by Kara Lennox
"I like your friends."
Phoebe hated to end the closeness they'd achieved, but she had to. She yawned and slowly pulled herself out of Wyatt's embrace. "I have to go, you know. Before Mama sends the National Guard after me."
"You think she doesn't trust me?" Wyatt asked, all innocence.
"Would you trust you?"
He laughed. "No."
"She liked you," Phoebe said as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. "But then, she likes any guy who's polite, clean cut, and well dressed." She couldn't quite make herself stand up. In a total lapse of self-discipline, she draped herself over Wyatt, leaning her head against his chest. "Actually, it's a good thing she knows I've got my hooks in you. It could save you."
"From what?"
"From my mother throwing herself at you. She pretty much does that with any unattached man between thirty-five and sixty-five who has all his teeth and no prison record."
He chuckled, the low vibration tickling Phoebe's ear where it rested against his chest. "If you're so dead set against your mother's manhunting activities, maybe you should set a better example for her."
"I did not hunt you down. You just … happened."
"I wasn't talking about me. I'm talking about those college boys."
Phoebe stiffened. Maybe she'd misunderstood. Hadn't she already cleared up his misconception about her activities at the college? "I told you, I'm not trolling the university for a husband."
"Oh, I know. You've made your position on marriage very clear."
Was there just a tinge of disapproval in his voice? she wondered.
"But just because you're not interested in a ring," he continued, "doesn't mean you don't need companionship."
Phoebe's blood began to simmer. How dare he assume— But before she could tell him where to stick his theories about her need for companionship, he went on.
"You know, a mature lover has a lot more to offer than one of those college whelps."
"For instance?" she asked sharply.
"Financial stability, which means I can take you out someplace nice once in a while, instead of buying you a sub sandwich. A nice car instead of an old junker. Clearly defined expectations. And no acne or adolescent angst. I got over the abandonment issues a long time ago."
Phoebe sat up suddenly, all her warm feelings for Wyatt dissipating. He must not think much of her to believe she would weigh the pros and cons of bedding her boss versus a college classmate.
"Phoebe, what's wrong?"
"I have to go."
He sat up, too. "No, wait. I shouldn't have said all that. I was just teasing. I didn't mean to make light of what just happened. But you have to admit, we can't keep kidding ourselves. We've got something special going here, and though it might be damn inconvenient for both of us, I think we should work with it. That's all I meant."
Phoebe searched for and found her panties and dragged them on. How could she tell him it wasn't the light mood that offended her. After all, there was something a little bit funny about their predicament—wanting each other so badly they just threw aside their oh-so-soberly negotiated, nonsexual friendship.
What did upset her were his assumptions. She had told him flat out that she had no romantic interest in college boys, but apparently he just couldn't wrap his mind around any other reason she might head for the university every day after work.
She was just going to have to disabuse him of those notions, now, wasn't she? And she saw no better time than now. So what if he laughed at her or thought her goals preposterous? His opinion of her couldn't get much lower than it already was.
"Has it ever occurred to you to wonder what classes I'm taking at ASU?"
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Wyatt watched as Phoebe found her shirt and stretched it over her head and arms. Sensing that he wasn't going to dissuade her from dressing—or leaving—he sat up and reached for his own shirt.
"I guess I didn't think about it much," he admitted. "I figured you were taking something related to your career."
"You mean like Cosmetics 101?" She settled a piercing gaze on him that made him very uncomfortable.
"Or some kind of advanced drama classes. You were interested in acting once," he reasoned, "and I assume you enjoyed it. Even if you aren't planning to act professionally, I could see you taking classes to keep your skills sharp."
Apparently that wasn't the right answer.
He tried again. "If the truth be known, I assumed you were taking continuing education classes because you wanted something to occupy your time, and because you had a social structure at the college, a group of friends that study together or trade notes or … or…"
"Or hang out at the malt shop together?"
He was just digging himself deeper, wasn't he. "Apparently I assumed wrong?"
She said nothing as she pulled on her slacks.
"Well, if I'm so badly misinformed, it's because you've never volunteered any information. I figured if it was anything important, you'd have said something."
"I'm studying biochemistry," she said abruptly.
"What?" He burst out in nervous laughter. It sounded as if she'd said biochemistry.
"I'm a biochemistry major," she said, enunciating every word, "with a business minor. I have less than two years to go for my degree if I continue to carry my current class load. This semester I'm taking Organic Chemistry, Statistics, Calculus and PE. I have to carry twelve hours or I lose my scholarship."
"You have a scholarship? In bio—bio—" He couldn't believe this. Phoebe Lane
, glamorous TV actress and makeup artist, wanted to be a biochemist? "Why?"
"Because I like it. Because I'm good at it. And because when I graduate, I'm going to start my own all-natural cosmetics firm, Bio-Techniques. I've already trademarked the name."
Wyatt's head was spinning. This put a whole new light on the Phoebe Lane
he knew. Or the one he thought he knew.
She flipped on the light. "You look a little shell-shocked."
"That's because you just turned on the light. But I am … surprised. I mean, I think it's wonderful you have all these goals and plans, but…"
"But you can't imagine why a pretty girl like me would want to worry her pretty little head over big, bad subjects like math and science?"
"I did not say that."
"But you were thinking it."
He couldn't deny it. Yes, he was shocked. "How are you doing?"
"Well, all those big numbers are sooooo confusing," she said in a little-girl lisp, "and I have just a terrible time with some of the big words—"
"Phoebe…"
"I have a four-point-oh this semester. Every semester, in fact, except the last one. Physics kicked my butt."
"Four-point-oh…" he said, feeling slightly faint. He'd never in his life pulled a 4.0. And he'd majored in liberal arts, which was considerably less demanding than science and business.
Fully dressed, she sat down on the end of the bed. "Any more questions?"
"What did you make on the SAT?" he asked suspiciously.
"When I took it in high school, eight hundred or so. I don't really remember."
He felt a bit relieved. Only average. He'd made a 1240 out of 1600, which he remembered because his grandparents had been so proud at the time. He'd thought they might suggest he have the number tattooed on his forehead.
"But when I took it again a few years ago, I did considerably better. I guess I didn't try very hard in high school."
"So that means you made a…"
"Fifteen-sixty. Do you want to know about my IQ, or have you been shocked enough for one evening?"
He'd better hear it all now. "Lay it on me."
"One thirty-seven."
"Oh, my God, I just made love to a genius."
"Not quite. One-forty is considered genius level. Still, pretty good for a dumb blonde, huh?"
"I have never called you a dumb blonde," he said hotl
y.
"You thought it. Every time you used a big word, you stopped and defined it for me. You patiently explained about the political history of Russia, even though I certainly didn't ask you to. Just this evening, you lectured me on classical music. You even wondered if I understood percentages when you were explaining about the effects of light filters."
Damn. He was guilty of all those things. "I over-explain everything to everybody," he said in his own defense. "Just ask Phyllis, or Kelly, or Kurt. I would never be attracted to a woman I didn't think was … bright."
"Bright," she said, her voice brittle. "A word normally reserved for children and dogs. Good night, Wyatt."
"But—" She wasn't going to listen to him, he decided. He couldn't stop her from walking out that door.
She did, without a backward glance.
Damn, he'd blown it this time. Okay, so his sweet little blond bundle of passion was a genius. He could see it. He could get used to it. Most of the women he'd dated over the years had been above-average intelligence. In fact, he was sure he would never be seriously attracted to a woman who couldn't conduct an intelligent conversation, or who never read anything more challenging than a tabloid newspaper.
He'd never, ever, thought Phoebe less than intelligent. He'd just assumed she wasn't well educated. And certainly he'd never guessed she was smarter than him.
Well, damn it, he thought, she didn't go out of her way to flaunt her braininess. She didn't use a lot of big words. She never joined in at the station when he and Phyllis got into philosophical arguments, which was frequently. And when he explained things to her, she didn't gently but firmly inform him that she already understood.
She played it just a little bit dumb, he concluded. Therefore, if he'd made a wrong assumption, he couldn't be blamed entirely for it.
He couldn't mount this ever-so-logical argument, however. Phoebe was gone, and likely not speaking to him in the near future.
Dejected, he went through the condo, picking up the trail of clothes he'd left. Maybe this was for the best. A few minutes ago he'd been ready to commit to a relationship with her. A real, monogamous, regular boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing. Since it seemed they couldn't keep away from each other, he'd decided they might as well accept the bond growing between them instead of fighting it, which took more time and energy than giving in would have.
Phoebe would have no trouble keeping her hands off him now.
* * *
Phoebe crept into her apartment. All was dark and quiet. She released a sigh, relieved her mother hadn't awakened. Maybe she'd taken a sleeping pill.
Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep herself, Phoebe made herself some hot tea and took it onto the balcony. The night air was crisp, but she didn't care. It felt good against her overheated skin. She sat down on a deck chair, set her tea on the little wrought-iron table and proceeded to sob quietly.
Phoebe had never thought of herself as an emotional person. But when she did give in to her feelings, she did it with gusto. She figured the best way to get through this crisis with Wyatt was to wallow in it, cry it out, let it get real messy, then move on.
So she sobbed. She cried, she snuffled, she hiccuped, and she cried some more. She used up an entire box of tissue. And just when she thought she was all cried out, the balcony door opened and Olga stepped outside. She wore a satin caftan, and her hair was wrapped in a sleep turban.
"Addy? I thought I heard something out here. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Mama," she answered, trying to sound normal. "I just couldn't sleep."
"Baloney. That boyfriend of yours has done something to make you cry. I always know when my baby is upset." Olga came and sat on the edge of Phoebe's lounger, moving Phoebe's legs aside to accommodate her. "Tell Mama what happened."
"Wyatt isn't my boyfriend."
"Of course he is. You're not telling me you stay out until all hours of the night with some casual date, are you?"
"How do you know what time I got in?"
"Mothers have super-trained ears. You'll learn all about it when you have your own babies."
Right now, babies seemed about as far from Phoebe's reality as a trip to Pluto. She wanted babies, she realized. Daisy's plight had gotten her thinking about children in the abstract, but now she realized she really did want one or two, or a dozen. She could even see their faces. They had dark, wavy hair and gray eyes.
"Did mean ol' Wyatt Madison hurt my baby?"
Phoebe nodded miserably. Olga would worm the truth out of her one way or another.
Abruptly Olga stood and grabbed both Phoebe's hands. "Stand up."
"What? Why?" But she did as her mother requested. Olga immediately sat down in the lounger herself, then pulled Phoebe into her lap. "Mama! I'm three inches taller than you and ten pounds heavier!"
"Fifteen. I've been on a diet. Sit in my lap like a good girl. We haven't been close in so long, not since you went away to L.A."
Since Olga bad her arms around Phoebe like vice clamps, she had no choice but to relax and give in to her mother's sudden spurt of maternal instinct. She laid her head on Olga's breast, just as she'd done when she was a child.
"What did he do?" Olga asked gently.
"He thinks I'm stupid."
"Nonsense. Who would think that?"
"Only everyone I meet. I got so used to projecting this ditzy blonde image when I was in Hollywood, and now, no matter what I do, people just assume I'm dumb. I thought Wyatt was different, but…"
"But what?"
"You should have seen his face when I told him I was studying biochemistry. I might as well have told him I'd joined a voodoo cult and wanted to sacrifice a chicken in his living room."
"Well, honey, I could have told you that. Men are intimidated by brainy women."
"I couldn't let him keep thinking I was hanging out at the university to pick up men."
"You could have told him you were studying home economics."
Phoebe sighed, and Olga stroked her hair. Olga just didn't get it.
"Of course, that's not what Jane Jasmine would recommend."
Phoebe sat up. "You've read the book?"
"A few chapters. I thought, if I'm going to meet the author on national television, I ought to read her book. Besides, it was just sitting on your bookshelf."
"What do you think so far?"
"Some of it makes sense, I guess. I know she's right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"No man's going to love you if you don't love yourself."
"I do love myself," Phoebe groused.
"Me, too," Olga said, without a lot of conviction. Phoebe suspected they shared the same problem, though. They might love themselves, but they were both very, very afraid the rest of the world wouldn't. So they hid. Olga played dumb and helpless; she played the vamp; she played the carefree widow. And Phoebe played to the blonde stereotype. She also played like she didn't want or need a man.
Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
* * *
Phoebe wasn't sure how she made it through work Monday. To be sure, Wyatt stayed out of her way. If he had anything to say to her, he sent Phyllis or one of the crew. But she was very, very aware of his whereabouts all day long. And every time she saw him, it felt like an ice pick in her heart.
By the time the show was over and she was packing up to leave, she felt sick to her stomach. And she never got sick.
She drove to the university but skipped her last two classes, almost unheard of for her. She would have to get a copy of the lecture notes from someone later. She didn't think she would be able to focus on anything tonight, anyway.
When she got home, she found Olga in the living room surrounded by several shopping bags from Phoenix's smarter department stores. She wore what had to be a new, fashionable shorts outfit and gold, high-heeled sandals.
"Addy! You're home early."
"Not feeling too good," she said, collapsing onto the couch.
"Well, of cours
e not. You've just had a major tiff with your honey. But I've got the cure for that."
Oh, no. Phoebe just raised her eyebrows expectantly.
"First, I bought us both sexy new bathing suits." She whipped two scraps of shiny lamé out of one of the bags.
Phoebe laughed. She couldn't help it, in the face of Olga's relentless good cheer. "Mama, you must be kidding. I'm not wearing pink lamé."
"Then you can have the blue one." She tossed the incredibly brief suit onto Phoebe's lap. "We'll take a pitcher of margaritas down to the pool and catch a few rays. But first—"
She opened another bag and pulled out several bottles and tubes. "Beauty treatments all the way around. I had this dream once that I'd come to Phoenix, and you'd get me into that ritzy spa you worked at for free."
"Are you kidding? My former boss didn't give anyone a free ride." But Phoebe was drawn to the beauty products despite herself. Just researching her future competition, she told herself. She opened up a popular brand of "miraculous moisturizer" and sniffed it. "Nothing but lanolin, lecithin, and maybe a bit of corn oil."
Olga wrinkled her nose. "You're kidding. I paid seventeen dollars for that jar."
"I could whip it up in my kitchen for about ninety-eight cents."
Olga seemed fascinated. "What about this one?" She handed Phoebe a bottle of toner. Phoebe observed the color, then sniffed. "Mostly alcohol, probably some witch hazel, stearyl ether and glycerin. And food coloring."
Olga grinned. "You're really learning something at that school of yours. Do these products even work?"
"Yeah, sure. But this one will dry out your skin," she said, holding up the toner.
"Ewww. So what do you recommend?"
Phoebe grinned, suddenly feeling a bit better. If she'd known it would be this easy to impress her mother, she'd have done it a long time ago. "Let me show you."
Twenty minutes later they both had their faces covered with Phoebe's avocado, yogurt and honey mask, and Olga was doing Phoebe's nails in a hot pink. "So what are you going to do about your producer sweetie?" Olga asked.
Phoebe sighed. "Nothing."
"Nothing! Are you sure you're my daughter? This is war, Addy. You've got to go on the offensive. Your first mission is to hang out by the pool in that swimsuit and completely ignore him."