by Kara Lennox
No. She was going to learn to enjoy him and appreciate him as a friend, neighbor and coworker. Nothing more.
"The coffee's almost ready," he said by way of greeting. "We can sit out on the balcony if you want."
She nodded. "Yes, that sounds nice."
He poured her a mug of the fragrant brew, himself a glass of skim milk—was he a health nut?—and wandered out to the terrace, which looked like nothing so much as a rain forest with all the fronds and vines. All appeared to be thriving.
"Looks like these plants aren't suffering under your care," she observed.
"I water them first thing every morning."
"These cactus plants aren't blooming." She leveled a frown of disapproval at him. "Are you talking to them?"
"Of course. I'm not taking any chances. I sweet-talk them twice a day—or face being disowned."
"I seriously doubt Rolland or Helen would disown you. They think you walk on water and carry stardust in your pockets."
Wyatt laughed, as they found chairs, a nice, safe distance apart. "If I've turned out well at all, it's their doing. I was not exactly your basic well-behaved, well-adjusted boy."
"I'd never guess that. According to them, you were a perfect child."
"They must have a lot of suppressed memories."
Enough, Phoebe thought. This conversation was too personal, too intimate. She set her coffee on the glass-top table, opened her notebook, took a pen from the bib pocket of her overalls, and prepared to be a good little employee.
"So what went on at the staff meeting?" she asked brightly.
Again, that hesitation from Wyatt.
"I ended up not going to Vito's for lunch," he finally said. "Instead, I followed you."
Phoebe suddenly felt as if she couldn't gulp in enough breath. She was not going to fly off the handle, she coached herself. Wyatt must have a logical reason for following her. "W-Why?" she managed to stutter.
"I was worried about you. I know it's not my place to be your watchdog—"
"It certainly isn't," she couldn't help saying.
"But after what happened on Monday—"
"Please, can we forget about that?"
"It just occurred to me that you're very vulnerable. A woman living alone, and not just any woman but a TV star—"
"Used-to-be TV star."
"Still, you make an easy target for any wacko nut-case who's seen 'Skin Deep.'"
"So you're planning to follow me around for the rest of my life to make sure no one makes a pass at me?"
"No! It's just that, the way you rush away from the station each day, obviously with someplace to go, and the fact that you're so mysterious about it—"
"It's my private life!" It was all she could do to keep her voice low enough that all of Mesa Blue wouldn't hear her.
"I know, and I apologize, but I started worrying that you'd gotten involved in something bad, maybe something you couldn't handle—"
"Well, if you followed me, you know the horrible truth now," she said, feeling almost violated. Going to college was nothing to be ashamed of. She knew that. But it was part of her dream for the future, and after seeing other high-flown, much-bandied-about dreams shattered, she now preferred to keep hers very private.
"Is he going to marry you?" Wyatt asked quietly.
"What?" Had she missed some vital part of the conversation? "Who?"
"The guy. On the library steps?"
Phoebe almost laughed out loud. "You mean Richie?"
"Yeah, Richie—whatever. Isn't that what we're talking about?"
"Not that I knew of."
"Look, I know it's one of my business—"
"Damn straight." Too restless to continue sitting, she jumped up and paced to the balcony railing.
"—but if you're determined to get married, surely you can find a better prospect than a beanpole college kid barely old enough to shave."
Try as she might, Phoebe couldn't make sense of what Wyatt was saying. "Where did you get the notion I wanted to get married? That is the last thing I want or need right now."
He joined her at the railing, making her wish she'd stayed in her nice, safe chair. She couldn't think straight with him so close, smelling so good. Even the way he breathed was sexy.
"I know it says in that book that you shouldn't broadcast your intentions," he said, almost gently, "that it makes you look desperate, but—"
"What—" she started to ask, but then realized she knew exactly what book. While she'd been changing clothes last Monday night, he'd been snooping on her bookshelf.
"2001 Ways to Wed," he said, confirming her suspicions. "Don't bother denying you've read it, I saw it in your apartment, and I saw you'd made notes in the margins."
She was stunned, insulted, and maybe a little relieved at the way he'd constructed an alternative reality from the little bits of information he'd gathered from her life.
"How dare you presume…" But she stopped there and changed tack. "Guess there's just no fooling you, Wyatt Madison." What else could she say? If she told him the book was for Daisy's sake, not hers, she would be violating Daisy's privacy.
Anyway, it was safer if he thought she was husband-hunting. For one, he'd definitely give her a wide berth. No confirmed bachelor wanted to be trapped or manipulated into walking down the aisle.
"I know Jane Jasmine recommends taking classes to meet the man of your dreams," he said, "but I don't think she meant for someone your age and, er, maturity level to set her sights on, well, someone like this Richie."
"What's wrong with Richie?" she couldn't resist asking.
"He's too young for you!" Wyatt exploded. "Does he have a job? Hell, he probably lives with his parents, or in a dorm!"
"He has an apartment, I think, and he's an engineering major, which means he'll have a high-paying job the moment he graduates. But what does that matter? I would never marry a guy just because he has a good job."
"Then what do you see in him?"
Phoebe knew she should tell Wyatt the truth. Richie was a study buddy. Actually, she tutored him. Instead of paying her, he brought her lunch every day, giving her a few extra precious minutes to decompress from work. But again, it was easier if she let Wyatt assume what he wanted to.
"Richie is very sweet," she said.
"I'm sure he is, but Lord, Phoebe, you can do better. Are you sleeping with him?"
"You know, Wyatt," she said, finding this conversation less and less humorous, "you're sounding an awful lot like you're jealous."
The stunned look on his face was almost comical. "No! I just don't want to see you ruin your life by jumping into marriage with … with…" He sagged a bit. "Hell, yes, I'm jealous," he muttered. "If you want a husband so bad, why was I never even in the running?"
Phoebe's heart just about stopped beating. She'd only been trying to get a rise out of him. She hadn't imagined he really was jealous. His honesty, his willingness to make himself vulnerable, touched her as nothing else could. It was time to stop playing games.
"You were in the running," she said. "A top candidate for a while."
He looked at her, surprised. "And you ruled me out because…"
"Because Daisy said you weren't right for her."
* * *
Wyatt just stared at her as the puzzle pieces clicked into place—in the right order, this time. She was helping Daisy find a husband. Duh. Hadn't she been trying to set him up with Daisy the night of Elise's engagement party?
Now, because he'd misunderstood, because he was so damn competitive, and because he'd had a bruised ego the size of Arizona, he'd all but asked Phoebe to marry him. Their hands almost touched where they rested near each other on the balcony railing, and she looked at him with those luminous blue eyes, as if she expected something.
What had he done? How was he going to escape the trap he'd set and thrown himself into?
But suddenly he didn't want to escape. He wanted to be enfolded in Phoebe's slender arms. He wanted to kiss her incredible mout
h and drink in the taste of her, the scent of her that he could never quite get out of his mind. He wanted her long blond hair to spill over him the way it had the other night, like spun white-gold silk.
"So you're not marrying Richie?" he asked in a hoarse voice, just to be sure he really understood.
"I'm not marrying anybody, including you." It sounded like a promise, a solemn vow, the way she said it. Her eyes held a certain sadness. But they also held invitation.
He could think of a million reasons why he shouldn't kiss her, and only one reason he should. He wanted her like he'd never wanted a woman in his life. All the reasons he should send her home melted away in the face of his growing passion. With great deliberation he reached for her. With a little gasp of surprise she took a step back—into one of the cactus plants. She yelped and sprang forward right into his arms.
Right where he wanted her.
"Are you okay?" he asked, holding her gently so she could get away if she wanted to.
Apparently she didn't, because she tolerated his light embrace.
"Darn cactus."
"Good cactus," he crooned, sifting a handful of her incredible hair through his fingers. Then he bent down to claim what was his. His for the moment, anyway.
She didn't resist. If he'd felt even a tiny hesitation he'd have stopped, refusing to be just another Taylor Shad in her life. But she moved eagerly into his embrace, winding her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his hair. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek and taste the coffee she'd just drunk. It was enough to make him want to start drinking the stuff.
"Wyatt," she whispered, breaking the kiss and breathing heavily.
He felt her soft breasts rising and falling against his chest. It would be so easy to slide one hand inside the loose overalls.
"Please…" she almost moaned.
He stopped his gentle assault on her neck, falling completely still. He must be crazy to come on so strong. He was acting like an animal.
"I'll stop," he said, though it cost him. He focused his mind on brussels sprouts and visualized burying himself in ice cubes.
"No. I mean, don't stop." She kissed him again, desperately, greedily.
He buried his face in her hair. "I hope you're not relying on my self-control to stop this, because I just used up the last of it."
"Make love to me, Wyatt."
He was a little surprised by the directness of the request but not stupid enough to turn her down. "You're sure? This has nothing to do with the fact that I sign your paycheck?"
"Are you trying to talk me out of it?"
Her eyes had gone all heavy-lidded and dreamy. She licked her lips, which just about did him in, then started to kiss him again.
"Not out here." He took her hand—it felt small and sweet and helpless—and led her inside. The moment he closed the door and the curtain, she was kissing him again. He could hardly believe what a bundle of passion she'd become, once unleashed. Especially after a week's worth of her tightly reserved demeanor at work. But he wasn't going to question it.
"Are you protected?" he asked, amazed he had that much presence of mind.
She gave a little gasp. "No. Please tell me you have something here."
"Somewhere." He hoped. He hadn't entertained any overnight guests since moving to Phoenix. "We'll work it out." Impatient now, he scooped her into his arms and kissed her while he walked her into the guest bedroom where he'd set up camp.
He didn't turn on any lights, feeling his way blindly through the room. When his shin hit the double bed, he stopped and put her down.
"This isn't your grandparents' room, is it?" she asked apprehensively.
He chuckled. "No. I don't think I'd be able to make whoopee in Grammy and Grandpa's bed. Too weird. Don't go anywhere."
He searched through his chest of drawers, going by feel. He'd seen some condoms around here somewhere. Sock drawer, maybe? Or in that drawer where he'd stashed all those suspenders and cuff links he never wore?
"Why don't you turn on a light?" Phoebe suggested, sounding anxious.
"Because I like the dark." He tried to be mysterious. The truth was, he didn't want to chance destroying the mood. His body was primed to make love with Phoebe Lane
, and if she came to her senses now, he would have to jump off his balcony and end it all.
Besides, he didn't want her to see what a mess his bedroom was. He wasn't the world's best housekeeper. If he'd had any idea what the evening might have led to, he'd have straightened up a little.
"Any luck?" she asked.
"Yes, I think—no, damn it, it's a sample packet of aspirin. Do you have any…?"
"No." Pure despair. "Maybe Elise has some. Oh, my God, what am I thinking? I can't ask Elise for that. We'll just have to go to the store. Or maybe…"
Don't say it, he silently pleaded. Don't say we should give up and call it quits.
He heard her moving, heard the bed springs squeak. She found him in the dark, where he stood just inside the closet door, feeling around on the top shelf. She put her arms around his middle.
"Come to bed, Wyatt," she said, the words a sexy caress. "You're a creative problem-solver. I'm sure together we can figure something out."
He was already hard as granite inside his jeans. Her implied suggestion caused him to almost lose his cool completely, especially when her hand sort of accidentally-on-purpose brushed against his fly.
Just then his fingers closed around a familiar-feeling plastic packet. Just one, but that would do for now. "Eureka," he said as he pressed the packet into her hand.
They didn't waste any more time. Wyatt managed to shed his clothes in the four steps it took him to get from the closet to the bed. He shucked Phoebe out of her overalls the way he might peel a banana, now wishing he'd turned on a light so he could see her.
"What color are your panties?" he asked as he slid them down her incredibly long legs.
"Wyatt!"
"I have to know."
"I don't remember! Probably white. I have boring underwear."
"Impossible, not when you're in it." He pulled her T-shirt over her head, then cupped her full breasts in his hands.
"You can't tell me this bra is anything but boring," she argued. "It's for jogging. Flattens me out."
"We can't have that." With a flick of his hand he undid the clasp in back.
She tossed the offending garment aside, and all teasing stopped there. She was a goddess with velvet skin and hands that worked magic wherever they brushed against him. He tore back the covers on his bed and fell onto it, pulling her with him. She covered him chest to toe, the exquisite contact making him groan.
He didn't want to rush her, but he was walking a tightrope. "Where's the—"
"I've got it."
"Can you—"
"Yes."
And she did. Wyatt bit his lip against the white-hot pleasure of Phoebe's hands touching him so intimately. Those sweet, helpless hands weren't so helpless, after all.
"Are you—"
"Uh-huh."
"Do you want—"
"No, it's perfect like this."
He could get used to her reading his mind.
She straddled him, poising herself over him and hesitating just long enough that he thought he might have to beg. Then she sheathed him with excruciating slowness, accommodating herself to him inch by agonizing inch.
She gave a gusty sigh when he was buried deeply inside her.
"Is everything okay?" he whispered. He would commit hara-kiri before he would hurt her.
"Yes. Oh, yes. It's been a while, that's all."
He was relieved to hear that. "For me, too. I won't last long."
"Me, neither."
Amazingly, though, he did. Because she was on top, Phoebe pretty much set the pace, but she managed to keep him on the edge of a nuclear explosion for a good long while, speeding up, then slowing down almost to a standstill, trembling slightly, then starting the whole process over again. Still, there cam
e a point when he couldn't take it anymore. He grasped her hips and thrust inside her, quickly, deeply, and with one final groan of pure ecstasy he let go.
When sanity returned, Phoebe was collapsed against him, her hair covering them both in a silken waterfall, just as it had in his fantasy. It occurred to him then what a totally selfish bastard he was. He'd completely neglected her pleasure.
"Phoebe?"
"Hmm."
"Tell me what to do."
"Shut up and enjoy the afterglow. It's my favorite part."
"But you didn't…"
She raised herself up and looked at him, amused. "Only about three times." She shrugged. "I'm not very showy."
He laughed out loud and hugged her against him, relieved. How had he ever been fortunate enough to end up in bed with Phoebe Lane
? She was one in a million.
But the feeling of euphoria quickly faded. What, exactly, did he want from Phoebe? Why had he taken her to bed now, as opposed to last week or next week? Granted, she'd been the one to initiate physical closeness, but he could have backed off.
Probably should have, he reflected. Maybe she was on the level about this husband-hunting thing. Maybe she didn't want a permanent attachment at this point in her life. But she definitely wanted something. He'd never met a woman yet who made love to a man without any expectations.
He couldn't offer her much. Intellectually, he'd known taking her to bed wasn't fair or wise or circumspect. He had to work with this woman every day, and for good or bad, what they'd done here tonight would have an effect on their professional relationship. He wasn't dumb enough to believe it wouldn't.
So why had he done it? It wasn't simple lack of self-control. He'd made a conscious decision to make love to her.
Was it a macho thing? The thought of all those college studs vying for her attention—and possibly getting it—made him want to claim her, brand her, mark her as his territory, put a No Trespassing sign on her. Every man who saw her wanted her, but Wyatt Madison had gotten her. Was that it? An ego trip?
She sighed in her sleep, and his heart softened. He stroked her hair, letting the fine strands sift through his fingers. He shouldn't be so hard on himself. How could he have resisted her allure, even if he'd wanted to?