Talk To Me

“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.