TAME AN OLDER MAN

by Kara Lennox

She gently but firmly grasped his hand and removed it from her person. "Don't touch me again, or I'll make you look like a female impersonator." This was dreadful. She wouldn't feel a bit guilty about taking five hundred dollars from Wyatt. At least at Sunrise her clients didn't grope her.

  "Oh, now, Vanessa—"

  "Phoebe. Ms. Lane

  , to you."

  "You're obviously much too tense. What you need is a good massage." As if he had a perfect right to, he placed his hands on her breasts and started squeezing.

  Phoebe reacted with pure instinct. She slapped him. He let go, but immediately came out of his chair, pure rage in his eyes. He pushed her up against the wall of his dressing room and pinned her there. "You audacious, two-bit, has-been actress," he hissed in her face. "You are gonna be real sorry you did that."

  Phoebe was only a little scared. She'd been through similar scenarios before. The door to the dressing room was open, and if she screamed really loud someone would come running. But she preferred to deal with this her own way rather than causing trouble on the set of Wyatt's show. She could knee Taylor in the groin or—

  All at once he let her go. Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief—until she realized Wyatt had Taylor by the scruff of the neck and was shaking him the way a terrier would a rat.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing!" Wyatt bellowed. Taylor swung his arms ineffectually and squealed for Wyatt to let him go. Wyatt wound up like he was going to punch Taylor in the face, but Phoebe grabbed his arm to prevent it.

  "No, Wyatt! You'll get sued!"

  "Damn right he will!" Taylor agreed, no doubt sensing Phoebe wouldn't allow any further violence.

  "For defending my employee against sexual assault?" Wyatt said, gradually loosening his hold on Taylor. "I don't think so. That's not the kind of publicity you want."

  Taylor straightened his clothes, never taking his eyes off Wyatt. After backing a safe distance away, he looked back at Phoebe. "Let's just finish the makeup. I'm on in fifteen minutes."

  "No, you're not," Wyatt said, picking up the phone. He pushed a button and spoke into the receiver. "I need Security in the dressing room area."

  "I'm not going on?" Taylor asked.

  "No. I don't give free publicity to sexual predators."

  "Give me a break, man. I wasn't doing anything she didn't invite me to do."

  The excuse sickened Phoebe. How many times had she heard some guy swear she was "coming on to" him? Still, she didn't want Wyatt to get sued over this.

  "It's okay, Wyatt," she said quietly. "I appreciate your concern, but it's not that big a deal. Taylor just got a little carried away."

  Wyatt flashed her a look that was part anger, part sympathy. "I saw what was happening," he said, just as quietly.

  Two security guards appeared at the door. Wyatt motioned them inside. "Escort Mr. Shad and his entourage to their limousine."

  "I'll sue you, man!" Taylor said. "We have a contract."

  Wyatt just nodded to the guards. In moments each had one of Taylor's arms and they were dragging him out the dressing room door.

  "You didn't have to do that," Phoebe said, when she and Wyatt were alone. "I had it under control."

  "That's not what it looked like to me."

  "I was just trying to decide whether to scream or knee him in the groin." But her trembling gave her away. Taylor Shad had scared her worse than she'd realized.

  "Phoebe."

  Her name on his lips sounded like a caress. He gently took her arm and led her and her shaky knees to the chair Taylor had just vacated. Without another word, he handed her a tissue. That was when she realized she was crying.

  "Do you want to press charges against him?" Wyatt asked. "Just say the word, and I'll call the cops."

  "Heavens, no." Phoebe blotted carefully at her tears, trying not to smear her own makeup. "But if he sues you, I'll testify."

  "He won't sue me. The contract never guaranteed he'd actually get on the air."

  "And how are you going to fill up the other half of the show?" She turned toward the TV mounted in a corner of the room, where even now one of the hosts was promising an appearance by a hot young star.

  "Contingency plan. But I'd better go put it in motion. You sure you're okay?"

  Phoebe smiled and nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude toward Wyatt. He hadn't once insinuated she was to blame for the incident. A lot of people assumed that blond hair and a C cup were an automatic invitation.

  After he'd gone, she drank some water and repaired her makeup. Feeling more herself, she wandered out to the set to watch, finding a stool well out of the way to perch on.

  During the commercial break Wyatt was all over the studio, briefing his hosts on the change of plans, ordering someone to move a light, explaining to the audience that they wouldn't be seeing Taylor Shad, after all. With calm efficiency he took what could have been a monumental disaster and turned it into a minor annoyance. Phoebe caught herself thinking that if Wyatt had been producing "Skin Deep," the show might have fared much better.

  The second half of the show went on as if they'd planned it that way all along. The hosts brought out a board game that was sweeping college campuses, inviting a couple of preselected audience members to participate. The results were hilarious.

  Wyatt came and stood next to her. "You okay?" he asked, his voice full of concern.

  "I'm fine."

  "I'm really sorry it happened."

  "It's not your fault. How could you have known Taylor would assault me?"

  "What do you think happened to my regular makeup artist?"

  "Oh."

  "I should have sent someone in there with you. Or, at least, warned you."

  "You had a few other things on your mind."

  "No, that's not it. I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd quit, too."

  Phoebe had to admit one thing: Wyatt was refreshingly honest.

  "Forget about it, okay? It's not the first time someone made an unwanted pass at me, and it probably won't be the last."

  But she knew the pass wouldn't come from Wyatt. Ever since he'd rescued her from Taylor, he'd taken great pains to behave with exaggerated professionalism. In fact, he acted as if he thought she might shatter.

  Too bad, she caught herself thinking. If Wyatt ever tried to kiss her, it wouldn't once occur to her to knee him in the groin.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  The commercial break ended, and as the last segment of the show aired, Wyatt unobtrusively studied Phoebe, wondering what all she'd been through. By her own admission, this wasn't the first time someone had tried to force her into something. She tried to pretend it was no big deal, but he'd seen the raw fear in her eyes when Taylor had had her pinned against the wall. He'd seen the relief when he'd pulled Taylor off her. And he'd seen the sadness just now.

  She'd been through hell.

  Now all Wyatt could think about was making sure nothing bad ever touched her again. He felt responsible for this morning's disaster. He owed her.

  The show ended, and everyone agreed they'd pulled it off. His hosts had come up with a plausible excuse for Taylor Shad's absence, and the game had worked out better than expected. But instead of taking care of the million details in preparation for tomorrow's show, Wyatt followed Phoebe into the dressing room where she'd gone to gather up her things.

  "So, what did you think?" he asked.

  "I think you're doing a great job."

  Her praise pleased him all out of proportion. "Would you like to come back?"

  Her hands stilled. "You mean, to do makeup?"

  "My regular person quit. I need to hire someone, and you obviously know your stuff." He could get used to being around her, he decided. "I wouldn't blame you if you weren't interested, after what happened—"

  "Would you please forget about that? I don't want you thinking of me as some kind of victim, or a fragile little thing that needs protecting."

  Hell, that's exactl
y how he was thinking of her. "I won't mention it again." But he wouldn't forget it.

  "Good." She smiled. "I'm a lot tougher than I look. Don't forget, I swam with the Hollywood sharks. Taylor Shad was just a minnow."

  "What about the job?"

  She hesitated. "What are the hours, and what does it pay?"

  He told her. She dropped a makeup brush. "No kidding?"

  He suspected it was more than she made at the spa.

  "What about weekends?" she asked.

  "No weekends."

  "That'd be perfect," she murmured. Then, louder, she said, "No, I really don't think—" She stopped. "What am I saying? Of course, I'll take it."

  Wyatt's relief was palpable. "I assume you'll need to give notice at the spa. I'm sure I can find a substitute—"

  "I can start tomorrow. My boss at Sunrise fired me this morning."

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Because I was coming here. Because I refused to let her push me around."

  "I got you fired?" It just got worse and worse. His debt to her kept growing.

  "No, you gave me a great new job. Where do I sign up?"

  Wyatt took her to Personnel, where she got some forms to fill out. He also got a five-hundred dollar check cut for that morning's work. Then suddenly, at eleven-fifteen, she looked at her watch and got a panicky expression in her eyes.

  "Oh, my gosh, I have to go," she said breathlessly. She grabbed her case and her purse, then pulled the visitor badge off her collar and handed it to him.

  "You have another job or something?" he asked, keeping pace with her, as she headed for the station's front doors.

  "Or something. What time tomorrow?"

  "We'll talk about it later."

  Then she peeled out of the studio as if her pants were on fire. Wyatt sat down in the nearest chair, feeling like he'd been run over by a bulldozer. Had he just hired Phoebe Lane

  to be on the staff of his show? His grandparents would be pleased. But he would see her every day. Which meant that every day he would have to resist his attraction to her. He knew better than to have a relationship with someone on his staff.

  Just as well, he tried to tell himself. He didn't need a woman in his life right now. Anyway, Phoebe had made it abundantly clear she wasn't interested in him, either. As pretty as she was, she was probably used to setting boundaries in clear terms, up front. If she didn't, she'd be hit from all sides.

  * * *

  When Phoebe got home from her classes that night, she noticed Wyatt's car in his carport. That in itself was unusual—he was almost never home. Even more unusual was the note on her door from him. "Call me when you get in—we need to discuss tomorrow's show. Wyatt."

  "And what's wrong with leaving a message on my answering machine?" she murmured as she let herself into her apartment. But she was coming to realize Wyatt never did anything the ordinary way. He was altogether unpredictable.

  She was tired and achey and out of sorts. Her organic chemistry test hadn't gone well, and she had another test tomorrow—calculus—that she had to study for tonight. Having to squeeze in a meeting with her new boss should be making her feel even crankier.

  But she looked forward to seeing Wyatt. Normally she didn't like it when an employer infringed on her personal time. But for some reason, she didn't begrudge Wyatt his request. She went straight to the phone and called him.

  "Phoebe."

  He sounded pleased to hear from her.

  "You rushed away so quickly today I didn't have a chance to brief you about tomorrow's guests. You want to go out for coffee, and I can give you the rundown?"

  Phoebe didn't want to be difficult, but going out didn't sound like much fun. She'd been gone all day, and more than anything she wanted to put on her fluffy robe and slippers, and curl into her beanbag chair with her books. "Why don't you come over here?" she said brightly. "I'll put a pot of coffee on." She would need it for the late night of studying she had planned.

  "If you'd rather. See you in a few."

  Phoebe put on the coffee, then quickly picked up her apartment, careful to stow her schoolbooks in the bedroom. She'd told almost no one about trying to get a college degree. Daisy and Elise knew, and Wyatt's grandparents, but they'd all been sworn to secrecy.

  After moving to Phoenix, she'd gone to a career counselor and taken some tests to find out what, aside from acting and makeup, she might be good at. She'd been floored when she got her test results back. She'd made almost a perfect score on the SAT, and the IQ test had placed her at near-genius level.

  "My mother would faint" was the first thing Phoebe told the counselor. Olga, who had immigrated to America from Denmark when she was a child, had never pressured Phoebe to make good grades. "God did not give you that gorgeous face and body so you could become a nuclear physicist," Olga had said more than once. "You've got everything you need to become a movie star or land a rich husband, or both."

  Olga, despite looking very much like her daughter, had done neither. Phoebe's factory-worker father had disappeared when she was three, and Olga had never remarried, though she'd tried awfully hard and was still trying. As for show business, the pinnacle of Olga's career had been when she played a Swedish maid for two weekends at a dinner theater.

  That didn't stop her from having sky-high hopes for her daughter—acting classes, dance classes, speech classes to get rid of that New Jersey accent, and beauty school, just in case.

  For a while, Phoebe had bought into Olga's fantasy. She'd skated through high school with straight Cs because she figured she wouldn't need an education. Later, after Phoebe moved to L.A. and changed her name, all of Olga's dreams for her daughter seemed to be coming true.

  But Phoebe's success had been fleeting, a lucky first break that didn't lead to much of anything. Olga had been crushed when Phoebe had announced she was leaving Hollywood and giving up show business. Her worst disappointment was that Phoebe hadn't married some rich movie producer or become Mrs. Brad Pitt.

  Phoebe's feet were now more firmly planted than her mother's had ever been. But she still had a hard time believing she was smart. That was why she told very few people of her career aspirations. Because what if the test results were wrong? What if she flunked out? She would feel like a complete fool.

  Wyatt was the last person she would tell. It was much easier if he continued to think of her as a blond beautician. Then she wouldn't have to live up to any unrealistic expectations.

  When she let Wyatt in a few minutes later, she realized her apartment was clean but that she was a mess. She probably hadn't so much as glanced in a mirror since noon.

  "Help yourself to some coffee," she said. "I'm going to change into more comfortable clothes."

  Wyatt's soft chuckles followed her down the hallway toward her bedroom. She stepped inside the room, closed the door, then put her face in her hands. Had she actually just told Wyatt Madison she was going to slip into something more comfortable?

  * * *

  Wyatt took a few seconds to fantasize about what outfit Phoebe might change into. A negligee? A net cat suit? Yeah, right. He'd thumbed through one too many Victoria's Secret catalogs. He'd be lucky if she didn't return in a flannel granny gown. He'd learned over the years that was how most women defined comfortable.

  When he'd visited her apartment before, he'd been too busy fighting back the flood waters to notice much about it. Now he paid attention.

  The decor seemed a reflection of Phoebe, he decided. The colors were delicate—peach, yellow, pale aqua—but the white leather sofa was functional and sturdy-looking. Nothing about the apartment screamed professional decorator, yet Phoebe obviously had a feel for comfort and practicality. The oatmeal carpet was thick and soft, but it wouldn't soil easily. She didn't have a lot of cluttery knickknacks that would require dusting.

  She did have books, a whole bookshelf full of them. Curious, he walked over to it and perused her titles.

  They surprised him a little. He might have expected the romance novels
and the few self-help gems. But a biography of Madame Curie, and Stephen Hawking's A Short History of the Universe were completely unexpected. He couldn't imagine Phoebe reading physics. Maybe they were just for show. He knew people who bought intelligent-sounding titles and stuck them on their coffee tables just to throw visitors off.

  Then a title caught his eye. The book was sitting crossways on top of a row of magazines, so apparently she'd been reading it recently. And the title made his throat close up: 2001 Ways to Wed.

  So, Phoebe was looking for a husband.

  He might have guessed. She was that age when women, understandably, started thinking about having babies. He knew now, after reading her employment forms, that she was twenty-eight. But whatever advice she was getting out of that book, she wasn't acting obvious. In fact, he distinctly remembered her saying she didn't have time for a man.

  Maybe that was part of the plan.

  He couldn't resist flipping through the book. The chapter names were intriguing: "Dating and Mating in the Workplace"; "Don't Forget Your Neighbors"; "What Your Mother Never Told You"; "Bars and Why You Can't Find A Good Man At One"; "Work On Yourself Before You Work on Him."

  Phoebe had actually written notes in the margin. She was serious about this, then.

  He looked closer at the chapter on neighbors. Was that his name scribbled at the top of one page? He never found out for sure, because he heard her bedroom door open. He quickly closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, then sat down on the sofa and tried to look bored.

  The moment Phoebe reentered the living room, Wyatt was forced to abandon any notions he had that Phoebe was out to snag him as a husband. She'd put on a worn pair of baggy gray sweats and slicked her hair into a no-frills ponytail. She'd also taken off her makeup.

  Damn if she still didn't look sexy. She was the only woman he'd ever met who could make such a get-up look enticing. But she didn't seem to be doing it on purpose.

  "Coffee?" she asked.

  "I don't drink coffee. But please, go ahead." He followed her into the kitchen.

  "How about juice?" she asked. "Orange? Cranapple?"

  "Orange would be good."