TAME AN OLDER MAN

by Kara Lennox

  Something to ponder.

  She settled into the butter-soft leather interior of Wyatt's Jaguar and gave him directions to The Pit, as he effortlessly guided the powerful machine through light traffic.

  The streets grew more congested as they approached downtown. Tucked away in the back streets lived a party district that came alive only after dark. Funky restaurants, off-beat clubs and tattoo parlors lined the narrow streets.

  "I never even knew this neighborhood was here," Wyatt said as he pulled his car into a vacant lot that had been transformed into parking. A guy with about six rings in his ear collected five dollars from Wyatt, promising security.

  Wyatt looked dubious, but he paid the guy, pulled into his assigned spot and cut the engine.

  Phoebe laid a hand on his arm. "Before we go, could you do one thing?"

  "What?"

  "Lose the tie."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Wyatt paused a beat, then chuckled as he complied with Phoebe's request. "I guess this isn't quite the symphony, is it."

  "Do you go to the symphony?"

  "Not since I've been in Phoenix, but I used to go hear the Chicago Pops all the time. I even had season tickets. Do you like classical music?"

  "I'm not sure," Phoebe said uneasily. "I've never really listened to it."

  "We can fix that. If you're any kind of music lover, you have to at least appreciate the masters, even if you don't become a huge fan. Mozart, Bach, Beethoven—they're at the root of every piece of music we've listened to since their time."

  "Uh-huh," Phoebe said, and Wyatt couldn't tell if she didn't believe him or was simply bored by the topic. He realized maybe he was sounding like a pompous jerk. Women didn't go out on dates to be lectured to.

  They got out of the car. Phoebe didn't wait for him to open her door, thank God. He liked her self-sufficiency, her independence. It was those qualities that were going to make this relationship work. A clinging vine would want his undivided attention seven days a week, and he simply didn't have that to give.

  Although, he thought, the way Phoebe looks tonight, I wouldn't mind seeing her twenty-four-seven. He'd gone out with attractive women before—some of them even beautiful. But he'd never succumbed to that purely male indulgence of believing his own worth was being measured by the physical appeal of the woman on his arm.

  Until tonight.

  As they approached the club, foot traffic got heavier, and Phoebe took his arm so they could stay together. Virtually every male who passed gave her an appreciative once-over, and then they looked at Wyatt, sizing up his worthiness. A few even gave him a nod, silently approving his male prowess in capturing such a prize.

  His caveman instincts came to the surface. He was pretty hot stuff.

  A large crowd had formed in front of The Pit, an unremarkable brick-front building with blacked-out windows and lots of purple neon. A big-bellied bouncer type in baggy, striped pants, a leather vest and no shirt was apparently controlling entry into the club.

  "Uh-oh," Wyatt said. "Maybe we should have gotten here earlier."

  "Not to worry," Phoebe said with a confident smile. She sailed right through the crowd, which seemed to part for her as if she were royalty. Wyatt followed in her wake.

  The frowning bouncer suddenly found a big grin when he spotted Phoebe.

  "Phoebe, darling, where have you been?" He leaned down and air-kissed her cheek. "Go right in." He moved aside to give her access to the door.

  Phoebe gave Wyatt an I-told-you-so look over her shoulder, then reached for the door. But the bouncer stepped in front of Wyatt. "Not you, pops."

  Phoebe screeched to a halt and gave the bouncer a scathing look. "He's with me."

  "Oh, sorry," the bouncer said, almost bowing and scraping. He quickly moved aside to let Wyatt into the club.

  "Pops?" Wyatt said, once they were inside the door. "Pops?"

  "Oh, forget him," Phoebe said, taking Wyatt's hand. "Let's see if we can find a table."

  Wyatt was still seething. At thirty-nine he was no longer a kid, but he wasn't ready for a wheelchair and Geritol, either. In fact, he still thought of himself as kind of studly.

  As they wove their way through the packed club, Wyatt's feelings of studliness decreased by the moment. He was the oldest guy here. He searched the crowd for a hint of gray hair, a wrinkle or two, but clearly this was where Phoenix's beautiful people gathered. Make that young and beautiful.

  Here he was, producer of a show about everything cutting edge, yet in this place he felt decidedly clueless. Old and clueless.

  With unerring instinct, Phoebe led them to the only available table, which overlooked a sunken dance floor. On a small stage, a band was setting up.

  The moment they sat down, a cocktail waitress appeared in very short shorts, a sports bra and something that looked like a chain-mail vest.

  "What can I get you to drink?" She teetered slightly on her four-inch platform shoes.

  "Club soda with lemon, please," Phoebe said.

  "Orange juice," Wyatt said. The waitress looked at him blankly. He amended his order. "A screwdriver, hold the vodka."

  "Oh, okay." She disappeared.

  Phoebe smiled. "Not a health nut, I guess."

  That was the last easy conversation they had for some time, because the band started up. Or at least, Wyatt assumed the noise emanating from the amplifiers was supposed to be music. It sounded to him more like a dozen cats thrown into a room full of pit bulls, and the decibel level bad to be damaging his hearing.

  But the crowd seemed to like it. The dance floor filled immediately and soon became one writhing, pulsating glob of youthful gyrations. Wyatt couldn't even tell who was partnered with whom. The dancers weren't holding on to each other, but they rubbed up against each other in blatant sexual abandon.

  Phoebe smiled and tapped her foot to the music.

  He tried to find the humor. He'd spent his early youth in crowded, smoky clubs, getting his ears blasted out by garage bands trying to reproduce the sounds of Arrowsmith, Springsteen and ZZ Top.

  He'd never dressed as weirdly as these kids, though. His generation, sandwiched between the fashion nightmare of the '70s and the retro '90s, had done their rebelling in khakis, button-downs and Topsiders.

  Phoebe tried to yell something to him, but he couldn't understand her. Finally he realized she was pointing at the dance floor. She leaned across the table, giving him an entrancing glimpse of cleavage, and spoke loudly into his ear. "Look who's here!"

  He looked, and there were Kelly and Kurt, right in the thick of the dancers.

  He was relieved to know members of his team were frequenting this den of the oh-so-hot-and-trendy—so he wouldn't have to. If the sound decibels didn't get to him, the cigarette smoke would.

  The waitress brought their drinks, and wrote down his total on a pad of paper and showed it to him. He paid her, including a generous tip, figuring she deserved it just for surviving this place night after night.

  The band paused, and Phoebe clapped and whistled. Wyatt dutifully clapped.

  "Do you want to dance?" Phoebe asked.

  "Um, no, not really," he replied. Though he wouldn't mind rubbing his body against Phoebe's, he didn't know the moves, and he refused to go out on the dance floor and look like a turkey. "But you can if you'd like. I'm not the jealous type."

  He could tell she wanted to. "Maybe I'll dance with Kelly and Kurt," she said.

  Group dancing?

  "Don't you like to dance?"

  "Sure, I just—I'd rather watch for now."

  The band screeched to life again. Phoebe gave his hand a "be right back" squeeze, then worked her way onto the dance floor.

  He enjoyed watching her dance. She knew how to move her body, that was for sure. She laughed with Kurt and Kelly, as they all flowed with the beat. And when that song was over and a slower one started, all three headed back to the table. Kurt and Kelly dragged up chairs and ordered drin
ks.

  "I never thought I'd see you here," Kurt said to Wyatt. "Doesn't seem like your kind of gig."

  "I'm pretty adaptable," Wyatt said, which was true. He could be a chameleon when he wanted to be. But this place was so far removed from his normal sphere of reality, he didn't know how to adapt.

  They couldn't talk much while the music was blaring, but when the band took a break Wyatt leaned back and observed his three younger friends talking about music.

  He didn't recognize a single song they mentioned, or the names of the artists—except he'd heard of Koi Paloi because they'd been on "Heads Up" his first week in Phoenix.

  When the band started again, Kelly and Kurt jumped up and headed for the dance floor. Phoebe gave him a sweet smile, stood, and offered her hand.

  Okay, so he'd dance with her.

  But instead of heading for the dance floor, she made for the exit.

  The cool night air felt like heaven. "Why're we leaving?" he asked.

  "Because you were miserable."

  "'Miserable' is a bit strong. 'Out of my element' is more like it."

  "So you're not really into alternative music?" she asked, swinging hands with him as they ambled down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.

  "If that's what that band was playing, no. "

  "What music do you listen to, then? Other than classical."

  He suspected that if he admitted he listened to classic rock, she would be appalled. "Why don't I just show you?"

  She smiled. "Okay."

  Wyatt knew of a little jazz bar that was just on the fringe of downtown, not too far. Phyllis had taken him there for a drink after one of their late-night planning sessions, and he'd loved the soft, smoky music and the low-key atmosphere. Plus, the music wasn't so loud that you couldn't talk over it.

  He found a parking place right in front. Phoebe looked around as they entered, her eyes bright and curious.

  They had no trouble finding a table. The fifty-something waitress wore a long black dress and spike heels. Phoebe ordered coffee, and Wyatt switched to club soda. Then he settled back to let the music warm his blood. Saxophone music was just downright sexy.

  Now he felt in his element. He studied the other patrons. Plenty of silver hair here. And neckties. In fact, he was probably one of the youngest people in the bar. And Phoebe was definitely the youngest.

  She gazed at the stage, but there were no flashing lights or gyrating singers to hold her visual attention. Just four guys in dark glasses focusing on their instruments. Three couples danced cheek-to-cheek on the postage-stamp dance floor.

  Phoebe's eyelids drooped, and her chin almost fell off her hand where she rested it.

  Wyatt was struck by a sobering reality. She was as out of place here as he'd been at The Pit. She was bored senseless! He had to get her out of here before she wrote him off as a hopeless fuddy-duddy.

  He paid for their drinks, let Phoebe take a couple of sips of her coffee, then took her arm. "Come on."

  "We're dancing?" she asked dubiously.

  "We're leaving."

  Once they were outside, she gave him a bewildered look. "Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

  "I was. You weren't."

  "I'm having a great time," she argued.

  "You almost nodded off in there. Let's just say our taste in nightclubs doesn't coincide, and do something else, okay? Do you want to stop someplace for a bite to eat?"

  "Sure, I guess."

  She reached for the passenger door handle, then froze, her gaze focused on something down the street. "No, wait, I have a better idea."

  "Let's hear it."

  "Do you like country music?"

  Uh-oh. Was this more evidence of their clashing musical tastes? "Not my favorite," he admitted.

  "I loathe it," she said, smiling mischievously. "There's a kicker bar down the street. Want to try it out?"

  He looked where she indicated. Sure enough, there was a place called Diamonds & Studs, all lit up in neon, complete with a bucking bull that moved. "Have you lost it?"

  "You felt out of place at The Pit. I felt like an alien at the jazz bar. In a kicker bar, we'll both feel like outcasts. Come on, it'll be fun."

  Her infectious grin got to him. "You're on."

  Phoebe insisted on paying their cover charge, since the cowboy bar was her idea. When they got inside, they found themselves in a sea of cowboy hats and pointy-toed boots, denim skirts, jeans with round impressions in the back pocket left by cans of chewing tobacco. Shirts with pearly snaps. Handlebar mustaches.

  And the twangiest guitars Wyatt had ever heard.

  Phoebe sauntered up to the bar. "Can we have a couple of beers?"

  "Make that longnecks," Wyatt said, getting into it.

  People stared. Phoebe just smiled.

  They tried to line dance and failed miserably. They managed something called the Cotton-Eye Joe, but it was more like an endurance test than a dance. They both collapsed at their table when it was over, laughing hysterically. One man after another—total strangers—asked Phoebe to dance.

  "Can't you see I'm with someone?" she told one man impatiently. Then she sat in Wyatt's lap.

  They drank their longnecks, though Wyatt barely tasted his. He was intoxicated by Phoebe, by her sense of adventure and the way her cheeks turned pink when she felt embarrassed.

  Tonight was karaoke night at Diamonds & Studs, and Phoebe, emboldened by her half beer, volunteered.

  "You don't know any country songs," Wyatt argued.

  "I'll fake it," she said. "Don't all country songs sound the same, anyway?"

  She chose a song by Patsy Cline, and, as it turned out, she knew it. She had a voice like a down-and-dirty angel, and she set the place on fire.

  She set Wyatt on fire, especially the way she looked at him when she sang, caressing the microphone. Mmm, mmm.

  She got a standing ovation and the host asked her for an encore, but she declined. "That is the only country song I know," she said. Then she put an arm around Wyatt. "But I'll bet my friend here can do a mean Clint Black."

  Wyatt nearly choked on his beer. He was as tone-deaf as a fire hydrant. "No, no thanks," he said hastily. "I think it's about time we call it a night, Miss Patsy, don't you?"

  She smiled demurely. "Okay."

  The minute they made it outside, they dissolved into laughter once again. "You should have seen your face," Phoebe said, "when I suggested you do Clint Black."

  "You conned me! You're a closet kicker music fan!"

  "No, no, it's just that I learned that one song in my voice training class."

  "You sounded pretty good. Why'd you give it up?"

  "I just told you, I don't know any more country songs."

  "No, I mean, why'd you give up the whole acting-performing thing? You're obviously seething with talent."

  She sobered. "Thank you, but it takes more than talent. You have to have ambition and persistence and connections and luck, too. I quickly found out there are lots of women with looks and talent in L.A."

  He threw his arm around her shoulders. "Well, I'm just as glad you gave it up. I don't like sharing you with the world. You can sing to me anytime, though."

  "A private concert, huh? That'll cost you."

  "I already bought you two drinks. You're not holding out for dinner, too, are you?" he teased.

  She slipped her arm around his waist and snuggled close. "Let's go home."

  * * *

  Their taste in nightclubs might have clashed, Phoebe mused, but their goals for the rest of the evening dovetailed perfectly. They kissed on the elevator on the way up to the third floor, and again in the hallway in front of Wyatt's front door, and again when they got inside.

  Clothes fell by the wayside. They left a trail of shirts, pants and underthings from the entryway all the way to Wyatt's bedroom, stopping to kiss every few steps. By the time they reached the bed they were both gloriously nude.

  Wyatt started to switch on a bedside lamp, but Phoebe stopped him.
"I like it dark."

  "I want to see you."

  Phoebe felt inexplicably modest. As a model she'd developed a thick skin when it came to comments about her body. She'd gotten used to shedding her clothes at a moment's notice, sometimes in a communal dressing room.

  But when it came to the bedroom, she was downright shy.

  "Maybe next time."

  "I'll hold you to it."

  She was gratified to know there would be a next time. The more time she spent with Wyatt, the more she appreciated what he was—a strong, mature, virile man who wasn't afraid to try new things, and who wasn't afraid to admit when he'd made a mistake. He held strong opinions and had firmly drawn tastes, but there was always room for compromise.

  As he tenderly pulled her with him onto the bed, her heart swelled with a new and different feeling, something unique. She hesitated to name it but it felt wonderful.

  He made love to her slowly, with subtlety and finesse, qualities completely lacking in other lovers she'd had. She relished the gentle pace, letting her pleasure build slowly, without that urge to take everything as fast as she could get it because otherwise she might not get it at all. Wyatt, she knew, would never leave her wanting.

  Afterward, they lay in bed for a long time, talking softly.

  "I'm sure we have lots of other things in common," Wyatt said.

  "You mean besides this?" She stroked his belly, then fondled him. "And a loathing for country music, of course."

  "How about sports?"

  "Hmm, I like swimming. And I always thought tennis would be fun."

  "I like swimming. We could go to the beach."

  "I like pools," she said. "The ocean scares me."

  "What about hockey?"

  "To play or watch?"

  "Watch."

  "Um, I've never tried. But I'm willing. I understand Frannie and Bill go to games. And James, Elise's fiancé, has season tickets."