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Tame An Older Man
Kara Lennox
Beauty tames beastly bachelor? Good luck!All men were not created equal, and Phoebe Lane had quickly deduced that her sexy new neighbor, Wyatt Madison, had been created with one bad attitude. True, he was heartbreakingly handsome and distractingly distinguished, but Wyatt had the nerve to think Phoebe was husband hunting and that he was her prey. The beautiful and brainy gal was interested only in hooking Wyatt up with her best friend. Yet the thought of taming this older man and letting him go was becoming an increasingly uncomfortable proposition. Suddenly this confirmed bachelorette wanted the beast all to herself…and a wedding to boot!2001 Ways to Wed: This little book on finding Mr. Right is guaranteed to help three friends make it to the altar!



Phoenix Television Tell-All Mailbag
Q. Is it possible that the sizzling sexpot who played Vanessa Vance on the juicy nighttime soap opera Skin Deep is alive and well and living in our city’s midst? I’m a big fan of Heads Up, the nationally syndicated talk show filmed here in Phoenix, Arizona, and I swear I saw Phoebe Lane (Vanessa’s real name) in the show’s credits, as makeup artist. Could it be the same leggy blonde—and is she single?
A. It’s true—the knockout Phoebe Lane has turned in her SAG card and is working off camera, applying some cosmetic tricks she learned on those Hollywood sets. You might also be surprised to know that Ms. Lane is a bombshell and an egghead, meaning she’s studying biochemistry at Arizona State University—and the curvy lady is setting the class curve. But she doesn’t spend every night with her books…. Though Ms. Lane swears she’s “single and loving it,” she’s been spotted cozying up with Wyatt Madison, producer of Heads Up. Looks as if Ms. Lane may be living her very own soap opera, right here in Phoenix—dating an older man who also happens to be her boss!
Dear Reader,
Spring is the perfect time to celebrate the joy of romance. So get set to fall in love as Harlequin American Romance brings you four new spectacular books.
First, we’re happy to welcome New York Times bestselling author Kasey Michaels to the Harlequin American Romance family. She inaugurates TEXAS SHEIKHS, our newest in-line continuity, with His Innocent Temptress. This four-book series focuses on a Texas family with royal Arabian blood who must fight to reunite their family and reclaim their rightful throne.
Also, available this month, The Virgin Bride Said, “Wow!” by Cathy Gillen Thacker, a delightful marriage-of-convenience story and the latest installment in THE LOCKHARTS OF TEXAS miniseries. Kara Lennox provides fireworks as a beautiful young woman who’s looking for Mr. Right sets out to Tame an Older Man following the advice of 2001 WAYS TO WED, a book guaranteed to provide satisfaction! And Have Baby, Need Beau says it all in Rita Herron’s continuation of her wonderful THE HARTWELL HOPE CHESTS series.
Enjoy April’s selections and come back next month for more love stories filled with heart, home and happiness from Harlequin American Romance.
Wishing you happy reading,
Melissa Jeglinski
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin American Romance
Tame an Older Man
Kara Lennox


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Joseph Preece, a terrific father-in-law.
Thank you for making me feel so welcome.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Texas native Kara Lennox has been an art director, typesetter, advertising copy writer, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique and a health club, and has conducted telephone surveys. She’s been an antiques dealer and briefly ran a clipping service. But no work has made her happier than writing romance novels.
When Kara isn’t writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of weird hobbies, from rock climbing to crystal digging. But her mind is never far from her stories. Just about anything can send her running to her computer to jot down a new idea for some future novel.
Books by Kara Lennox
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
840—VIRGIN PROMISE
856—TWIN EXPECTATIONS
871—TAME AN OLDER MAN
When three best friends need advice on finding that perfect love match, they turn to the wisest relationship book around, 2001 Ways To Wed.
Chapter 14
The Mystique of the Older Man
What is it about an older man that intrigues us? His debonair demeanor? That irresistible wisp of gray at his temples? The rich life experiences he has to share?
Actually, it’s all these—and more. The “December” man may think a “May” woman is a prize—a bit of a trophy. But honestly, it is the distinguished, mature bachelor who is the lady’s conquest.
What do I mean? Well, this is a man who has held fast to his single lifestyle for decades, turning his back on any relationship that dared to get too close to commitment. Then a fresh-faced female comes along, and wham! Before he knows it, he’s on his honeymoon. He didn’t just happen to relinquish his seat in the Bachelors’ Hall of Fame. He was tamed by a younger woman….

Contents
Chapter One (#ud153bc24-39b9-5bbd-970a-a35d45d56cf0)
Chapter Two (#u28a8b134-43e6-50cd-aa85-985f440263a7)
Chapter Three (#ub3cdf057-29b6-523f-b682-e6f7df4e0a17)
Chapter Four (#uac36a130-1be1-5c81-a47c-b468e4720c72)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One
Phoebe Lane knocked on her downstairs neighbor’s door. The sound of multi-cat yowling greeted her from the other side. “Frannie?” she called. “You home?”
“One minute, one minute,” Frannie called. “I’d probably scare you if I came to the door naked, now, wouldn’t I?” A moment later the door opened, and Frannie welcomed Phoebe with a smile and slightly bleary eyes. Her red beehive pouf of hair was a little flat on one side and not quite as perky as usual.
“Oh, Frannie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.”
“That’s okay, hon, come on in before the cats get out.” She dragged Phoebe in by the elbow. The cats—Phoebe saw at least six—had no intention of escaping. They knew where their meal ticket was. They followed Frannie with adoring eyes and twitching tails, as she led Phoebe into the kitchen and put the coffee on. “I needed to get up, anyway, and feed my babies.”
Frannie managed to hold the coffeepot under the tap with one hand while pouring dry cat food into several pet bowls with the other. Phoebe could only hope Frannie didn’t get mixed up and put cat food in the coffeemaker.
“What’s got you up so early on a Saturday morning?” Frannie asked.
“It’s our new neighbor. His car is in the carport, so he must be home for a change. I was hoping I could get a look at him. I bet we can see his balcony from your patio.”
Frannie’s eyes sparkled. “The mysterious, reclusive Wyatt Madison. Why can’t you spy on his balcony from the courtyard?”
“I can’t see his balcony through those overachiever palm trees growing from your patio,” Phoebe explained.
“And what makes you think Mr. Madison will come out on his balcony this particular morning?”
“’Cause the weather’s nice?” Phoebe sagged a bit. “All right, so it’s not a great plan. Got a better one?”
“Hmm.” Frannie distributed the cat food among her herd of felines, her brow furrowed in thought. Then she smiled. “Ah, I know. This will be great.”
Phoebe watched, curious, as Frannie selected among her pets one half-grown Siamese kitten. She picked it up and cuddled it, though it protested at being taken away from the food. “Igor loves to climb trees, don’t you, baby?” She grabbed a can of cat treats from the top of the refrigerator and headed toward the back of her apartment. “Follow me.”
Phoebe couldn’t wait to see what her resourceful neighbor had planned. Frannie made it a point to know everything about everybody who lived in Mesa Blue, their condo complex. But Wyatt Madison, who was house-sitting while his grandparents were away on a month-long cruise, had proved quite a challenge. No one had seen him. All they knew about him was that he’d moved recently from Chicago to Phoenix to produce a nationally syndicated talk show, “Heads Up,” and that his grandparents thought he walked on water.
“You’ll be sweet to Wyatt, won’t you?” 80-year-old Helen Madison had asked, as Phoebe helped her with the last-minute packing for her European cruise, the vacation she and her husband Rolland had planned for years. “He’s such a dear, but he needs some, er, female guidance, if you know what I mean.”
Precisely the reason Phoebe was so curious about the man.
“You know,” Frannie said as she led the way through the living room and to her large patio, where a couple more cats lazed in the sun, “I don’t blame you for trying to meet Wyatt before any of the other girls in this building get their hooks in him. It’s about time you took an interest in romance.”
Phoebe laughed. “I’m not interested in romance with Wyatt Madison. Please!” She’d sworn off men for the foreseeable future.
“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” Frannie said, batting her eyelashes. “Nothing makes a woman feel young and gorgeous like an attentive man. Of course, I guess that doesn’t apply to you. You’re already young and gorgeous.”
“It’s the burden I live with,” Phoebe quipped, though she was half serious.
“Anyway, if you’re not out to jump his bones—”
“I’m just curious, Frannie,” Phoebe said with a laugh. Actually, she was interested in Wyatt’s romantic potential. But not for herself. One of her best friends, Daisy Redford, who lived on the second floor, had a ticking biological clock. Phoebe and her other best friend, Elise Foster, had pledged to help Daisy find her man. They were leaving no stone unturned—even if it meant going along with some wacky scheme of Frannie’s.
Frannie stood at the back of the patio, set the cat down, opened the can of cat treats, and let Igor have a sniff. “Yummy, yummy,” she said. Then she took a morsel from the can and lobbed it up toward the third floor—toward Wyatt’s balcony.
“You aren’t serious!” Phoebe said, laughing. “This won’t work!”
“Just watch.”
It took her a few tries, but Frannie had an admirable hook shot. Eventually a piece of the treat actually landed on Wyatt’s balcony. And the cat, watching carefully, saw it.
Frannie held the cat next to the trunk of a palm tree that grew straight up from her patio to the third floor. Igor immediately got the idea. He sank his claws into the tree and, with his goal firmly in mind, started to climb.
“How did you know he would do that?” Phoebe asked.
“Like I said, Igor loves climbing trees. He also always gets stuck. Now we have a perfect excuse to knock on the mysterious Mr. Madison’s door.”
Phoebe and Frannie watched long enough to feel certain the sure-footed feline would complete his mission, then scurried up to the third floor themselves, though they chose to use the stairs.
Phoebe’s heart thumped as they approached Wyatt’s door. “This is kind of dishonest, don’t you think?”
“Of course not. The cat is stuck, or he will be shortly. How else would I get him down?” Frannie stopped before the door and knocked smartly.
“Who is it?” a deep, oddly muffled-sounding voice asked from the other side.
“It’s your neighbors, Frannie and Phoebe,” Frannie said brightly.
“Come on in,” the voice beckoned. “Door’s unlocked.”
Frannie didn’t hesitate. Phoebe followed her inside, and both of them looked around for the source of the voice.
“Mr. Madison?” Frannie called.
“In the kitchen.”
The women followed the sound of the voice into the kitchen, and Phoebe stifled a gasp as she laid eyes on the most delightful set of male buns she’d ever seen. It quickly became apparent why Wyatt’s voice had been muffled. He had his head and shoulders buried under the kitchen sink.
“I’m right in the middle of something,” he said, pleasantly enough. “If I let go, I’ll flood the whole kitchen. Can I help you?”
Frannie, her gaze riveted on that wonderful butt covered with snug, faded denim, couldn’t seem to articulate an answer. Phoebe jumped in.
“We’re really sorry to bother you, but Frannie’s cat seems to have climbed up a tree by your balcony, and now he’s stuck. We thought you could get him down for us.”
“I, um, can’t right now.” Wyatt seemed to be wrestling with a stubborn pipe or something. His muscles bulged as he applied pressure to a wrench. The wrench slipped. “Ouch. Damn it! Um, ’scuse me.”
“How long do you think you’ll be?”
“At the rate I’m going? Hours. Why don’t you go on back to my balcony and see if you can get the cat yourself?”
That wasn’t the plan! Phoebe looked at Frannie, who shrugged helplessly. “I guess we can try,” Phoebe said. With luck, the cat would be too high or too low for them to reach.
Phoebe tried to take everything in, searching for clues to Wyatt’s personality as she and Frannie headed for the French doors that led out to the balcony. But the apartment looked almost identical to the way it had before the elder Madisons had left—tastefully decorated, accented with a few souvenirs from their travels around the world. Wyatt hadn’t put much of a stamp on the place.
When they stepped outside, a veritable jungle of plants greeted them. Helen had quite the green thumb, and she nurtured everything from ferns to cacti on her roomy terrace. They all looked happy and healthy, as if Wyatt was taking good care of them. He probably was, too, knowing how unhappy Helen would be if any of her darlings expired during her vacation.
Phoebe noticed a couple of new additions, two huge potted cactus plants. Then she spotted Igor perched in the top of a palm tree—at shoulder level, perfectly within reach of either woman. Rats. He mewed pitifully, and Frannie plucked him out of the tree and cuddled him. “Oh, poor baby. Mama played a mean trick on you, didn’t she, pushing you up that tree when she knew you’d get stuck. Let’s go home and get a treat.”
“I guess we can’t linger out here without arousing suspicion,” Phoebe agreed.
They stopped in the kitchen on the way out. Wyatt was still busily engaged with his plumbing. Well, at least they’d discovered he had a nice rear and a pleasant voice.
“Did you get the cat?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frannie said. “May I bring you some brownies to thank you?”
“I didn’t really do anything. Anyway, I’m allergic to chocolate, but thanks.”
Frannie and Phoebe looked at each other, but they were both out of ideas. “Well, guess we’ll leave,” Phoebe said. “Unless you need help with that plumbing?”
“Got it covered, thanks.”
They left. “Mission failed,” Phoebe murmured as she bid Frannie goodbye at the top of the stairs.
WYATT JUST LAY THERE under the sink for a few moments after the two women left. He’d been dying to get a look at the young one, Phoebe. He knew she was young because his grandparents had spoken endlessly of how beautiful she was, how nice, and how single. It was no secret they wanted him safely married off and providing them with great-grandchildren.
He’d always thought he wanted to get married someday, but someday had never come. He was thirty-nine but still in no hurry, not when he was on such a crucial rung of his career ladder, working sixteen-hour days to get “Heads Up” off on the right foot. He especially wasn’t interested in a platinum-blond beauty. The pretty ones were always trouble, their motives never to be trusted.
Still, Phoebe’s voice had sent pleasurable chills up his spine. He couldn’t be blamed for wanting to look.
When the plumbing job was finally finished, Wyatt took a moment to admire his handiwork. The kitchen faucet now ran hot and cold water at an appropriate volume without flooding the countertop. Satisfied, he grabbed a bottle of fruit juice as a reward and headed for his balcony. Since his move to Phoenix, he’d been stuck in the studio night and day. Now that he finally had a day off, he could appreciate the fine spring weather. What a switch it was from Chicago!
He sat down in one of the deck chairs and took a draw on his O.J. But relaxing didn’t come easy to him. Never had. First he saw some brown leaves on one of his grandmother’s ferns that had to be pinched. Then a spot of something orange on the balcony decking caught his eye. He picked up the small, soft, orange lump and sniffed it.
Smelled like fish. Cat food. Uh-huh.
Apparently Miss Phoebe felt the need for subterfuge in getting into his apartment. Apparently she believed that just introducing herself was too obvious.
He sighed, disappointed. Though why should Phoebe Lane be any different from every other attractive woman he met? It wouldn’t matter how subtle her machinations. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, get her on TV.
RATHER THAN TRAIPSING back to her own apartment two doors down from Wyatt’s, Phoebe went down to the second floor and knocked on Elise’s door.
“Come in, it’s unlocked,” Elise called. That seemed to be the policy around Mesa Blue. Everybody knew everybody—except Wyatt, of course—and since access to the building was controlled by twenty-four-hour security, the building had become its own small town. That was one of the reasons Phoebe had decided to move here. Her grandmother had left the condo to her in her will. Surprised and grateful—Phoebe had scarcely ever met her father’s mother—she welcomed the opportunity to flee Hollywood and settle into Mesa Blue’s warm, friendly environs.
She entered Elise’s apartment to find her friend lounging on her sofa reading a Bride magazine and sipping coffee. Her light brown hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore gym shorts and a T-shirt, looking as if she’d just finished an exercise routine.
Elise smiled a welcome. “Hey, get some coffee and sit down.”
Phoebe did just that. She loved Elise’s apartment, with its comfy furniture and its eclectic collection of books, pictures and plants. It was the sort of apartment a college professor should live in, which was only fitting, since that’s what Elise was. She taught French at Arizona State University.
Phoebe was sad that Elise would be moving out when she got married in a few months, though happy her friend had found such a wonderful man in James Dillon.
“Any progress in checking out Wyatt Madison?” Elise asked.
“That’s why I’m here. I’ve failed miserably. Although I can tell you he has a butt to die for.”
Elise’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, really?”
“And a nice voice.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”
“He had his head stuck under the sink, for gosh sake,” Phoebe said. “Even Frannie couldn’t lure him out. We’ve got to come up with a plan.”
Elise set aside the magazine. “In that case…” She hopped up, went to her bookcase, and after a moment’s perusal selected a large white paperback with blue lettering.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Phoebe said with a laugh, as Elise resumed her seat and started flipping through the book, 2001 Ways to Wed by Jane Jasmine. The book was a surprise hit with women all over the country, women who previously thought they were doomed to a life of loneliness. From Seattle to Miami, they claimed Ms. Jasmine’s eminently sensible advice had helped them find husbands.
Actually, Elise was one of those women, although she hadn’t actually been looking for a husband when she’d found James. She’d only been looking for a temporary escort to take her to a family wedding and pretend to be her fiancé. She’d sought out someone in the Drama Department at the university, a professor who could act the part of a devoted fiancé, and had found a millionaire, instead.
“This book actually has some wonderful advice,” Elise said.
“Any advice for luring a workaholic recluse from his lair?” Phoebe asked. “I swear, if the Madisons didn’t insist he was such a catch—so absolutely perfect—I wouldn’t bother with him.”
“There’s a whole chapter called ‘Don’t Forget Your Neighbors’ on finding compatibility with the boy next door. Actually, that’s the chapter that gave me the idea to go looking in the Drama Department. They’re my neighbors at the university.”
Phoebe stretched her legs out, propping them on Elise’s coffee table. “Let’s have it. What does Ms. Jasmine advise?”
“‘Sometimes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’” Elise read. “‘Bake him a batch of welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies.’”
“Would you believe Frannie already tried that? He’s allergic to chocolate.”
“Hmm. Oh, how about this one? ‘Is the man an animal lover? You could accidentally-on-purpose lose your dog or cat in his yard—’”
“Been there, done that. He had no interest in rescuing Daisy’s cat from a tree.”
“Darn, he is a tough case.” Elise flipped the page, scanning the text for gems. “Here’s one—‘Next time you have a domestic emergency, before you call a plumber or electrician, try the boy next door. If you’re lucky, he’ll be anxious to show off his manly prowess with power tools. Even if the two of you don’t hit it off, you could save yourself an exorbitant repair bill.’”
“Are you forgetting about Bill?” Phoebe said. Bill White was the super at Mesa Blue. He kept the building in top shape.
“You’re right. No one would impose on a neighbor when Bill is around. Okay, one more idea. ‘Have a party and invite him. If he comes alone, good for you. If he comes with a date, be gracious to them both. They might have eligible male friends. If he doesn’t come, you can always make so much noise that he can’t resist coming over to join the fun.’”
“That’s it!” Phoebe cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I thought you hated parties,” Elise said. “You said you’d had enough of them in L.A. to last you a lifetime.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at the reminder. Those Hollywood parties had seemed exciting when she’d first moved to California. She’d loved the schmoozing—name-brand producers making promises, aging movie stars making passes, other agents trying to steal her away from the one she already had. And all of them telling her how beautiful she was.
About the time she’d landed the part as Vanessa Vance on the nighttime soap opera “Skin Deep,” however, the schmoozing got old. Everyone assumed she’d slept with the handsome producer just to get the part.
People would have laughed if she’d told them the real reason she’d gotten involved with Joel Spinner. She’d thought she was in love with him. She hadn’t realized what a can of worms she’d opened. Joel had been less than discreet about their affair, and next thing she knew, the studly young star of the show assumed she would sleep with him. And when she didn’t, he told everybody she had.
For a few weeks, she was labeled Hollywood’s slut-du-jour. Unfortunately, she couldn’t claim complete innocence. On the rebound from Joel, she’d made a few bad choices in the romance department.
Still, she never sank to the level of sleeping with someone just to get a part, though the opportunities were there. And once it became obvious Phoebe Lane didn’t play the casting-couch game, she went from rising young star to has-been in a short time span. Vanessa Vance was killed in an unsightly car wreck. The soap got canned. And her agent expected her to do the next round of parties—only this time it would be harder, because she was no longer the freshest face in town.
And she had a bit of a rep.
That’s when she’d made her escape from Hollywood, much to her mother’s disappointment.
“My party would be nothing like those parties in L.A.,” Phoebe said. “Anyway, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. As one of your best friends, I must give you and James an engagement party.”
“Oh, but I wasn’t hinting around,” Elise objected.
“I know. But it’s a great idea, anyway. Start making out your guest list. Your family—that’ll be a crowd right there—James’s family, and all our neighbors. We’ll have it out by the pool!”
Mesa Blue was a horseshoe-shaped building situated around a huge, blue-bottomed pool, which was another reason Phoebe had jumped at the chance to move here. Phoebe loved to swim. These days, while doing her laps, she worked out chemical equations from her organic chemistry class in her mind. The pool area was perfect for gatherings large and small, and anybody who lived here was free to make use of it.
“You know, this isn’t a bad idea,” Elise said. “I bet you can get Jeff to tend bar for you.” Jeff Hawkin was the kid who maintained the pool and courtyard grounds. He also was a part-time bartender at The Prickly Pear, a nearby bar and grill that Phoebe, Elise and Daisy had made their home-away-from-home.
“Great idea. Maybe I can get The Prickly Pear to cater it.”
Soon, Phoebe and Elise were hip-deep in party plans. The invitation list included a few bonus eligible men for Daisy, per Jane Jasmine’s advice: “Hedge your bets,” Jane had written. “You can invite any number of single men to a party, and none will know he’s being ‘singled out’ for attention.”
WHEN WYATT OPENED the colorful envelope that had been slipped under his door, he suspected ulterior motives. The flowing, feminine script was a clue. Sure, it was just an invitation to a party to celebrate the engagement of one of his neighbors, Elise Foster. His grandparents had mentioned her, too—many times. But the personal note from the party’s hostess, none other than Phoebe Lane, confirmed his suspicions.
“Everyone would really like to get to know you,” she’d written. “Hope you’ll be able to make it.”
He had to admit he was tempted. Though his co-workers at the studio had invited him time and again to socialize with them after their day’s work, he always declined. He simply had too much to do. Eventually he would delegate more responsibilities, as he collected a loyal and competent staff. But right now he felt compelled to oversee every detail personally. Interviewing potential guests took hours out of every day, but he insisted that all people to appear on the show be thoroughly screened. The last thing he wanted was for “Heads Up” to turn into another daytime trash TV show.
His grandparents would have urged him to go to the party. They’d told him often enough how much fun it was to live at Mesa Blue because of the nice neighbors. They’d made lifelong friends here.
So Phoebe’s invitation was tempting. Wyatt would have liked to meet new friends, people he could relax with—let down his guard, talk about anything and everything. A woman friend would be nice, too. He’d been without serious female companionship for longer than was healthy. But a party wasn’t the place for him to meet friends of either sex. In his experience, parties were where publicity-hungry people of every ilk tried every persuasive trick they could think of to get themselves on TV.
It had been bad enough in Chicago, where he’d produced a local morning talk show. But since “Heads Up” had made its moderately successful debut, closet wanna-be celebrities were coming out of the woodwork.
Griffin, one of the security guards downstairs, had started singing “Moon River” one night as Wyatt had entered the building from work, dead tired. A housekeeper who cleaned his office at work had left a folder on his desk filled with nude pictures. It just got worse and worse.
If everybody in the building didn’t already know about his job, he might have considered attending the party. But he knew his grandparents well enough to know they’d bragged about him to anybody who would listen. They’d raised him after his parents’ sudden death, and for some odd reason they thought he was perfect.
That settled it, Wyatt thought. Then he dropped the pretty invitation in his kitchen trash, but not without a sigh of regret.

Chapter Two
Phoebe was pleased with how quickly she’d pulled together Elise and James’s engagement party. The Prickly Pear was setting up a fajita buffet in the courtyard; Jeff had agreed to tend bar, though Phoebe suspected what he really wanted was to keep an eye on his precious pool, the maintenance of which he took very seriously. Invitations had gone out and RSVPs had come back. Almost all Elise’s siblings were coming—she had seven—along with some of James’s family and even his housekeeper, whom Phoebe gathered was more like a family member than an employee.
Phoebe had gotten some personalized cocktail napkins printed. She and Daisy had pitched in on a gift of his-and-her massages, even though Elise had made them promise no gifts. The weather was cooperating—it was a balmy 74 degrees.
Now all Phoebe had to do was get herself ready, and that was the easy part. As a former model and actress, she could do hair, clothes and makeup in nothing flat. Because she’d had time to spare, she’d applied an avocado, honey and yogurt facial mask—her own invention, very popular at the Sunrise Spa where she worked doing beauty makeovers.
Now she sat in her living room in a beanbag chair, studying her organic chemistry book. She was a bit behind on her studying because of the extra time planning the party had taken, and she had a test on Monday—but she would have all day tomorrow to study. She’d specifically requested Sunday off, though her boss hadn’t liked it.
After a few minutes of letting the mask do its thing, Phoebe consulted her watch. It was about time to jump in the shower. She stood and reached for the hem of her slip, intending to pull it off gingerly over her head so as not to get avocado all over it, then heard a noise—a horrible noise that sounded like nothing so much as Niagara Falls. And it was coming from her utility room.
She ran through the kitchen, then skidded to a stop at the entrance to the small room where she did her laundry. It was, indeed, a waterfall, or maybe a geyser, pouring noisily from behind her washing machine. Water gushed everywhere!
“Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh.” Phoebe stepped back into the kitchen and dialed Bill White’s number, which was posted with her other emergency numbers. Bill’s voice came on the line.
“Bill, Bill! Come quick, my—”
“I’m not in right now,” Bill’s recorded voice informed her. “Please leave your name and number—”
Phoebe hung up. No time, no time. If she waited for Bill to return from wherever, her entire apartment would be flooded and the water would be leaking downstairs into Elise’s apartment. She started to dial 911. This was an emergency, right? No—the police wouldn’t come for a leak.
Phoebe was almost paralyzed by her quandary. Then she saw water running from the utility room onto the tiled kitchen floor. The living room carpets were next.
Who in the building could she—Wyatt! Of course. Hadn’t he been working on the sink the one and only time she’d seen him? Without further debate, she ran for the front door, out into the hallway and around the corner. She banged on Wyatt’s door with her fist.
“Wyatt! Help, please, I need you!”
NOW THERE WAS SOMETHING a man didn’t hear every day, Wyatt thought as he laid down his calculator, distracted from his weekly “Heads Up” budget fiasco by a seductive female voice calling for help. Calling his name. Claiming to need him.
Yeah, right, he thought. When he opened the front door, some winsome female would be waiting for him—and what kind of story would she have? Maybe a big bug in her kitchen, or a jar that needed opening…or something in her eye?
He almost ignored the summons. He’d lived in Mesa Blue for nearly two weeks and had so far managed to stay handily out of his neighbors’ way. But when the woman called again for help, he realized she did sound a little hysterical. What if something was really wrong? His grandparents would never forgive him if he let some harm befall Phoebe Lane.
That was who the voice belonged to, he realized. Though he’d only heard it once, he remembered it, smooth as warm honey. Even when hysterical.
He hurried to the door and opened it. The creature standing in the hallway was hardly a female trying to impress him. Oh, the costume could have been contrived. After all, a woman dressed only in a slip could certainly catch a man’s attention. Especially this woman, for she had a better-than-average body, tall and slim-hipped, with full breasts and legs up to…But above the neck, she reminded him of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, wearing some kind of pea-green goo all over her face.
Wyatt would have laughed, but she didn’t give him the chance. She grabbed his arm and dragged him toward her apartment.
“You fix plumbing, right?” she asked breathlessly. “I saw you under the sink. You know pipes, water?”
“Uh, some, yeah.”
She pushed through her front door. Immediately Wyatt heard the water running. “In there.” She pointed toward her kitchen, where a lake of water was spilling onto the living room carpet.
“Oh, hell.” He ran for the kitchen, splashed through it and into the utility room, where the problem became glaringly apparent. Her washing machine hose had burst. He took a deep breath and plunged into the gushing spray of water, groping around behind the washing machine, feeling his way until he found the shut-off valve. A couple of turns, and the geyser shrank away to nothing.
“Oh, oh, thank heavens. I didn’t know what to do, and Bill wasn’t in—”
“Do you have buckets?”
“Buckets?” She blinked at him with huge blue eyes. Those eyes, surrounded as they were by green glop, made her look like a frog.
“And mops. We better get this water cleaned up before it soaks into the subfloor. Or, worse yet, into your downstairs neighbor’s ceiling.”
Phoebe gasped, then immediately went to work locating what he’d asked for. “Elise would kill me. She’s trying to sell her unit.”
“Oh. She’s the one getting married.” He took a bucket from her and started scooping up water from the floor, then dumping it into the sink. Phoebe got a mop and pitched in herself.
Wyatt gave Elise’s condo more than a passing thought. Though he’d been looking for a house to live in ever since he’d moved to Phoenix, it might not be that bad living in a condo, especially one as nice as those in Mesa Blue. Plus, if he lived here, he would be close to his grandparents. They were in good health now, still traveling and running around like a couple of kids. But they were both in their eighties. He wanted to keep an eye on them.
“Do you know how much she’s asking?” Wyatt asked idly, his gaze focused on Phoebe’s shapely backside, as she vigorously mopped the floor. He was a bun man, he couldn’t deny it, and Phoebe’s was tautly muscled and slender, but womanly all at the same time. And what exactly was she wearing under that slip? A thong, or…nothing?
His mouth suddenly dry, he looked purposefully away from her, grateful that he was soaked with cold water. He had no business ogling a woman in a slip, especially a woman who was so rattled by nearly flooding her entire apartment that she’d forgotten she wasn’t decently dressed.
He silently apologized for believing she’d orchestrated such a disaster solely to get his attention.
“I’m not sure how much she’s asking,” Phoebe said. “But you can ask her tonight at the party. I know your grandparents would be tickled to have you move in here. Gosh, I just realized I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Phoebe Lane.”
“The one with the wayward kitten,” Wyatt said, as if he’d only just now made the connection.
“Actually, that was Frannie’s kitten. I was just trying to help.”
The worst of the water was up now. “It’s nice to meet you, Phoebe.” Wyatt held out his hand. She shook it quickly, then let go. Her hand was soft, yet strong, her fingernails long, tapered, and painted a pale peach. He noticed her hair, then, too. Though it was pulled back with a rubber band, he could see that it was long, almost to her waist, and straight as a waterfall.
“I can finish up here,” she said. “I guess you might like some time to get ready for the party yourself.”
Wyatt rubbed his unshaved chin. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to criticize Phoebe’s appearance; he was hardly a fashion plate himself. At least he’d showered this morning, but he’d thrown on the first clothes he found: an old, holey pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a cable station logo.
“Oh, I won’t be at the party tonight,” he said, the regret in his voice almost genuine. He was curious to see what this Phoebe looked like when she slicked herself up.
Phoebe’s green face fell. “I’m sorry to hear that. Everybody is…well, that is, your grandparents have told us so much about you, but we haven’t had a chance to get to know you.”
“I’ve been busy. And I have paperwork to finish tonight.”
“You work in television or something, right?”
This was uneasy territory. “Yeah, at WBZZ,” he murmured, hoping she’d assume he was a lighting technician. But chances were his grandparents had told her everything.
Surprisingly, she didn’t pursue that line of questioning.
“You still have to eat dinner. Just drop by for a few minutes and grab some fajitas. You don’t have to dress up or anything, it’s very casual.”
“I don’t think—”
“Please say yes. There are so many nice people living at Mesa Blue. Like Daisy Redford, for example.”
“Who?”
“Daisy Redford. She’s the most incredible artist. The most gorgeous auburn hair. I’m surprised your grandparents never mentioned her. They have her over for dinner all the time.”
They had mentioned her. Numerous times, almost as often as they mentioned Phoebe. But it seemed his grandparents weren’t the only ones interested in playing matchmaker. Phoebe was being none too subtle. Did her trying to push Daisy on him mean she wasn’t interested herself?
And why should he care whether frog-woman found him attractive?
“I appreciate the invitation, really, but I just don’t have time to socialize. My work takes up all of my time.”
Her manner turned definitely cool. “I’d better let you get back to it, then. Thanks again for stopping the leak.”
“No problem. I just hope you can get that stuff off your face after all this time.”
“What?” She reached up and touched her face. Her eyes, already huge, grew to the size of saucers.
He didn’t wait around for the inevitable shrieks of consternation, preferring to make a hasty escape.
PHOEBE RAN to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. It was worse than she had imagined. Not only had she forgotten about the avocado-honey-yogurt mask, but she’d also been running around in nothing but her slip! She’d just been so panicked by the flood that she’d forgotten herself completely. Then, when she’d seen Wyatt Madison, she’d gone totally brainless.
His buns had made her mouth go dry the other day, but the rest of him measured up just fine—broad shoulders, nice pecs, washboard stomach, all revealed in unbearable detail because his T-shirt had gotten soaking wet. His face wouldn’t stop a clock, either, featuring chiseled, matinee-idol features, intriguingly dark gray eyes, even white teeth. Lots of the guys she’d worked with in television would envy that face, which she was certain no plastic surgeon or cosmetic dentist had gone near. He was a hundred-percent authentic. She was amazed he’d chosen to stay behind the camera.
Even after she’d showered, dressed and put on makeup, Phoebe couldn’t get Wyatt Madison off her mind. He was older than she’d expected, probably closer to forty than thirty. The most recent picture displayed by the Madisons was Wyatt’s high school graduation picture. Though Phoebe realized he wouldn’t still look as he had in high school—which was cute, with a killer smile—she hadn’t realized he was so mature. He even had a bit of gray at his temples. The Madisons had made him sound more like a carefree playboy than a stodgy TV executive.
Well, okay, he wasn’t stodgy. He was gorgeous. And Daisy was looking for someone mature, ready to settle down, right? So Phoebe had dutifully mentioned her to Wyatt. But she’d had to force herself, as a traitorous little part of her psyche wanted to keep him to herself.
“Hah, fat chance,” she said to her image. She inspired some degree of lust in most men she met. That just came with the territory when a woman had the good fortune, as Phoebe did, to be born with Nordic genes that came through loud and clear. But in Wyatt, she’d probably inspired nothing but disgust, running around in a slip and a lumpy green face.
Which was good, she decided. She didn’t want or need a man in her life, especially not a man involved in the entertainment industry. She’d had her fill of all those phony smooth talkers with their cell phones and their bottled water and their five-hundred-dollar sunglasses. It seemed like every guy she’d met in L.A. with even a tiny connection to movies or television had tried to parlay his perceived power into an invitation to bed.
The faint strains of accordion drifting into her apartment reminded her that the party was getting started without her—and she was the hostess! With one last pat to her hair, she headed down to the courtyard.
Daisy was watching for her, and ran up the moment Phoebe appeared. “Where have you been?”
“Had a plumbing emergency, almost a disaster. Everything looks great!” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the mariachi music. Hiring the quartet had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she hadn’t realized the music would be so loud. Fortunately, just about everybody in the whole building was at the party, so the music volume shouldn’t bother anyone.
Except maybe Wyatt Madison, the old curmudgeon.
“You’ve got to see Elise’s dress,” Daisy said. “She looks so great! Ever since you did that makeover for her, she’s seemed so, oh, I don’t know, glamorous.”
“She wasn’t exactly chopped liver before the makeover,” Phoebe said, pausing to shake hands with the real estate agent who lived in 3A, on the other side of the Madisons.
“When are you going to do a makeover for me?” Daisy asked. “After all, I’m the one trying to attract a husband.” All Phoebe could do was laugh. Daisy, with her chin-length auburn hair and flashing green eyes, had the kind of striking personal style Phoebe wouldn’t dare tamper with. Tonight she wore a green, batik gauze dress—probably designed and hand-dyed by her clothing-designer mother—and chunky jade jewelry that set off her delicate good looks to perfection. She ran a trendy art gallery, Native Art, and she was a wonderfully gifted potter herself, though she was far too modest about her talent.
Men ought to be standing in line to marry her, Phoebe thought, but so far her and Elise’s attempts to find Daisy a suitable mate had met with dismal failure—despite the best of advice from author Jane Jasmine.
“There ought to be some good candidates here tonight,” Phoebe said, grabbing a tortilla chip off the buffet table as they passed. “With all of Elise’s siblings coming—”
“They’re all girls. Except one, but I don’t think he’ll be here.”
“Oh, right, the oldest one, the lawyer. What’s his name?”
“I forget,” Daisy said airily. “I didn’t meet him that time he came over to Elise’s, remember? I was hiding in her bedroom with curlers and green stuff all over my face.”
At the mention of the green mask, all Phoebe could think about was her own earlier humiliation.
“Hey, what about Wyatt Madison?” Daisy asked, as if she’d just read Phoebe’s mind. “Isn’t he supposed to be here?”
Phoebe’s heart fluttered for half a second, then calmed. “Oh, I meant to tell you. He’s not coming.”
“Darn,” Daisy said, though she sounded as if she really didn’t care much. “I’m dying to know what he’s like. He couldn’t possibly be the paragon his grandparents make him out to be.”
“He’s not,” Phoebe said.
Daisy’s delicate eyebrows arched. “Oh, really? Do tell—you’re holding out, girlfriend.”
“I just met him tonight. He’s old.”
“Old?” Daisy looked puzzled. “How old could he be? He has grandparents.”
“He’s at least…thirty-eight. And he’s got gray hair.”
“Really? I like gray hair. Well, I mean, on some men it looks distinguished.”
Phoebe wouldn’t have used the word distinguished to describe Wyatt. His grandfather Rolland, maybe. Wyatt would probably look like Rolland someday. But currently, he was more dangerous-looking than distinguished.
“So what happened? How’d you meet him?”
Phoebe quickly told Daisy the horror story.
Daisy laughed until tears rolled down her pink cheeks. “That green mask is cursed! Well, at least I don’t have to worry about competition from you! He’s probably written you right off his list as Avocado Woman with Plumbing Problems.”
Phoebe was afraid Daisy was right. “As if. I’m not looking, you know.”
“Like that matters. Every guy you meet falls all over you. I mean, what guy doesn’t fantasize about dating a movie star?”
“One lousy part in a really bad soap opera doesn’t make me a movie star,” Phoebe said. “Oh, there’s Bill. I have to tell him about my washer hose.”
“I’m heading for the margarita machine. You want one?”
Phoebe nodded. After her plumbing ordeal, she could use a dozen, but she’d settle for one.
“Well, hey there, Phoebe,” Bill White said. He sat at a small table, working on a plate full of fajitas. “You’re looking beautiful, as always.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said automatically. “Where were you an hour ago? I was in desperate need.”
Bill shot a quick, guilty look toward Frannie, who sat at the same table but pretended not to pay attention to him. “Oh, just around. What’s the problem?”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” Phoebe said, realizing that Bill, who had always been available to fix any problem, had probably for once in his life turned off his beeper because he’d been spending time with Frannie. Bill and Frannie had been making cow eyes at each other for years, both of them too shy to do anything about their mutual crush. But Elise had set them up on a date a few weeks ago, and despite a shaky start, now they were something of an item.
Cupid had been busy, Phoebe mused as she left them to find Elise and James. Now, if only he’d shoot Daisy with one of his little arrows.
Phoebe spent the next few minutes meeting some of James’s friends and family, including his jovial housekeeper, MaryBelle, whom he clearly adored like a favorite aunt.
“You look so familiar,” MaryBelle had said at once. “Wait, I, oh, I know! Vanessa Vance! You look exactly like that woman on ‘Skin Deep’!”
“That was me,” Phoebe admitted. By now she was used to being recognized, though it happened less and less often as “Skin Deep” faded from the public memory.
At least MaryBelle didn’t gush. “I was really mad when they killed off Vanessa,” she said quietly. “You were the best one on the show. It got canceled right after you left.”
Phoebe smiled, no longer bitter about the experience.
“Why didn’t you get on another show?” Mary-Belle asked innocently. “Or in the movies? You were good enough.”
“I tried,” Phoebe said. She’d gone on lots of auditions, but she never got cast in anything except bit parts and a vacuum cleaner commercial. “I guess my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. I’m glad to be out of Hollywood.”
MaryBelle gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand, then went on to chat with one of Elise’s sisters. Elise herself slipped away from the knot of her family and joined Phoebe, who was straightening a stack of napkins and putting out more forks on the buffet table.
“You look thirsty,” Elise commented.
“Daisy was going to bring me something, but she’s disappeared.”
“Come on, I’ll walk over to the bar with you,” Elise said. Then she whispered, “Any sign of Mr. Mysterious yet?”
Phoebe repeated her appalling tale yet again, as they ambled toward the far side of the courtyard where the bar had been set up.
“So he’s not coming?” Elise asked, disappointed. “How are we ever going to set him up with Daisy if he hides in his apartment like a hibernating bear?”
“You know, I just don’t think he’s right for Daisy,” Phoebe found herself saying. “He’s a workaholic. And he’s too old.”
“Too old?” Elise repeated.
“At least thirty-eight.”
Elise laughed. “So? Daisy’s thirty. What’s the big deal?”
Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Trying to keep him for yourself, huh?” Elise teased.
“No!” Phoebe’s denial was quick and emphatic.
Elise looked at her curiously.
“You know I’m much too busy to even look at a man, but if I wasn’t, which I am, I certainly wouldn’t look at him. He works in television, and you know how I can’t stand to be around—”
Phoebe halted her tirade. Elise was grinning at her.
WYATT RAN DOWN the column of numbers one more time, tapping them into his calculator, but he got yet a third different total. How could he possibly concentrate with that damn mariachi music blaring from the courtyard?
He certainly hoped these weekend parties weren’t a regular event at Mesa Blue. How could his grandparents stand it?
Hell, he knew the answer to that question. If they weren’t on vacation, they’d be down in the thick of the party, probably starting a conga line. But his grandparents didn’t have to show up at a meeting Monday morning with a revised budget for “Heads Up.”
It wasn’t just the music that bugged him. It was the chatter. The laughter. All those people yukking it up. Half of them probably didn’t even know Elise and What’s-His-Name, they just came for the free food and free drinks.
Wyatt tried one more time to focus on his addition, but it was no use. The band’s lead singer was now doing a very bad Julio Iglesias impression. Someone had to put a stop to this.
He set down his ledger and calculator, slid into some loafers and started for his front door. He could have simply yelled off his balcony for the party-goers to keep it down, but that seemed a little déclassé, and his grandparents wouldn’t be pleased if he antagonized all their neighbors.
He would find Phoebe and discreetly request that either her so-called musicians put a sock in it, or he’d call the cops.
As he reached for the front doorknob, he looked down at himself. The jeans and T-shirt he’d exchanged for the ones he’d gotten wet at Phoebe’s were pretty disreputable. He toyed with the idea of changing—just so he wouldn’t call attention to himself—but he finally decided against it. He wasn’t planning on staying long enough for anyone to form an opinion about him.
When he stepped into the courtyard, the guests were so thick he could have stirred them with a stick. How would he ever find Phoebe in this mess? Then it occurred to him that he wouldn’t recognize Phoebe, anyway, unless she happened to be wearing guacamole from the buffet.
He searched the crowd, his gaze finally stopping on a pretty lady with dark red hair sitting alone at the end of the pool, her bare feet dangling in the water as she nursed a frothy drink.
She happened to look up just then, catching him watching her, and she smiled warmly. Since no one else paid the slightest attention to him, Wyatt decided to ask the woman to help him find Phoebe. He walked determinedly over to her.
“You’re Wyatt, right?” she said, before he could get a word out. “Have a seat.” She patted the concrete beside her.
He hadn’t intended to spend any time at the party. But the redhead looked lonely, so he joined her. “How’d you know who I am?” he asked.
“You look just like your grandfather. Well, like he probably did forty years ago. He’s a handsome man.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” She blushed prettily. “You probably think I’m flirting with you now.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“No. I mean, yes, because I don’t usually flirt. Phoebe sent you over here, didn’t she?” the woman said miserably.
“Actually, your smile brought me over here.”
“Now who’s flirting?”
Maybe he was. Maybe that was because the redhead put him completely at ease. Though she was undeniably pretty, with that gorgeous auburn hair, he could tell right away there wasn’t a bit of chemistry between them. If they got to know each other at all, it would be as friends.
“I’m Daisy Redford. Phoebe said you weren’t coming.”
Daisy Redford! Alarm bells went off in Wyatt’s head. This was the one Phoebe had been praising earlier.
“Is Phoebe trying to set us up?” Wyatt asked point-blank.
Daisy’s eyes grew huge. She tried to sputter a denial, but she wasn’t a good liar. Finally she said in a small voice, “They just wanted me to meet you, Phoebe and Elise, that is.”
“Why?”
Daisy shrugged, looking supremely uncomfortable. “Why not?” Then she laughed. “It was a dumb idea. Setups hardly ever work. Phoebe set me up with this dentist…My friends are not going to be happy I foiled all their plans for you and me.”
“You don’t look like the kind of girl who needs a setup,” Wyatt said. “And that’s an honest observation. I’m not flirting.”
“Nice of you to say. So what made you decide to show up after you told Phoebe you couldn’t come?” Daisy asked, not sounding quite so shy. Apparently he’d put her at ease, too, now that they’d set aside any romantic potential between them.
“I was going to complain about the noise,” Wyatt admitted.
“The band is kind of loud,” Daisy agreed. “I’ll come with you to talk to Phoebe, if you want.” She started to pull her feet out of the pool, but Wyatt stopped her.
“No, no, that’s not necessary. I’ve changed my mind. I won’t get any more work done tonight, and I’m here now, so I might as well enjoy myself. Where is our hostess, anyway?”
But he saw her then—with that fall of straight blond hair, she was impossible to miss. She stood near the bar with another woman, laughing with the bartender, whom Wyatt recognized as the guy who took care of Mesa Blue’s pool.
Without a green face, she was the most enchanting creature he’d ever seen. Not at all frog-like.
“I guess you spotted her,” Daisy said, giving him a knowing look.

Chapter Three
Wyatt closed his mouth. He’d been gaping at Phoebe like a lovesick schoolboy worshipping the head cheerleader from afar.
“She’s pretty hard to miss,” Daisy said. “I can’t understand why she didn’t get snapped up to star in some blockbuster movie when she was in Hollywood.”
“She’s an actress?” Wyatt asked, horrified. Somehow, his grandparents had neglected to tell him that part.
“Oh, yeah, don’t you recognize her? Vanessa Vance. From ‘Skin Deep.’” When Wyatt made no acknowledgment, she added, “You know, that nighttime soap a few years ago?”
“I, um, don’t usually watch soaps.”
“You didn’t miss much. The show was horrible. The only thing good about it was Phoebe. Then they went and killed off her character, the ratings tanked, and it got canceled.”
“She’s an actress,” he repeated. He could almost feel a wall going up around him. Lord save him from wanna-be movie stars and has-been starlets.
Phoebe had to know what he did for a living. His grandparents would have told her. So why wasn’t she all over him, trying to get on TV? A little national exposure on “Heads Up” could revive a stalled acting career.
“She’s not acting now,” Daisy said. “She’s st—” Daisy abruptly stopped. “She does beauty makeovers at the Sunrise Spa. But if you ask me, her talents are wasted there. She’s a lot smarter than that.”
The words actress and smart did not belong in the same discussion, Wyatt mused. Maybe Phoebe hadn’t hit him up yet. But she would. He could only surmise that she had some more elaborate scheme for getting to him. Something that would work better than throwing cat food onto his balcony.
STANDING NEAR the bar chatting with Elise, Phoebe savored the last few drops of her frozen margarita. She wanted another one because it was a warm evening, but she had a lot of studying to do tomorrow and couldn’t afford to wake up even slightly hungover. Since she seldom drank alcohol, it wouldn’t take much to give her a fuzzy head in the morning.
“Can I have a cola, Jeff, please?” she asked.
Jeff winked. “Sure thing, gorgeous. What’ll you give me in return?”
Phoebe snorted. Jeff was all of twenty-two and an inveterate flirt. But he was harmless. She suspected if she ever responded to his blatant come-ons, he’d run for the hills.
“I guess I better get back to my hostessly duties,” she said to Elise, as Jeff handed her the cola.
“And I better find my fiancé. I worked hard enough to get him. It’d be a shame to lose him now.”
They were about to turn and head for their various destinations when a man came up behind Elise and put his hands over her eyes. “Guess who?”
It took Phoebe a moment to realize this was Chance, Elise’s brother. He’d called earlier in the week to say he couldn’t come.
“Chance! What are you doing here?” Elise turned and hugged her brother. He looked especially handsome tonight, Phoebe thought, in casual khakis and a pale green knit shirt. She adored a man who dressed well. He put Wyatt and his old T-shirt to shame.
Then why was it her thoughts turned so frequently to how that T-shirt had molded to the planes of Wyatt’s chest, and the way his faded jeans had hugged his butt?
“My meeting got canceled,” Chance said. “Hi, Phoebe. I hope it’s okay that I showed up without warning.”
“No problem.”
“Hey, Elise,” he said, voice lowered, “who’s that gorgeous woman sitting with her feet in the pool?”
Elise looked in the direction Chance indicated, but she saw no one. “Who?”
Chance blinked a couple of times, as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. “She was there a minute ago. If I find her, will you introduce us?”
Elise gave him a playful tap on the arm. “You are not allowed to hit on any woman who’s a friend of mine. You’ll just break her heart, and then she’ll blame it on me.”
“Okay, okay! Jeez.”
Chance rubbed his arm, though Phoebe suspected Elise couldn’t possibly do him any damage, even if she tried. He had pretty good muscles for a lawyer.
“I’ll make my own introductions.” With a mischievous smile, he sauntered off, apparently intent on finding the object of his lust.
Elise rolled her eyes. “He’s hopeless.”
“But he’s cute. Why don’t we introduce him to Daisy?” Phoebe suggested.
Elise shook her head. “He is definitely not father material. Anyway, looks like Daisy’s otherwise occupied.” She nodded toward the buffet table. “Phoebe, who’s that she’s talking to?”
Phoebe peered at her friend, so easy to spot with that auburn hair shining in the light of the torches they’d set up for the party. Daisy was engaged in cozy conversation with a man. And not just any man.
“Holy cow, that’s Wyatt Madison.”
“You’re kidding,” Elise said. “I thought he wasn’t coming.”
“He said he wasn’t. What’s he doing here?”
“Enjoying himself, it looks like,” Elise said. “And look at Daisy. She’s laughing.”
“Holy cow.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Elise said. “This is exactly what we wanted! Maybe he’s the perfect one for Daisy.”
“He’s too old for her,” Phoebe said. “Now that I see them together, they just don’t look good. You know, as a couple.”
“Phoebe!” Elise objected.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have thrust them together,” Phoebe went on. “What if—”
“We didn’t ‘thrust them together.’ They found each other. Chill, Phoebes.”
“I think Chance would be a better bet. He’s gorgeous, nice, gainfully employed—”
“Don’t even start. I love Chance with all my heart, but he’s a cad in the worst sense of the word. Daisy’s looking for a husband, remember? A potential father for her potential baby. The last thing she needs is a guy who thinks wife is a four-letter word.”
“It is a four-letter word.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, I still think he’d be better than Wyatt Mad—” Phoebe stopped mid-name, then blinked her eyes a couple of times to clear them. Surely after one margarita she couldn’t be hallucinating.
“What’s wrong?” Elise asked.
“Daisy and Wyatt. They’re gone.” The buffet table, where they’d been huddling a few moments earlier, was now empty.
“Hmm. They certainly are. Maybe they hit it off, and they’ve gone somewhere a bit more private.”
“Bite your tongue.”
“Phoebe!”
“What do we really know about Wyatt Madison? What his grandparents have told us, and they’re partial. He’s in the entertainment industry, and that’s a strike against him. You have no idea what kind of wolves work in television. He could be an ax murderer!”
Elise just gave her a long-suffering look. “I was just kidding before when I suggested you wanted to keep Wyatt for yourself. But you keep this up, I’ll start to believe you really do want him.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Besides, that would be almost incestuous. The Madisons think of me as their daughter, and they raised Wyatt as their own son—”
“You’re making excuses.”
Phoebe would have argued more, but Elise’s fiancé, James Dillon, approached them. Or rather, he approached Elise. Phoebe doubted he even saw her there. He was so completely in love with Elise, he only had eyes for her.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he chastised gently, kissing her on the cheek.
Phoebe quietly sighed. Watching Elise and James fall in love had been fun. Elise had never been so happy. James was absolute proof that good men did exist. Still, in Phoebe’s experience, they were few and far between.
Phoebe’s mother had always told her she had everything she needed to land herself a good husband—drop-dead good looks and a body that wouldn’t quit. Phoebe hadn’t found her mother’s advice to be true. After the Hollywood fiasco, she had stopped thinking about husbands, and men in general. She was creating her own future, one in which she wouldn’t have to depend on her sex appeal to bring her success. Nor would she have to depend on another person—husband, boss, casting director, agent, plastic surgeon, whoever.
“You are way too gorgeous to be standing around by yourself,” Jeff said. “Wanta blow this joint and go make our own action?”
Phoebe smiled. “You have to work and I’m the hostess. I can’t disappear. Otherwise, I’d jump at such an attractive invitation.”
Jeff shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
PHOEBE AWOKE the next morning feeling unsettled and not very well rested. Then she realized why. Daisy and Wyatt had disappeared last night, and she hadn’t seen either of them for the rest of the evening.
Daisy was very vulnerable. Recently her doctor had told her that if she ever wanted to have children, she needed to do it now, before her endometriosis rendered her infertile. Daisy did want children, very much. But she refused to have a baby without a husband. She’d been a “love child” herself, and no kid of hers was growing up without a father.
Now Daisy was so focused on the idea of finding Mr. Right and settling down that her usually keen powers of discernment might be impaired. If Wyatt had taken advantage of Daisy’s clouded judgment, Phoebe would string him up by his toes!
Phoebe hopped in the shower to clear the fuzz from her mind, threw on a pair of overalls and a purple ribbed shirt, then grabbed the phone and dialed Daisy’s number.
No answer. Even the answering machine didn’t pick up. That was a bad sign.
Phoebe went out into the hallway and walked slowly past Wyatt’s door. His newspaper was out in the hallway, uncollected. Another bad sign.
She stopped right in front of the door. Then she pressed her ear against it. Nothing, darn it. Then again, the walls and doors at Mesa Blue were extraordinarily well insulated.
Just then the door jerked open, and Phoebe pitched forward. A strong pair of arms prevented her from falling flat on her face.
“Good morning to you, too,” Wyatt said, setting her back on her feet.
“Oh, uh…” Think, Phoebe! And she’d better come up with an excuse real fast. But somehow, she couldn’t think of anything but those strong arms catching her.
Wyatt bent down and retrieved the paper. He wore only a pair of running shorts—no shirt, no shoes.
“I came to borrow some, um, coffee,” Phoebe finally said. “I’m all out, and I really need the caffeine.”
He smiled as if he didn’t believe her for an instant. “I don’t drink coffee, and my grandparents don’t have any, either.”
Phoebe tried to nonchalantly peer past him into the apartment for any sign of Daisy. But Wyatt seemed intent on blocking her view with his annoyingly well-muscled chest, making it hard to look at anything else.
“I have orange juice,” he offered.
“No, thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
Phoebe fled. She didn’t know what else to do in the face of all that overwhelming maleness. She didn’t look back, she just scurried into her own apartment and slammed the door.
Damn! What an awful time for her hormones to act up. Living in L.A., after a few of those will-you-respect-me-in-the-morning liaisons, she’d gotten disgusted with herself and made it a blanket policy to just say no. She’d virtually shut down her sexual responses to men.
It had been years since she’d even thought about getting involved with a man, and she liked it that way. Her track record was abysmal when it came to romance, anyway. The few relationships she’d ventured into had never progressed past shallow and physical. Men she’d dated had just never wanted to know anything about her except her erogenous zones.
Now, when she least needed it, her body had reawakened. To Wyatt Madison, of all people. Was Elise right? Had she been against Daisy and Wyatt getting together because she wanted to save Wyatt for herself?
No, she told herself firmly. Maybe Wyatt wasn’t an ax murderer, and maybe he had nice grandparents, but that didn’t mean he could seduce Daisy on their first meeting and get away with it. Phoebe had to find out what really happened last night and be prepared for damage control with Daisy.
Fortified with new resolve and a new plan, she headed down to Frannie’s apartment. She would spy on Wyatt’s balcony from Frannie’s patio. There was a good chance that if he had an overnight guest, the two of them would sit out on the balcony to read the paper, drink their orange juice, and enjoy the marvelous spring weather amongst Helen’s potted forest of green.
But Frannie wasn’t home, either. Was she with Bill, maybe?
Phoebe was not to be dissuaded. She marched back up to the third floor, and after hesitating only a moment to ask herself, Are you crazy? she knocked on Wyatt’s door.
He answered after a few moments, still in the same fetching costume. This time he stood there, a bottle of orange juice in his hand, a section of paper folded under his arm.
He stared at her, perplexed. And maybe a little irritated. “Yes?”
“Where is she?”
Now he just looked confused. “Who?”
“You know who. Daisy.”
“Daisy,” he repeated.
“The redhead? Green dress?” Phoebe figured maybe he’d forgotten to ask Daisy’s name.
“I don’t know where she is,” he finally said. “Have you tried her apartment?” He opened the door wider, indicating Phoebe should come all the way in.
She did, intending to conduct a thorough search. Daisy would probably be really mad at her for being so nosy, but someone had to watch out for the woman.
“She’s not home,” Phoebe said, looking all around. No sign of an overnight guest. No discarded clothing lying around on the living room floor. No breakfast place setting for two at the dining room table.
She turned to face Wyatt. “You were hitting on her at the party last night. You didn’t even pay your respects to the hostess, which you should have after you told me you weren’t coming. But you didn’t waste any time cornering poor Daisy and whisking her off someplace.”
“Poor Daisy?” he repeated incredulously.
“She’s very vulnerable right now,” Phoebe persisted. “She doesn’t need some wolf twice her age overwhelming her with promises he has no intention of keeping.”
Wyatt narrowed his eyes. “Twice her age? Not unless she’s nineteen. Exactly how old do you think I am?”
Phoebe took a deep breath. “All right, the age reference was out of line. I didn’t hear you denying you’re a wolf, though.”
“Phoebe, look at me. Look me in the eye, because I want to be sure you’re listening.”
She didn’t want to. Those velvety gray eyes of his saw too much. But she did. Bless it, he was too darn good-looking for anyone’s peace of mind, least of all hers.
He took a step closer, until she could feel his body heat. “I did not hit on your friend Daisy. I did not whisk her off anyplace. And though I don’t like to gossip, I will tell you that I did see her leave the party—with some guy.”
“Who?” The single word dripped with suspicion.
“I have no idea. I don’t know anyone here.”
“What did he look like?”
Wyatt shrugged, stepping back and giving them both some much-needed breathing room.
“How should I know? I don’t pay that much attention to how guys look.”
“Just women,” Phoebe couldn’t resist adding.
“Why would you think that?” Wyatt said, sounding genuinely perplexed. He flopped down onto the sofa and started straightening the newspaper that was strewn about. “Did my grandparents tell you I was some sort of lecher?”
“No, no, they’ve never had anything but nice things to say about you.”
“Then what? I’ve never done anything since I moved here except keep to myself!”
“Well, you work in television,” Phoebe said, knowing she sounded lame.
“And that makes me out to nail every female I meet?”
“I’m just going by my personal experience.”
Wyatt didn’t seem to know what to make of that. He didn’t look at her, just kept stacking sections of newspaper together neatly.
“Okay,” Phoebe finally said, “maybe I jumped to conclusions a little.”
“A little?” He pushed the newspapers aside and leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. “I can assure you, the last thing on my mind right now is adding notches to my bedpost. I have a new job, the kind of opportunity that comes along once in a lifetime, and I have maybe a few weeks at most to prove myself. If the show succeeds, the world is my oyster. If it tanks, I’m back to producing local cooking shows and public service announcements. I spend every waking moment worrying about that damn show.”
Phoebe studied Wyatt, really studied him. Suddenly he didn’t seem like every other schmoozy show-business guy she’d known. He cared about his work. In fact, it appeared he actually worked, rather than taking long expense-account lunches and talking on his cell phone.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking, or why I said those things.” Temporary insanity, maybe.
He smiled at her, though she couldn’t imagine why. He should have just thrown her out into the hall on her ear.
“The truth is, Phoebe, I have no use for women right now. But if I did…if I were going to hit on anybody living at Mesa Blue, it would be you. Daisy is pretty, but leggy blondes are more to my taste.”
Phoebe’s heart slammed into her chest. Had she actually been thinking charitable thoughts about him only moments ago? Had she actually apologized for thinking he was a wolf? He was grinning at her, a grin that would put any wolf at the zoo to shame.
“Thanks just the same,” Phoebe said coolly. “As it turns out, I have no use for men at this point in my life. So that works out well, doesn’t it?”
Wyatt nodded. “Very convenient.”
Something else was going on here, Phoebe thought. He was watching her, as if he expected her to pull a rabbit out of her ear or something.
“So I should just go, I guess.”
“Seems we’ve said all there is to say.”
“Well, goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye.” He picked up a section of newspaper and started reading.
The nerve!
Phoebe finally managed to drag herself out the front door, marveling at her reluctance. She tried to convince herself she’d merely wanted to come up with a zinger of an exit line. But by the time she made it back to her apartment, she had to admit something awful: she’d been tempted by Wyatt’s come-on. She’d been a heartbeat away from meeting his flirtation with one of her own.
She paused a moment, standing just inside the front door, to picture it. “Oh, Wyatt, I’m flattered, but…actually, I find you quite attractive, too,” she would say. “But, of course, if you don’t have time for women, I understand…” And while she talked, she would slowly unfasten her overalls, first one shoulder, then the other….
Back in the present, she could only gasp at the outrageous turn her little fantasy had taken. “Adelaide Phelps,” she said aloud, using the name she’d grown up with, the name no one but her mother even knew about. “That wasn’t a flirtation, that was a seduction, and if that’s what’s on your mind, you better just stay away from Wyatt Madison!”
WYATT TOSSED the newspaper aside, his entire body thrumming with anticipation for something that would never happen.
He ought to be consumed with relief that Phoebe hadn’t taken his bait. He’d been testing her with that come-on line. If she’d had any intention of using his show-business connections to revive her career, he’d just given her the perfect opportunity.
But she hadn’t responded as predicted. In fact, she’d all but crossed herself and hung garlic around her neck to keep him away. Wait a minute, was garlic for werewolves or vampires?
Well, no matter. She’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. She thought he was old, damn it. He was thirty-nine, in the prime of his life. He wasn’t old; it was just that Phoebe was young. When he’d been in college, she’d been jumping rope on the playground.
He had to keep reminding himself of things like that. Because he hadn’t felt at all relieved when Phoebe had turned her nose up at his flirting. He’d felt keen disappointment. And just what would he have done if she’d responded? He’d like to think he would have politely but firmly sent her home with a pat on the head. Unfortunately, he knew damn well he’d have peeled those overalls right off her, given even half a chance.
“WELL, IF IT ISN’T my three best customers,” said George, Phoebe’s favorite waiter at The Prickly Pear. The upscale bar and grill was only a few blocks from Mesa Blue, and the three friends ended up here for dinner at least once a week, as did several of their neighbors.
George automatically set drinks in front of Elise, Daisy and Phoebe, already familiar with their habitual choices. The three friends always chose the same table, when it was unoccupied, so George could wait on them.
“Evening, George,” Phoebe said with a smile, letting him kiss her on the cheek. Like Jeff, his flirtations were harmless. He had a wife he adored.
“You lovelies want the usual?” George asked.
They all nodded. Chicken Caesar salads all the way around. Their order never varied.
It was two days after Phoebe’s last encounter with Wyatt. She’d tried to forget about it, push it out of her mind, but she found herself annoyingly preoccupied with thoughts of what might have happened if she’d reacted differently to his come-on.
Elise made an exaggerated throat-clearing sound. “Will you join us, Phoebe?”
“Huh?”
“You’re off in never-never land again,” Daisy said.
Elise nudged her. “This is an important occasion, and I want you paying attention.”
“Sorry.” She focused on Elise. Important? Had she forgotten someone’s birthday? “What’s going on?”
“Momentous, in fact,” Elise said. “You were both very supportive during James’s and my…courtship.”
“Courtship?” Daisy said dryly. “More like a roller coaster.”
“So tonight,” Elise continued, ignoring her, “I am officially asking both of you to be bridesmaids.”
Phoebe was unexpectedly touched, as Daisy appeared to be. They both jumped out of their chairs to hug their friend.
“I figured with all those sisters, you wouldn’t need any more bridesmaids,” Phoebe said.
“This is my one and only wedding, and I plan to have as many bridesmaids as I want. Six, so far, and it’s not eight only because one of my sisters will be out of the country and another will be eight months’ pregnant by September and she refuses to waddle down the aisle.”
“I love weddings,” Daisy said on a sigh. “I’m really happy for you, Elise, but I wish it were mine.”
“We’ll have you married off in no time,” Elise said. “In fact, there’s a new teaching assistant in the Languages Department. Spanish. He’s gorgeous, kind of like Antonio Banderas, and he’s single.” Elise pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to Daisy. “He said for you to call him.”
Daisy took the card without much enthusiasm. “How old is he?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“He’s younger than me, I bet,” Daisy said.
“Maybe a little, but that shouldn’t matter. He’s very nice, very much a gentleman.”
Daisy sighed. “I’m reduced to begging for dates with destitute grad students.”
“He’s not destitute,” Elise argued. “Anyway, the last rich guy you went out with drove you crazy with all his things.”
Daisy groaned. “The dentist. Why do I let you guys keep fixing me up?”
“Because it’s a numbers game,” Elise said. “You have to kiss a lot of toads before you find the prince. And, anyway, the rejects have single friends.”
“Maybe…” Phoebe ventured, “maybe Daisy doesn’t want us to fix her up anymore because she found someone on her own.”
“What?” Daisy said sharply. “Phoebe, I told you, Wyatt and I are just friends. We talked for about ten minutes, and that was it.”
“Not Wyatt,” Phoebe said. “The other guy. The one you left the party with.”
“Oh, do tell,” Elise said.
Daisy took a long sip of her iced tea. “So, Elise, have you chosen your colors yet?”
Well, that didn’t go over well, Phoebe thought. She’d been hoping to tease Daisy into revealing the identity of the mystery man Wyatt had mentioned. She figured there would be a simple explanation. But clearly Daisy didn’t want to talk about it.
“I’m not sure about colors yet,” Elise said, “but I was thinking maybe a pale yellow for the bridesmaid dresses.”
“Only if you want me to look like a corpse,” Phoebe said flippantly, then wished she’d thought before she’d spoken. Elise should be allowed to pick any color she wanted. It didn’t matter that yellow washed out Phoebe’s skin and made her hair look like straw.
“I forgot—you do look dreadful in yellow. No offense.”
“None taken. Don’t worry about that, though. Pick whatever color you like best.”
“No, no, I don’t want any Night of the Living Dead bridesmaids. Maybe pink—”
“Pink? On a redhead?” Daisy said. “Clash city.”
“You’re right,” Elise said. “Well, I’ll think some more.”
“Let’s get back to Wyatt,” Daisy said. “What are you going to do about him, Phoebe?”
“Me?” Phoebe hoped her friends couldn’t see the sweat popping out on her forehead. “Why would I do anything with him?”
“Because the man is clearly besotted with you,” Daisy said. “At the party he was staring at you like a cat eyeing the last sardine.”

Chapter Four
Wyatt was having a Tuesday that put all other bad Tuesdays to shame. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever get used to temperamental guests on the show, especially now that he was dealing with so many of them. “Heads Up” wasn’t just an ordinary talk show. It dealt with trends—anything cutting edge, from the newest hot movie star to the latest in gene therapy. His hosts—a young, romantically involved couple—were hip and charismatic, and they were adept at getting past both glib sound bites and technobabble. Despite the show’s wide-ranging subjects—going against the television industry’s niche marketing philosophy—it was drawing a good-size audience from a wide demographic.

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