TAME AN OLDER MAN

by Kara Lennox

  Wyatt's mind was still on one question that begged to be answered: If Phoebe Lane

  was looking for a husband, why had she eliminated him from the running? It might be because he'd proved himself a grumpy recluse, but he didn't think that was it. He'd explained to her why he was working so hard, and she'd seemed to understand.

  What, then? He was single—never married, in fact—so she wouldn't have to deal with any baggage. He was gainfully employed and financially sound. Of course, she hadn't asked to see last year's tax return, but she would know just from the kind of job he had and the car he drove that he had a bit of disposable income.

  He might not be cover-boy material, but he had an okay face, all his teeth and a body that reflected the fact that he worked out.

  Did she just not like him? Maybe he was too old for her. She'd made a big deal about his age. But he knew what was in these how-to-find-a-husband books. His insatiable curiosity had led him to read articles in Cosmopolitan when no one was looking. The advice was always the same: Don't rule out any guy until you get to know him.

  Phoebe hardly knew him at all.

  His competitive instincts rose to the surface. Did she have her eye on someone else? Where had she disappeared to all day today? And, damn it, what was not to like about him?

  The decision was made. He would charm the socks off Phoebe. Nothing else, just her socks. He didn't want to marry her, didn't want to lead her on. But he didn't like being dismissed. He would at least show her he had worthwhile qualities.

  "So, tell me about tomorrow's show," she asked, as they moved into the small kitchen.

  "It's a little more complicated than today's was. We're doing a fashion segment with clothes made out of recycled tires—"

  "Tires?"

  "Yes. We have four models coming in, plus two additional guests, which means a lot of makeup. I'll need you at the studio by six."

  He expected her to groan, but she just nodded.

  "You did warn me there would be some early mornings required. That's fine. How is the rest of the week shaping up?"

  As they talked about upcoming shows and waited for the coffee to finish brewing, Wyatt's mind churned. What would a woman like Phoebe respond to? Certainly not compliments about her looks. She probably heard how beautiful she was night and day. She definitely wouldn't enjoy a physical come-on, not after what had happened to her earlier today. So massages were out.

  Power. Would she like that? But somehow he couldn't imagine himself dangling his authority over her, ordering her around. Besides, she might quit.

  With a shrug, he decided he would just have to be his usual charming self.

  * * *

  Phoebe poured Wyatt a big glass of juice, then herself a cup of coffee. Her kitchen seemed far too small with the two of them standing in it.

  He looked great, just fabulous. It seemed every time she saw him he was more attractive. She couldn't believe she'd thought he couldn't dress well. Tonight he was wearing a nice pair of jeans and a crisp, blue-striped button-down. Very un-Hollywood, and she loved it. She'd seen enough black turtlenecks in L.A. to last her a lifetime.

  She was the one who looked as if she ought to be begging for spare change on the nearest street corner. But she'd dressed like this on purpose, downplaying her physical assets, hoping that by doing so she would guarantee that at least one of them would remain unattracted.

  With their beverages of choice, Wyatt and Phoebe returned to the living room. Wyatt sat on the couch. Phoebe put her coffee on the coffee table, grabbed a notebook and pen, and sank into a beanbag chair a safe distance from him.

  They spent the next few minutes just talking about the show. Wyatt explained more about his philosophy as producer and his aspirations for the show's future, providing little bits of information about the other staff members. He began to relax, and Phoebe found herself wondering if this was the same remote, austere man who hadn't even bothered to crawl out from under the sink the first time she'd encountered him.

  This was the Wyatt his grandparents had told her about—funny, charming, intelligent. He treated her with respect, yet, she knew, he was aware of her as a woman, too. The combination was intoxicating.

  Wyatt was the kind of man, she decided, that she'd once aspired to lure into marriage. The kind her mother would love as a son-in-law. In another time and place, she would have flirted with him. She would have used everything in her feminine arsenal to get to him—sexy clothing, perfume, body language.

  But that was the old Phoebe, the one who thought her looks were her ticket to whatever she wanted. Things were different now. She had no time for a man in her life. She had career goals that would demand a hundred percent of her concentration.

  And Wyatt Madison was her boss.

  She'd learned a long time ago that involving herself with a producer was a terrible strategy, a one-way ticket to a bad rep. In Hollywood—and perhaps in Wyatt's circles, too—there was no such thing as innocent flirting.

  So Wyatt was off-limits. Absolutely. But resisting him wasn't going to be easy.

  As they relaxed into the conversation, they ended up sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. Wyatt was sketching a picture of the elaborate set he wanted to build for "Heads Up."

  "The set we're using now is actually an old relic from some kids' talk show WBZZ did a few years ago. They weren't willing to put much money into upgrading it. But if the show reaches a certain audience share by the end of April, I get to build a whole new set, whatever I want."

  "I have the greatest idea!" she said, suddenly inspired.

  "Let's hear it."

  "Redecorate your set on a regular basis. Solicit ideas from interior decorators all over the country. Pick a new one, say, once a month. Whatever one you pick redecorates the set—completely at his or her own expense—in exchange for prominent credit and a ten-minute guest shot."

  Wyatt smiled uncertainly. "We might end up with some pretty weird sets."

  "You give them the basic parameters so that the set is always—"

  She gestured excitedly, knocking Wyatt's glass of orange juice squarely into his lap.

  For a moment she just stared in horror. How could she have been so clumsy? With all the ballet classes she'd taken, she wasn't normally prone to klutzy moves.

  "Uh," Wyatt said.

  Phoebe hopped into action. "Don't move. I'll fix it." She jumped up and ran to the kitchen, grabbed about twenty paper towels off her roll, and ran back. She knelt down and started daubing at the sodden orange stain on the front of his shirt and jeans. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how I could have…"

  She lost her train of thought when she realized exactly where she was pressing her wad of paper towels. Wyatt looked at her strangely. Her gaze locked with his, and though she told herself to move away, she couldn't.

  "I'm sorry," she said again, only it came out as a hoarse whisper.

  "So am I."

  She had no conscious memory of who moved next, but they ended up kissing. Maybe he fell back, maybe she pushed him—but she was leaning against his chest, his arms around her, their mouths locked in the most intoxicating kiss Phoebe had ever experienced. He tasted like orange juice, sweet and tart.

  She knew it was wrong, knew it was stupid, but she could no more stop than she could shoot out the stars. She kept promising herself just a few more seconds, because it felt so good, but the longer the embrace lasted, the less she wanted to end it.

  He pulled the elastic band from her hair, letting the white-gold strands spill over both of them, burying his hands in it.

  Gently rolling her onto her back, he slanted his mouth over hers, escalating the kiss. She touched the hard muscles in his back, marveling at how they bunched and relaxed beneath her hands when he shifted positions slightly.

  She heard a noise and realized it had come from her, a soft mewling like a kitten, audible evidence of the passion he so effortlessly generated in her.

  Abruptly he pulled away.

  "Ph
oebe…" he said on an agonized groan. He lay on his back, breathing rapidly. "Damn it, what the hell just happened?"

  Phoebe wished she had an answer. All she knew was that it was a colossal mistake—one she wanted to repeat, immediately. But glancing over at Wyatt, she saw that there would be no more kissing. Unlike her, he'd come to his senses.

  She sat up slowly and pushed her disheveled hair out of her face, feeling dizzy and disoriented. If she didn't put some distance between herself and Wyatt, she might do something that would jeopardize not only her nifty new job, but also her peace of mind.

  She grabbed the wad of paper towels and dropped it onto his stomach. "Maybe you'd better clean up your own clothes."

  He clutched the paper towels, but otherwise didn't move. He looked completely dazed. Surely one little kiss—okay, one big kiss—from her hadn't done that to him?

  Before she could lose her determination, she pushed herself onto her feet, fighting lightheadedness. Somehow, she had to get their relationship back on a professional footing.

  "It's late. I'm going to bed." And just to be sure he didn't misunderstand her, she added, "You can see yourself out."

  She marched out of the living room, down the hall and into her bedroom, before she changed her mind and dragged him with her.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Wyatt lay on Phoebe's living room floor a few more seconds before he was able to summon the strength to sit up. He blotted his clothes, then raised himself onto his knees and daubed at a few drops of orange juice that had hit the carpet. He'd been right: her carpet didn't stain easily.

  Moving mechanically, he took his O.J. glass and her cup to the kitchen and rinsed them in the sink. He threw away the paper towels. He switched off her coffeemaker. All the while, he was listening, half hoping he would hear Phoebe's bedroom door open. Praying it wouldn't. Because he wouldn't be strong enough to resist if she changed her mind about continuing what they'd started.

  But all was silent.

  He turned off her lights and left. It wasn't until he was safely in his apartment that he shook off his numbness and realized fully what had just happened. When he did, he was nearly overwhelmed with self-disgust.

  Only this morning, through his own negligence, Phoebe had been forced to fight off unwanted sexual advances. Though he admired the way she'd dismissed it and tried to put it behind her, he knew damn well the experience had shaken her. The last thing she needed only a few hours later was some macho come-on, and from the very man who was supposed to protect her.

  He'd meant only to be charming. He'd told himself he just wanted her to like him. She'd injured his male pride by refusing to consider him as potential husband material.

  But before long he'd forgotten completely about any narcissistic plans to feed his ego. He'd enjoyed her company. He'd gotten so caught up in talking with her, sharing his dreams for the show, listening to her ideas, that he'd dismissed the stupid marriage book from his mind.

  The kiss had come out of nowhere. When she'd spilled the orange juice, then tried to wipe up the mess, her touch had immediately aroused him to the breaking point—a fact that hadn't escaped her attention, unfortunately. Men were at a disadvantage that way.

  The kiss was not a calculated seduction. And her response, he was pretty sure, was not a premeditated attempt to woo him into a matrimonial frame of mind. The desires pulsating between them had been too raw, too genuine, to be anything but pure instinct.

  As for her well-timed retreat, he could only admire her for it. She really was trying to discourage him. No woman played that hard to get.

  For whatever reason, she didn't want to marry him. Though that realization might bruise his ego a bit, deep down—really deep—he felt relieved.

  In the future, no matter how much he desired her, he would keep their relationship on a completely professional level. If he needed to tell her anything about the show, he would do it at the studio or on the phone.

  Satisfied with his decision, he took a quick shower—a nice cold one—and climbed into bed. But sleep was a long time coming.

  * * *

  The next two days went smoothly—almost too smoothly, Wyatt thought. Phoebe showed up at the studio at precisely six a.m. the morning after their orange-juice kiss, looking tired but well polished and professional. Had she lain awake as he had? he wondered, then immediately put a clamp on that line of thought He had to forget about that night. He was sure she would.

  She wasn't cold to him, but neither was she warm and friendly and animated, as she'd been in her apartment. She did her job quickly and efficiently, the models seemed pleased with her work, and she proved a hit with the rest of his staff.

  As soon as the show was over, she came to him and asked for a briefing for the next day. Then, at precisely eleven-fifteen, she left.

  Where was she going? He knew it was none of his business. He should be concerned with her work performance, nothing else. She claimed she didn't have another job. What, then? A boyfriend? If she was in a relationship, why hadn't she just told him, instead of pretending she didn't have time for men?

  Was the guy someone she was ashamed of? Maybe he was in prison, and she rushed out of the studio so she could make visiting hours.

  He had to laugh at his own speculation. Phoebe wasn't dumb enough to date someone in prison, but a boyfriend was the only explanation for her behavior that made sense to him. She was looking for a husband, she'd found a candidate, but she didn't want to share him yet. That was acceptable, he supposed.

  Acceptable, hell. It made him inexplicably, inappropriately furious.

  After meeting with Kelly and Kurt about a wardrobe problem, Wyatt stepped into his director's office to brainstorm about upcoming shows. One of the things he did as producer was encourage the entire staff, from the director down to the lowliest grip, to contribute ideas. He figured everybody operated in a slightly different sphere. The more spies he had out in the world keeping their eyes and ears open for cutting-edge trends, the less likely he was to miss something important coming down the pike.

  His director, Phyllis Cardenza, was a tiny dynamo of a woman who was as dedicated to the show as he was. She was 45, divorced, with two teenagers on whom she doted.

  "We've got the dog trainer confirmed for next Wednesday," she said, as soon as Wyatt stepped into her office.

  "Great. What about the breeder with that new … what's it called?"

  "A thimble poodle. She's confirmed, too."

  "Okay, what about…" Wyatt's words trailed off as he spotted a familiar blue-and-white book peeking out from under some papers on Phyllis's desk. He grasped a corner of the book and pulled it out. "Phyllis, I had no idea you were husband-hunting."

  "Oh, stop it, it's not for me," she said, grabbing the book back from him. "Haven't you looked at the bestseller list lately? 2001 Ways to Wed is hot. Number five this week. I'm predicting number one next week."

  "You're kidding? Doesn't that strike you as kind of … I don't know. Distasteful?" he asked Phyllis.

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. The whole idea of a woman plotting to trap a husband seems so archaic." And out of character for Phoebe, he added silently. "Aren't women more liberated these days?"

  "It's not that way at all." Phyllis handed the book back to him. "Read it. I've already got a call in to Jane Jasmine's agent—don't look at me like that, I wouldn't book anyone without your okay. I just wanted to see when she might be available. All the single women I know are reading this book, and I even know a couple who swear Jane's advice really works."

  Wyatt took the book, his mind suddenly churning with ideas. "Maybe we could get a few people on the show who've found husbands by using the book," he said, thinking aloud.

  "Or, maybe we could bring some hopeless cases on—you know, women who think they'll never find a man—and Jane can do a relationship makeover on them, give them some strategies, then bring them back in a few weeks to see how they've done."


  "Phyllis, you're brilliant." And it was a great idea, as long as Phyllis didn't get wind that their makeup artist was one of Jane's devotees. Phyllis would probably suggest they put her on as one of Jane's experiments, and men all over the country would know she was available and looking. Wyatt didn't care for that idea at all.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Phoebe got a break. Her late-afternoon economics class got canceled, so she came home, more exhausted than she could ever remember being. She was actually working fewer hours than she did at the spa. But the tension of working so close to Wyatt and pretending she felt nothing for him was wearing her out.

  She'd been skipping her swimming workouts, too, which contributed to her crankiness. When she'd been working at Sunrise, she could usually slip in a few laps between clients. Now she had to either swim at night or not at all, and the evenings had been too cool for swimming.

  This afternoon, however, it was downright hot, and she was wilted as a week-old rose. A swim in Mesa Blue's meticulously maintained pool sounded like just the thing to revive her body and her spirits. She was doubly glad of her decision when she found Elise and Frannie in the pool, paddling around on rafts.

  "Your class got canceled, too?" Elise asked when she spied Phoebe walling across the courtyard in her hot-pink one-piece.

  "Yeah, some staff development thing." Phoebe made a clean racer's dive into the pool and swam one lap, but her energy abandoned her at that point, so she sat on the steps at the shallow end and put on her straw hat to protect her face from the sun.

  "How's the new job?" Frannie asked anxiously, paddling close to Phoebe.

  "It's fine." Phoebe really didn't want to talk about it, but Frannie, meaning well, persisted.

  "So what's Wyatt really like?"

  The sexiest man alive. "He's okay. A good boss, considerate and respectful. Works hard. His staff really seems to like him, so they work hard for him. He's not an egomaniac like most of the producers I've worked with. He takes a lot of pride in his work, and he's not too proud to—" She stopped herself before she nominated Wyatt for sainthood.