Sweet Harmony. Felicia Mason

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