because they may not know the right directions.”

Kara blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“No. They could give us completely wrong directions and we’d be worse off than before.”

“My, God, you are serious. If people don’t know the directions, Travis, they’ll tell you they don’t know.”

“Not if they’re embarrassed to admit they don’t know.”

“Oh, well, you’re talking about male strangers. A woman would never consciously hurt someone just to save face, like Terrance was willing to hurt that waitress because he was embarrassed to admit he was wrong. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Hey, that’s not what I—”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” Vanessa interrupted, laughing into the camera. “Time out. I created a couple of monsters here. We have to take a commercial break, but don’t go away folks. We’ll be right back with our next couple and more fascinating debate.”

The remote-camera spotlight cut off.

Kara groped blindly for her seat, hit cotton candy hair and stumbled to the left. She sat with a sigh of relief.

“Boy, you and Travis are something else!” Vanessa exulted to Kara. “I’d love to keep the discussion going, but I’ve gotta move on to other opinions. Maybe I’ll get back to you guys later.”

She leaned down and spoke for Kara’s ears alone. “You kicked butt. Fish man didn’t stand a chance.”

Remembering the currents leaping between her and Travis, Kara smiled weakly, glad an auditorium had separated them. Proximity to her ex-husband had always scrambled her brains. Whatever quirk of fate had delivered them to the same auditorium today, Kara didn’t plan on reading too much into it.

If she didn’t bump into him for another nine years, that would be far too soon for her.

Ross HADLEY SLUMPED in his auditorium chair, oblivious to the third couple whining on stage.

The flawlessly produced road show, which he’d attended in hopes of picking up pointers, couldn’t compete with the tingly sensation in his abdomen. The one signaling something out of the ordinary. The gut-deep feeling he’d rarely experienced but had learned not to ignore.

The last time he’d tingled was three years ago, when Sally had dragged him to “Cooking for Couples” classes on the advice of their counselor. His sharing an activity that was important to her hadn’t salvaged their marriage, but it had boosted his reputation at KLUV-TV, Houston. The better result for all concerned.

The instructor that fateful night had been a pretentious British ass named Henry Frey. He clearly hadn’t wanted to teach seventeen amateur gourmets any more than one workaholic fast-food junkie had wanted to learn.

Ten minutes into class, Ross had awakened and smelled the Earl Grey tea.

He recognized good broadcast entertainment when he saw it, and Henry had been a natural talent. His monologue on American culture, as cynical as Americans themselves, had been delivered in a snooty British accent that made his sarcasm seem terribly witty. And his flamboyant style of mixing ingredients and kneading dough added visual interest to the stand-up comedy routine.

As associate producer of Meet Houston at the time, Ross had known the pastry chef would make an excellent guest. But...there’d been that odd tingle in his gut.

So he’d pitched and sold station management on launching The Bantering Baker—hiring Ross as the show’s full-fledged producer, of course. Then he’d worked sixteen-hour shifts to achieve networkprogram quality on a cheesy local-show budget. Ratings had slowly climbed, his career moving right on track...until he’d been derailed.

Sabotaged by rum balls, whiskey sour cake and Henry’s fondness for the key ingredients.

Glowering now, Ross acknowledged that the show’s ratings, and its star, had stumbled once too often in recent months. The Bantering Baker would be canceled.

Producer openings were scarce, the competition ruthless, past performance was everything, and his wouldn’t look too hot on a resumé. He’d failed to “handle” his on-air talent’s excesses. As a result, he could experience a major setback in his career.

Or, he could create another new show.

Ross straightened his spine, thankful he’d chosen to sit in the back row for the Vanessa Allen Show taping. The nosebleed section of the tiered auditorium provided a sweeping overview of the audience.

He easily located Travis Malloy, bold interpreter and defender of men. A guy whom bass feared, women wanted and the camera absolutely loved.

In addition to rugged good looks, he possessed a decent command of language and logic. The spotlight hadn’t intimidated him. Nor had Vanessa.

Very very good.

He wasn’t introverted or painfully shy. Neither had he come across as a loud belligerent oaf. He’d simply sounded confident he was right. The perfect attitude. At least, ideal for what Ross had in mind.

His gaze moved to the left and down, zeroing in on a bright blond head six rows back from the stage.

Kara Taylor. Unusual first name, but then, that hadn’t hurt Ricki Lake. Kara displayed Ricki’s same accessible charm, plus a beauty more striking than classical.

If the camera loved Travis, it worshiped Kara’s creamy skin, exotic cat’s eyes and unusual silvergold hair.

Ross had underestimated her brain at first. Vapid blondes were rampant in the entertainment industry. Yet he’d quickly seen that in a duel of wits, she was a master verbal fencer. An able champion of women’s confusing thought patterns.

The national spotlight hadn’t rattled her a bit. Even better, when she’d faced Travis across the auditorium, vibrant energy had snapped and crackled between them. A fascinating phenomenon to watch. The kind of visible chemistry that was the stuff of every television producer’s dreams.

As a concept crystallized in Ross’s mind, the tingle in his gut became burning excitement.

His success depended as much on sheer luck as on negotiating skill. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and he had everything to lose by passively accepting his fate.

Okay. He would do it.

Finalize his game plan and speak to the principle players ASAP, a delicate task. They would ask many questions, introduce unknown obstacles. Not that Ross doubted the two strangers would eventually say yes.

After all, for a shot at fame and fortune, even mortal enemies would agree to join forces.

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK the next day, phone snugged between ear and shoulder, Kara tuned out Vinnie’s New York accent and lined up five newly developed contact sheets. Not for the first time, she wished for an art table. One day, maybe. Right now the back office at Taylor Fine Foundations barely accommodated her battered desk and single guest chair.

Leaning closer, she moved her magnifying loupe over a row of tiny photographs. The lavender bra and matching silk tap pants shimmered sensuously. Using candlelight had been inspired. If Lisa weren’t independently wealthy and easily bored, she could earn a living as a photographer.

Without lifting her gaze, Kara gave a quick thumbs-up.

“Yesss!” her friend exulted.

Kara grinned and adjusted the loupe’s frame. They could crop in close but leave the draped blond curl teasing a scalloped lace cup—

“Kara?”

She jerked, recaptured the slipping phone and leaned back into imitation leather. “Yes, Vinnie?”

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“Of course I heard,” she bluffed.

“Well?”

Fortunately the businessman she’d only dealt with via phone, fax, e-mail and air express was unflaggingly single-minded. His cost-consciousness was one reason why Spinelli Printing offered the highest quality and best value for the dollar.

“Well,” Kara responded, “I know you ‘cut me a break’ on the first catalogs. That’s why I’m not bidding this job out to other printers. Take two thousand off the estimate you faxed, and I’ll continue to give you first chance at printing all future Mystery Woman catalogs.”

“Two thousand! You gotta be kiddin’, doll—”

“I’m nobody’s doll,” Kara corrected mildly, “But I’m quite serious about continuing to use Spinelli Printing. ‘Dance with the one who brung ya,’ that’s my motto. Work with me now on lowering your cost, and when the catalog goes national we’ll waltz into the big . time together.” She winked shamelessly at Lisa, who rolled her eyes.

“Nothing personal, babe, but I got alimony and child support up the wazoo. I’m not running a friggin’ charity, ya know.”

Kara stiffened.

“I got a business to keep afloat.”

So did she. And Taylor Fine Foundations was sinking faster than she could bail. Her grandmother would be appalled at what she was about to do. But she’d learned long ago that a “lady” in business became a “sucker” if she didn’t play her own version of hardball.

“Speaking of charity, Vinnie...I had nothing to gain in July by referring Township Square’s advertising department to Spinelli Printing. Don’t misunderstand. I didn’t expect a commission—although that wouldn’t have been inappropriate.” She paused delicately. “I was surprised not to get a thank-you note, given the value of your new account. My guess is your profits on the Labor Day Sale insert alone paid for at least six months of child support.”

From Vinnie’s startled silence, she’d guessed right.

“Ka-ra,” he finally said in a conciliatory tone. “I feel terrible. Didn’t you get the roses I told Susan to send you?”

Unbelievable. He was actually pinning his poor business etiquette on his overworked secretary. “No, I didn’t.”

“I gotta admit I was a little surprised when you never mentioned them. Now I understand. You’ll forgive Susan, won’t you?”

The weasel! “I never blamed her in the first place.”

“You’re terrific, babe. One in a million. And I really do appreciate your referral. Township Square’s a nice little account.”

Nice little account?

Meeting Lisa’s gaze, Kara ignored the sudden alarm in her friend’s alert brown eyes. “Gee, Vinnie, that’s odd. Susan said you told her Township Square was Spinelli Printing’s largest account. And we both know she never forgets a thing you tell her, don’t we? Not that I’m going to argue semantics with you, or I’d have to explain why calling me ‘babe’ and ‘doll’ is as politically incorrect, unenlightened and offensive as my calling you an obnoxious Yankee with the manners of a—” Kara broke off and glared “—what?”

Lisa ceased her frantic slashing motions.

“Pig?” Vinnie supplied in a suspicious tone.

Common sense returned in a rush of chagrin. Kara forced a weak laugh. “You always did have a good sense of humor, Vinnie. Some people flat don’t get my jokes. Look, all I’m asking is that you settle for a modest markup on these next catalogs. You won’t be sorry. Mystery Woman is a winner. You said so yourself.”

“I said the model you’re using is a winner.” A lascivious note had entered his voice. “Now, you get me a date with her and I’ll knock two grand off my estimate, no problem.”

Distaste warred with a stir of interest. “Are you serious?”

“You mean...you are? Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph! Can you really set me up with the Mystery Woman?”

Caution battled with her knowledge of the company’s dwindling bank account. “I didn’t say that. I don’t know how she feels about blind dates. I can’t even tell her what you look like.”

“Five eleven, dark hair, brown eyes. A regular Italian stallion. Think Rocky, before he got too skinny.”

Wisdom fought with Kara’s image of Gram’s crushed expression should her beloved husband’s family business go bankrupt. “I don’t know, Vinnie. I can’t see her flying all the way to New Jersey, even if you paid her air fare.”

“For a date with the Mystery Woman, I’d fly to Houston in a heartbeat, maybe try and drum up a little more business while I’m there. My kid’s with me through the weekend, but the next two weeks are clear. How ’bout giving her a call, Kara?”

The sound of her name snapped Kara into lucidity. She had no business meddling with the Mystery Woman’s privacy. “I’m sorry, Vinnie. I won’t compromise my working relationship with her or you. Besides, her schedule is just so hectic—”

“I’ll print your catalogs at cost,” he interrupted. “Zero markup. You’ll save three, maybe four grand.”

Kara blinked.

“C’mon, doll. What d’ya say?”


CHAPTER THREE

GREED WAVED a victory banner Kara couldn’t ignore. “I say a girl’s gotta eat sometime, right? I’m sure she can squeeze in a dinner date during the next month. Let me call her and get back to you soon.”

“Great! Oh, man, a date with the Mystery Woman,” he crowed. “Wait’ll the guys in the shop hear about this. They drooled so much over the last catalog the ink took twice as long to dry.”

Oh God.

“What’s her name, by the way?”

Kara pressed cool knuckles against a heated cheek. “The modeling agency is very strict about guarding its clients. If she agrees to meet you, I’ll let her tell you herself.”

“Well...I guess that’s fair.”

Thank goodness.

“A hot babe like that must worry about stalkers and stuff.”

Oh God.

“You call me as soon as you talk to her, okay, Kara?”

“I’ll do that, Vinnie. Bye now.”

“See ya, doll.”

Carefully replacing the receiver, Kara assumed a casual expression and cleared her throat. “That was Vinnie.”

Lisa Williams leveled the lovely brown gaze that made small boys fight to crawl onto her lap and men scramble to pull out her chair. Ebony-haired, porcelain-skinned and five foot three in her highest Bruno Magli heels, she drew protective males with her petite femininity faster than Jane could yodel up Tarzan.

Kara, standing five foot nine inches sans heels, had always felt like an Amazon in comparison—especially in grade school, when she’d also towered above the boys. Small as her best friend was, when it came to Lisa and the opposite sex, Kara knew exactly who wore the loincloth.

She’d be lucky to stave off the impending lecture. “Just hold your comments until I can explain, Lisa.”

“Tell me you didn’t promise that man a date with the Mystery Woman and I’ll be quiet.”

“Okay. I didn’t promise that man a date wi—”

“Damn it, Kara, would you mind explaining why we’ve been more secretive than 007 all these months if you don’t mind blowing your cover? Are you crazy?”

Sighing, Kara glanced at the unpaid vendor invoices stacked in order of squeakiest wheel. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.”

Lisa’s indignant glare became a worried frown. “You look exhausted. Something’s happened you’re not telling me. I sensed it even before Vinnie’s call. Big trouble?”

Six feet four of it, crowding her dreams last night with hurtful memories and erotic images.

Kara resisted the urge to mention her bizarre reunion with Travis. Lisa had argued too long and fiercely nine years ago on his behalf. Better to let sleeping no-good insensitive dogs lie.

“Gram phoned a little earlier,” Kara said instead. “Carol picked up from out by the register. By the time she turned the call over to me, she had Gram in a tizzy. I got a sound scolding on my failure to uphold the Taylor tradition of providing excellent customer service and employee working conditions.”

“And in English that would mean...?”

“I had to let Jennifer go yesterday.”

The part-time saleswoman had covered for Carol during her lunch hour, doctor’s appointments and a slew of increasingly creative emergencies.

“Oh, hon, I’m sorry. I know how much help Jennifer was. How’d she take it?”

“Much better than Carol,” Kara admitted wryly.

“O-o-oh, I hate to see that lazy woman taking advantage of you.” Lisa fingered the hammered gold choker above her russet silk dress as if throttling were on her mind. She cast a hostile glance at the closed office door. “I wish you could’ve fired her instead of Jennifer.”

That made two of them.

But the middle-aged saleswoman had once been best friends with her mother, and Gram treasured and took comfort from the tenuous connection. Until that changed, Kara would put up with Carol’s sour disposition.

“Believe me,” Kara assured her loyal friend, “I’ll hire more sales staff the minute I can divert profits from Mystery Woman orders into the store. Which, by the way, is the reason I agreed to set Vinnie up on a blind date. He’s going to print the next catalogs at cost if I come through for him. I’ll save as much as four thousand dollars!”

“Why won’t you let me give you—”

“No. It’s bad enough I’m letting you do the photography free of charge. I won’t accept your money.”

“Fine. Then accept a loan.”

“Another debt hanging over my head? Thanks, but no thanks.” Kara pointedly checked her wristwatch. “You’re going to be late to the country club if you don’t leave soon. Isn’t your mother chairing the fashion show luncheon this year?”

Irritation pinched Lisa’s lovely features. She snatched her purse from the floor and rose. “You know she is. Just like you know she’ll have a cow if I walk in late.”

She moved rigidly to the door, then paused dramatically, hand on the knob. “We’re not finished, Kara. I’ll stop by after the luncheon and you can tell me which proofs you want made into transparencies. And then maybe we’ll discuss how the businesswoman Vinnie has talked to dozens of times and the Mystery Woman model he takes to dinner, are going to keep him from learning they’re the same person!”

Tossing her dark chin-length bob, she flung open the door—and yelped.

Kara followed Lisa’s gaze to the man standing with his knuckles raised as if to knock. Dark blond hair, impeccably tailored suit, wire-rim glasses that enhanced his Wall Street aura and polished good looks. He stared down with the dazed expression Kara had witnessed on masculine faces since the third grade.

No surprise, there.

The amazing thing was that Lisa stared up with an equally bemused look.

“Can I help you, sir?” Kara asked, drawing his startled gaze.

He lowered his hand, his blue eyes sharpening. “Ah, good. I wasn’t completely sure you were the right Kara Taylor. May I speak with you, please?”

Probably a bill collector. “I’m very busy.”

In a swift graceful movement, he placed both hands on Lisa’s shoulders and reversed their positions. Oblivious to her outraged sputters, he smiled at Kara and stretched out a hand.

“Ross Hadley, producer, KLUV-TV. We really need to talk.”

WATCHING PINE TREES flash by outside the Mercedes, Kara wondered if throwing up in Ross’s direction would make him head back to Houston.

Not likely. Since meeting him four days ago, he’d displayed the annoying persistence of a Gulf Coast mosquito. If buzzing outlandish promises in her ears and sucking up her every objection hadn’t fazed his conscience, a little vomit wouldn’t make him squeamish. He was a man with a mission. And he’d finally convinced her that the ultimate benefits of pleading his cause were worth the risk of opening old wounds.

Of course, that had been yesterday. This morning she knew better.

Nothing was worth the nauseating tension growing stronger the closer they got to Lake Kimberly. Not the means to expand Mystery Woman, Inc.’s geographical reach and order-processing systems. Not the giddy thought of paying her most delinquent bills. Not the assurance that Gram could live out her life in the house she’d occupied for over fifty years...

Well, rats.

Kara was halfway into a deep calming breath when the scents of leather, Polo cologne and leftover Egg McMuffin hit her stomach. She concentrated grimly on the jazz music drifting from the radio until her queasiness eased.

Her problem, unfortunately, remained. No matter how much Gram cherished Taylor House, her stately home in The Heights, given a choice between declaring bankruptcy, or selling the valuable real estate to pay off business debts, she would choose the latter. Family honor was at stake.

Gram would live under the Pierce elevated bridge before tainting the Taylor name.

Like it or not, Kara’s duty was clear. She would follow through on the original plan. Gaining an infusion of much-needed capital was worth losing her pride... and even her breakfast. A distinct possibility, given the challenge ahead.

Ross had invited Travis by phone to tape a pilot talk show with Kara. Her ex-husband had turned the first offer down flat. Also the second and third. Since he hung up now at the mere sound of Ross’s voice, the TV producer thought a personal endorsement from Kara might make a difference.

He seemed to think that because Travis had never remarried, she’d retained a position of influence in his life. Ha! As if she’d ever been able to change Travis’s mind.

A memory swooped out of hiding to mock her denial. Travis, fending off her inexperienced kisses, resisting her timid touches, succumbing at last to her tearful pleas in a dark and musty boat shed. Building her passion quickly, loving her slowly, claiming her heart and soul forever—

“You okay?” Ross asked, wrenching her into the present.

She blinked into focus. “Yes.” A hideous suspicion made her add, “Why do you ask?”

“You moaned.”

Through the blood rush of humiliation muffling her hearing, a saxophone wailed. “Sorry. Guess I’m not a big fan of Kenny G.”

“Ahh. You should’ve said something earlier.”

Sagging in relief, she watched him reach for the radio dial. The action strained his V-necked navy sweater across impressive shoulders, tightened his khaki slacks against muscular thighs. Tasseled loafers completed his interpretation of casual wear for their seventy-mile trip.

He settled on a classic rock station and leaned back, a GQ ad in the flesh. Good-looking, polished and successful. Eminently suitable.

For a moment, she tried to imagine herself with him in a musty boat shed.

“So, do I pass muster?” he asked, eyes on the road, his tone confident and slightly amused.

The truth disappointed her more than it would him. “You don’t really want or need my approval. You already know you’re handsome. And you don’t care what I think of your character, or else you would’ve backed off the first time I turned down your offer.”

He cast her a wry look. “Ouch. You never pull any punches, do you?”

“Only around my grandmother,” she admitted. “At least, I try to. I slip up every now and then. Last week at the Vanessa Allen Show, for example.”

“I thought your grandmother was the show’s biggest fan.”

“She is.”

“Wasn’t she proud of how you acquitted yourself on national TV?”

Predictably, Gram had bragged about Kara in public and lectured her on decorum in private. “What entertains Gram on television, and how she expects her granddaughter to behave in life are worlds apart. And true ladies ‘never display their tempers or speak rudely to others.”’

“Wow. What century is she living in?”

His tone was a little too condescending for Kara’s liking. “Good manners never go out of style. At least, not in the South.”

He winced. “Ouch again. How long will I have to live here before you guys stop acting as if I’m a carpetbagger?”

She pretended to consider. “As soon as you start saying ‘y’all’ instead of ‘you guys’ without having to stop and think about it.”

“I guess that means ‘Yo!’ won’t cut it either, huh?”

Relenting, she smiled and shook her head.

“Did your grandmother really give you a hard time after the show?”

“It could’ve been much worse. Fortunately, her seeing Travis again took some of the heat off me.”

“No love lost there, I’m sure.”

“You’re wrong. Gram adored Travis, and vice versa. From the time we separated until the divorce, she tried to talk me into returning to Lake Kimberly like a dutiful wife should. I swear she almost moved there herself so Travis would be well taken care of.”

Ross chuckled, but Kara remembered those dark days too vividly to be amused. She’d...grieved was the only word to describe her anguish while waiting for him to make the first move that never came.

Eventually Gram and Lisa had ganged up, saying that if Kara wouldn’t break down and talk to Travis, they would contact him and act as mediators. She’d lost it. Promised to leave Houston and never return if they so much as picked up the phone. It was the first—and last—time she’d ever screamed at either of them.

Shaken and pale, they’d agreed to respect her wishes.

“I’ve been divorced two years,” Ross said quietly. “We weren’t right for each other, but I still feel as if I flunked some major test to pass Life.”

The moment of pained silence was oddly companionable.

When Kara dragged herself out of the doldrums, she felt a tenuous bond with the smooth producer. “You know, even if Travis agrees to do the pilot, I’ll still have a battle on my hands with Gram. Unless...”

“I’m listening.”

But would he understand? “She’s been moping around the house too much lately. I’m so busy, it’s hard for me to pinpoint the problem. Going to the Vanessa Allen Show was the first time I’ve seen her that excited in years. I think if she could feel involved somehow in the development stages of this pilot show, she wouldn’t object so much to her granddaughter being a co-host.”

“Hmm. I usually don’t like too many fingers in the creative pie, but I’ll give it some thought I’d hate for you to have the additional stress of worrying about your grandmother. You’ll have enough on your mind.”

Oh, great. “Like how to keep from making a fool of myself?”

“Or me. I’ve got a lot riding on this show. Maybe my career.”

“Thanks, Ross. You don’t know how much better that makes me feel.” She made a show of rubbing her temples. “Got any aspirin?”

“Not to worry. I’ll coach you every step of the way. I won’t let you get egg on your face, I promise.”

Something in his twinkling gaze fixed carefully straight ahead made her flip down the visor mirror. A fleck of egg white and a few crumbs of Egg McMuffin clung to her chin.

“I’m doomed,” she muttered, reaching for her purse and cosmetics. “Guess I should mention the shaving nick under your nose, huh?”

As she wiped her chin and applied fresh lipstick, her peripheral vision caught him tilting the rearview mirror to check his unblemished image. Raising her visor, she met his irritated glance and grinned.

He snorted and turned back to the road. Pushed up his glásses and draped a wrist over the steering wheel. Shook his head and slowly smiled. “Your poor grandmother has a shock in store when she discovers the real you.”

Kara sobered. “Tell me about it. I pray she’ll forgive me.”

“For what? Being yourself? No offense, but it’s time she got with the program. It’s the new millennium. True ladies will get mowed down by real women who speak up for themselves. When you spar with Travis in the pilot, I want you to take off your gloves and use your fingernails if that’s what it takes to make your point. The audience will love it. And the station will fund at least eight shows for sure.”

She had to laugh. “You really are incorrigible.”

“So I’ve been told. Good thing I’m too cute to stay mad at”

Amazingly, she believed him. Remembering Lisa’s befuddled reaction to meeting Ross, Kara experienced a twinge of concern.

Watch out, girlfriend This one is dangerous.

Not only cute, but also knowledgeable about still photography, if the high-dollar camera in the back seat was any indication. Together with video camcorder, tape recorder and remote microphone, the equipment prepared him for anything, he’d explained when Kara had commented earlier.

He leaned forward now and squinted through the windshield. “We’re looking for the Lake Kimberly exit, right?”

Her stomach took a nosedive. She followed his gaze to the upcoming 1-45 sign. “Our exit is about twenty miles ahead,” she managed.

And to think she’d almost conquered her nausea.

Ross had gotten a friend to call the fishing camp that morning. Travis would supposedly be on the premises all day, and prospective guests could “stop by and give the place a look-see” any time. If she was lucky, the siren call of the lake had lured him out onto the water. He’d certainly heeded the call often enough during their marriage.

Glancing casually at Kara, Ross did a double take. “Hey, none of that, now. Don’t wimp out on me.”

She swallowed a hysterical laugh. “Now why would I wimp out? Just because my divorce was—” devastating “—not exactly amicable, and Travis already made it clear he thinks your plan is crazy doesn’t mean he won’t listen quietly to what I have to say and not kick me off the premises.”

Ross reached over and patted her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there with you.”

Travis will chew you up and spit you out for catfish bait. “I appreciate your chivalry, but I’d like to have a few minutes alone with him at first. I owe him that much, since he’s not expecting us.”

“Good thinking. You can smooth the way.”

Kara simply nodded. Let the man have his illusions a bit longer.

Within a mile of leaving the interstate highway, she was hard pressed to give Ross accurate directions. The area had grown dramatically in the past nine years. Familiar landmarks had been camouflaged or replaced by encroaching development.

That Texaco station was new. As well as that laundromat, convenience store and Fisherman’s Cafe. Good heavens, Larry’s Bait Shop was now a Dunkin’ Donuts! How could that be? The ramshackle shop had been a local institution.

Her outrage retreated beneath an onslaught of guilt. Larry Royce would be around eighty years old now—if he was still alive. To her shame, she didn’t know. When she’d left Lake Kimberly she’d severed all ties, including her link to Nancy, the gruff old fisherman’s daughter. She’d been a good friend when Kara had needed one most.

Remorse joined the noose of emotion tightening slowly around her throat.

Closer to the lake, the towering pines she remembered so well littered the winding blacktop road with rusty needles and crushed cones. The handful of vacation homes she’d passed daily on her way to and from Houston still remained. What had once seemed like palaces were actually modest structures, she realized now.

Yet their aged condition and small size weren’t what shocked Kara. No, it was the neighboring houses that blew her away.

She gaped at the new fences, many constructed of elaborate wrought iron or imposing brick, that guarded private lakefront showplaces shimmering through the trees. Travis had always said Houston’s well-to-do would discover Lake Kimberly one day.

How he must loathe the modern castles that, rather than blending naturally into their setting, shouted visually for attention.

“Slow down,” she croaked to Ross. “We should be getting close to the turnoff soon.”

“You sure? This doesn’t look like ‘a godforsaken frontier settlement’ to me.”

Heat stung her cheeks. Her favorite description of the area sounded shrewish within sight of veritable mansions.

“Things have changed along the access road,” she admitted. “Wait’ll we get to the fishing camp itself.”

Intense curiosity wove through her dread. What changes would she find? There were bound to be a lot after so many years, even if Travis had kept his vow to impact the lake’s ecosystem as little as possible.

“There!” She nodded toward a small sign mounted above a battered blue mailbox.

Ross drove close and shifted into park, leaving the engine idling.

The words Bass Busters Fishing Camp topped a directional arrow pointing to a sagging aluminum gate. On the other side, two gravel ruts disappeared into woods wilder and thicker than any they’d passed. It was hard to imagine a person on foot getting through unscathed, much less a luxury automobile.

Turning off the radio, Ross looked from the gate to Kara. “You’re kidding.”

“I tried to tell you. Lord knows how clients find Travis.” If, in fact, he had any clients left for his fishing guide service, the stubborn fool. “He never did listen to me about the importance of advertising and first impressions.”

Frowning, she studied the faded sign, the drooping barbed wire fence, the closed gate and wilderness beyond.

“Well, he listened to somebody,” Ross said thoughtfully. “His answering machine gives a web site address for Bass Busters Fishing Camp. I checked it out.”

Kara whipped her head around.

“He’s booked through next July as a guide. The man’s almost a legend, Kara. You could’ve at least told me.”

She closed her mouth. “Legend?”

He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a bit of shirt, his sea-blue eyes both vaguer and sharper than before. “Boy, when you divorce someone, you really move on, don’t you? Your ex-husband has won every major bass-fishing tournament in Texas. He caught the record largemouth bass in the state two years ago. His list of published magazine articles is damned impressive.”

“Magazine articles?”

Ross slipped on his glasses and cocked his head. “We’ll have to work on that echo before the pilot, Kara. But yes, when it comes to bass fishing in Texas, Travis Malloy is a top player.”

The emotion choking her now was dangerously close to pride. She flung open her door and slid out.

“I’ll open the gate,” she said, slamming the door on his astonished expression.

Kara trudged to the disreputable hunk of metal, shoved the bolt aside, then pushed the sagging gate forward. By the time she’d plowed a long enough furrow to allow room for the Mercedes to pass through, she’d regained a safe measure of irritation.

So Travis had done well for himself. Why shouldn’t he have earned a reputation as a great fishing guide? The man had been obsessed with the slimy creatures, after all.

If he’d put half as much effort into understanding her as he had into deciphering bass feeding patterns, she wouldn’t have fled the fishing camp crying so hard she could barely see to drive away.

The return drive now would be different, Kara promised herself, wrestling the gate shut and ramming the bolt home. She wasn’t a defenseless broken-hearted girl anymore, but a mature capable woman. She could handle whatever lay ahead, and then some.

Holding tightly to that thought, she walked to the car and slipped inside. She continued holding tightly throughout the winding drive through dense forest. As the Mercedes broke into the five-acre clearing Travis had christened Bass Busters Fishing Camp, she clutched her righteous courage even tighter—a puny shield against the merciless pounding of her heart.

It hadn’t changed at all!

There were the five one-room log cabins scattered to the left of the clapboard and fieldstone house. There was the long pier capped by a rusting tin boat shed, and the cement launch ramp lapped by gentle shoreline waves.

And there—oh rats—there, glittering a shade deeper than the cloudless sky, extending as far as the eye could see across the horizon, was a magnificent faceted sapphire reflecting the October sunshine.

Lake Kimberly, her beautiful enemy.

Kara schooled her features into a mask of indif ference, hoping her turtleneck would hide her frantic pulse. If it killed her, she wouldn’t reveal the power of either this place—or its owner—to hurt her again.


CHAPTER FOUR

TRAVIS UNLOCKED the boat-shed door, slipped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine. Built straddling the end of a fiftyfoot pier, the structure sheltered eight boat slips—four on each side of the “dock”—and a large workbench and tool cabinet against the far wall.

The single large window might’ve provided adequate light minus the layer of grunge coating the lakeside glass. One more chore he never got around to starting. Putting out fires claimed most of his time.

Turning his Evinrude cap backward, he headed for the latest sorry piece of junk to go up in flames: a nine-horsepower outboard motor on one of his four aluminum skiffs. At the last slip on his left, he stepped down from the dock into the boat.

The day before, a lawyer and his ten-year-old son had stalled out in this skiff at about noon. When Travis had returned at three from fishing the lake’s northern points, he’d had an uneasy feeling that the two were in trouble. At four, he’d set out in search of the pair and found them at six—hungry and panicked—far down the isolated southern shore.

That was one customer who wouldn’t help the camp’s reputation any. The fact he was a lawyer really helped. Sheesh. All Travis needed was a screwy lawsuit to make his life complete.

Shaking his head in disgust, he set the throttle on neutral, pumped the primer and yanked the starter cord. Water bubbled and boiled. The engine smoked, sputtered and spit.

And Travis spewed out a stream of curses.

Only last spring, he’d overhauled each skiff’s ancient outboard, plus his tournament Skeeter’s 150-horsepower Yamaha. Yet all five motors had malfunctioned periodically throughout the busy summer. This current mechanical failure sounded like a compression problem.

Perfect. More lost rental income. More time spent wielding tools instead of a fishing rod.

He cut the engine, resentment spreading through him like the oily foam above the stilled propeller.

Bass Busters Fishing Camp was supposed to have freed him to do what he loved most, not trap him into a life of indentured servitude. He hadn’t spent years studying bass behavior and how it related to a lake’s structure and cover only to piddle away the prime of his life on tedious greasemonkey jobs.

Damn, but he was tired of jerking around with repairs! Tired of exhaust fumes, creosote and latent mildew filling his lungs. Tired of this ramshackle tin-roofed boat shed blocking wide Texas skies and cool lake breezes.

Lately if he wasn’t in here sweating, he was outside on the campgrounds sweating even more. Hell, he’d had to withdraw from the Sam Rayburn tournament last month when Cabin Three’s septic tank backed up. Talk about stinky luck!

Snorting a laugh, Travis wiped his brow with the hem of his cropped-sleeved sweatshirt. All his grand plans for this place had wound up in the toilet. Oh, he’d developed a customer base for the camp, all right. But not the substructure to service it. Traveling to tournaments and guiding clients left little time to do more than crisis management.

Kara had predicted as much nine years ago....

Travis lowered his sweatshirt.

Her again. The real reason for his foul mood and discontent. He’d slept lousy since seeing Kara last week, and not at all since helping take inventory at Malloy Sporting Goods store the night before.

Enlisting Nancy for the chore as well, he’d let the fishing camp take care of itself. Cameron had left his ad agency clients in Austin to join them. Seth had trusted his veterinary practice in Wagner to an assistant and driven in. And Jake, who worked full-time with their dad in the store, had tormented them all with bad jokes and ceaseless clowning. The usual routine.

Taking inventory had become a sacred annual tradition. The one guaranteed night of the year all the Malloy men were under one roof.

Bending to rummage in the toolbox at his feet, Travis admitted he’d been a tad touchy to begin with. Then the inevitable happened. Despite threats of bodily harm, Jake had described Kara and Travis’s TV debut to Cameron, who’d squealed to Seth, who’d snitched to Dad, who’d blabbed to Nancy.

His brothers, to a man, had been smitten with Kara and opposed to the divorce. They would’ve interfered at the separation stage if Travis hadn’t said a line had been drawn, and it was up to her to step over to his side. He’d vowed, dead serious, never to forgive the Malloy who approached Kara. Even Jake had believed him.

But last night, the brothers had decided fate had given Travis a second chance to correct his bonehead mistake.

Only his father, who’d never remarried in the twenty years since Kathryn Malloy’s death, had advised Travis to keep his distance from Kara and leave the past buried. Divorce was almost like having a spouse die, after all.

Frowning, he shook off the thought, lifted a wrench from his toolbox and turned to the problem at hand.

Minutes later he cocked his head as car doors slammed. The dentists booked for Cabin Two? Whoever was here, Nancy would have to show them around. In one smooth movement, Travis hoisted the detached motor from the boat onto the dock.

Uh-oh.

Ver-ry gingerly, he clambered up himself, then knuckled the shooting pain in his lower back. Defending his I-Am-Sibling-King title in the store’s home gym section had taken its toll. A small price to pay for keeping his brothers humble.

The sound of footsteps killed his smirk. Someone was heading up the wood-plank pier. Fast. He turned, his senses on high alert. The door twenty feet away burst open.

Nancy Royce jogged inside, dressed in jeans and a Tweety Bird T-shirt, her dark ponytail swaying. Despite looking more like a college coed than a woman twelve years his senior, she commanded his full respect and attention. Hiring her after Larry died had been the smartest business move he’d ever made.

“You have visitors,” she announced as she neared, her gaze sweeping his thong sandals, cutoff jeans and cropped sweatshirt critically.

She stopped close enough for him to read anxious excitement in her gray eyes. “I can try and stall them while you go shower and change—and scrape that stubble off your face. Put on the cologne I gave you for Christmas.”

His skin prickled in warning. A second pair of feet now walked the pier.

“Oh, Lord, she didn’t wait,” Nancy blurted, confirming his premonition. “Brace yourself, Travis. Kara wants to talk to you.”

His pulse leaped first, his gaze second, landing on the silhouette framed in the doorway.

Staring at the maturation of youthful promise walking toward him, Travis found himself searching for something—anything—that didn’t please him.

No luck in her form-fitting black pants and turtleneck. His gaze lifted desperately. She’d twisted up and clipped her hair with a tortoiseshell gizmo, the style flattering her high cheekbones, wide-set eyes and long aristocratic nose.

He liked her hair better down.

She’d applied dramatic cherry-red lipstick to her kiss-me mouth, the color emphasizing her pale smooth complexion and small stubborn chin.

He liked her lips better naked.

She’d lost the air of demure innocence he’d first admired and then protected at a rowdy fraternity party. This older Kara appeared worldly and confident. In charge of herself and her surroundings. Able to handle a tipsy football player or any other man who dared try to intimidate her or stand in her way.

He liked her better helpless and grateful.

A sudden image of Kara surrounded by macho jerks slapped his conscience.

Okay, not helpless. But the new assertiveness he’d noticed last week wasn’t...ladylike. Yeah, that’s what had been bugging him. The old Kara never would’ve “dissed her man” in private, much less on national television.

Earth to Malloy, an inner voice jeered. You’re not her man anymore.

Nancy smiled a welcome as Kara stopped.

Her spicy floral perfume wafted onward—a fragrance that had lingered longest in the deep folds of her abandoned robe. He’d sniffed the silk like it was glue until he’d finally had to burn the thing to break his sick addiction.

Kara reached out and squeezed Nancy’s forearm briefly. “I’m glad to see your head’s still intact. Thanks for braving the lion in his den.”

Nancy chuckled. “No problem.”

Travis felt oafish, dirty and snarling mean. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

Kara met his gaze, her expression cooling rapidly.

Once upon a time those uptilted eyes, the impenetrable green of a quiet pond, had been the proverbial window to her soul. Now Travis was forced to guess her thoughts. Another change he didn’t like.

“Hello, Travis. Could I speak to you a minute?”

He’d waited twelve friggin’ months after she’d left him to hear that question. And then it had been to announce she wanted a divorce.“I’m kinda busy right now. Why don’t you check back with me in, say, another eight years or so?”

“Tra-vis,” Nancy admonished.

“Hey, I’m not the one out of line here, Nancy. She should’ve called first and made an appointment. Even this ‘godforsaken frontier settlement’ has a phone.” From the heightened color in Kara’s cheeks, his dart had hit bull’s-eye.

Funny, how little satisfaction he felt.

Unable to meet either woman’s gaze, he leaned down, grasped the outboard motor and swung it up to his chest. Sharp pain stabbed his lower back. Hissing in a breath, he turned and headed grimly for the workbench.

“Want me to bring you more Ben-Gay?” Nancy asked, her tone deceptively sweet.

He stiffened and paused, then continued forward without answering.

Kara picked up the dropped ball. “Why does he need Ben-Gay?”

“He and his brothers helped John with inventory last night.”

“Ahhh.” Obviously she remembered the annual competition. “Who won?”

Travis jerked the motor upright between clamps and began tightening the vise.

“That depends entirely on who you ask. Each brother says he did. But my money’s on Jake.”

The motor’s casing cracked ominously. Travis loosened the clamps a fraction.

“You’re probably right,” Kara murmured. “I couldn’t help noticing how much he’s filled out since I last saw him. He’s as big as Travis now. And of course, he is six years younger.”

“True.”

Travis whirled around and stalked forward, ready to defend his title.

Feminine laughter, the indulgent kind that made a man feel eight years old, penetrated his outrage. Heat burned slowly up his neck.

Nancy pat-patted his arm. “I was only teasing, sweetie. But now that the ice is broken, I’ll just leave you two alone.” She headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Mr. Hadley and I will be in the office if you need us.”

Hadley? The name clicked as she ducked outside. Travis turned to Kara and folded his arms.

Her gaze skittered across his chest. “The place hasn’t changed a bit since I left,” she murmured.

His ego flinched. He watched her turn in a slow lazy circle, scanning the shed’s interior as if absorbing every detail.

She was remembering his promise to build a larger boat shed in “about three years, four years tops.” She was remembering his similar promise to build new guest cabins to replace the ones outside. She was remembering his big talk of building a 150-foot fishing pier next to the boat ramp.

Her lashes suddenly fluttered, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, her hand lifted to her throat. Following her transfixed stare to his fifteen-year-old Skeeter bass rig, he stopped breathing.

She was remembering the first time they’d made love.

His body stirred. He catapulted back to the night she’d appeared in his boat shed, chaste but eager, sweetly passionate, obliterating his noble plan to court her slowly, as a true lady deserved. God help him, he’d taken her virginity atop a cushioned bait well, then continued her education during the following weeks. They’d been crazy in love—or so he’d thought. One month after meeting her, he’d made her his wife.

One year after that, he’d followed his nose to a charred rack of lamb, shriveled green beans, crusty baked potatoes and lopsided chocolate cake. He’d eyed the tablecloth, wilted flowers, and short stubs of tall tapered candles. He’d known she was gone, and he’d almost thrown up.

Travis yanked his thoughts into the present. “I’ve got work to do, Kara. What’s on your mind?”

Her startled glance and deepening blush confirmed she hadn’t been admiring the boat’s sleek lines. Damn, why couldn’t she have stayed in his past?

He lowered his brows. “If you drove out here with Hadley to talk about some cockamamie TV talk show, you wasted your time. I already told him I wouldn’t do it.”

“I’m—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I’m aware of that. But you’ve got to admit that the money he’s offering is quite generous.”

“I don’t need his money,” Travis lied.

“Frankly, Travis, I do. Or rather, Taylor Fine Foundations does. The store is in trouble.”

Store? As in singular? He hid his shock behind a veneer of sarcasm. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Her eyes frosted. “You never did.”

“That’s bull and you know it! But if you’re saying I cared more about Bass Busters Fishing Camp...damn right I did. This place was my livelihood, our future children’s security.”

The children they’d both wanted and specified. A brown-eyed boy with dark hair for her. A green-eyed girl with fair hair for him. So clichéd it was laughable. Only he didn’t feel like laughing.

For a hideous horrifying instant, his nose stung.

Her expression thawed. “And Taylor Fine Foundations was my legacy,” she said quietly. “Something of value I could pass on to our children.”

Welcoming the insult to his pride, he braced his hands on his hips. “I could sell this property tomorrow for a half-million dollars, easy. That’s right,” he addressed the surprise in her eyes with vindicated satisfaction. “You should’ve trusted me that lakefront real estate value would go through the roof one day.”

“I never doubted you, Travis.”

Ignoring that whopper, he slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Yep, the fish you threw back could’ve made you rich. If only you’d known.”

Not that he would ever sell a square inch of his land while he drew breath.

But she didn’t know that.

A delicate brow arched. “You’d never sell this land. I’d have to wait until your flaming funeral pyre floated off into the sunset before I saw a penny.”

As kids, he and his brothers had made a secret blood vow to give each other proper Viking funerals when they croaked. “How’d you...?”

She leveled a “get real” look.

“Jake,” he muttered darkly.

“Besides—” she folded her arms beneath her breasts “—I didn’t marry or divorce you for money. Half this property was legally mine. Don’t think my lawyer didn’t advise me to take it, either. Or that I wouldn’t have won if you’d fought me on it.”




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