Tame An Older Man

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 exactly 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'sA 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."

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.

"Phoebe…" 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.