TAME AN OLDER MAN Page 12

  Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "What kind of person?"

  "They were looking for women who'd been trying to get married for more than five years, without success. For me, it's been more than twenty. So I qualified."

  Phoebe felt the blood draining from her brain.

  "I talked to a very nice man," Olga went on. "I can't remember his name—"

  "Wyatt Madison?" Phoebe knew Wyatt personally talked to every guest before allowing them on the show.

  "That's it. Wait, I thought that was your neighbor's name. The grandson?"

  "It is," Phoebe said dully. "One and the same."

  "Well, how about that. You didn't mention the connection before."

  "It slipped my mind. Mama, are you telling me you're going to be on the show with Jane Jasmine?"

  "Uh-huh, on Tuesday. Your Mr. Madison said she claimed she could help anyone find a husband, and I guess he thought I was the perfect test case. I faxed him a picture and a letter about what I wanted in a husband, and boom, I'm on the show. They even paid for my plane ticket."

  She took a sip of her coffee, looking very smug.

  Phoebe was going to kill Wyatt. He probably wasn't home from work yet—she hadn't seen his car in the lot. But when he did get home, she was going to let him know exactly how she felt about his manipulating her mother and giving Olga yet another dose of false hope.

  * * *

  Wyatt was bushed. He'd spent all afternoon in delicate negotiations with an agent, trying to get him to allow his reclusive child-star client to come on the show. Apparently the child's mother was a fan of "Heads Up." She liked the way guests were treated on the show. But working out the details had been murder.

  Just when he'd been about to head out the door, a technical problem had cropped up that had required Wyatt's special touch. Finally, he'd had to talk the high-strung Kelly through a personal crisis.

  Now it was after midnight, late by even his standards. He couldn't wait to find his bed and crawl into it. He was confident that tonight, at least, he would be too tired to lie awake and remember what it had been like to have Phoebe in the bed beside him.

  He came off the elevator and turned the corner—and skidded to a stop. Phoebe sat Indian-style in front of his door, arms crossed, looking like she could chew through plywood.

  "Well, it's about time," she said, pushing herself to her feet.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No, I was sitting in the hall waiting for you because I just can't get enough of you at work. Of course something's wrong."

  "You could have paged me."

  "This conversation needs to take place in person." Judging from the looks she gave him he might need a crash helmet for this conversation. What had he done wrong now?

  He stuck his key in the door, and she followed him inside.

  "Would you like to come in?"

  "Don't be flip. We have a terrible problem."

  He closed the door and turned on the light. "What is it, Phoebe?" he asked, all seriousness.

  "How could you possibly have promised my mother you'd find her a husband? That was completely irresponsible of you."

  "Huh?"

  But she seemed not to hear him. Apparently she'd been seething with this dressing-down for some time, and she was going to have her say.

  "You don't know my mother. She's practically planning the wedding already. Do you know how many times she's had her hopes dashed? Do you know how many men have used her, played her for a fool?"

  He had no idea what Phoebe was talking about.

  "It's only been in the past couple of years I've been able to convince her to stop throwing herself at every man she meets. She's finally gotten to the point where she's enjoying life, pursuing outside interests. She's actually very artistic. She's making these personalized wreaths. Anyway…"

  Phoebe went on, but Wyatt had stopped at the word wreaths. Now, that rang a bell.

  "Just one minute." He walked into the living room, sat on the sofa and opened his briefcase on his lap. After shuffling a few papers while Phoebe looked on curiously, he found the one he wanted. "Are you talking about Olga Phelps? With the German-Jersey accent?"

  "Who else? And it's a Danish-Jersey accent. She's from Denmark."

  "I thought we were talking about your mother."

  "We are!" Phoebe said impatiently. "You're not going to tell me you didn't know Olga was my mother, are you?"

  "That's exactly what I'm telling you. She can't be, unless she gave birth to you when she was thirteen. And she couldn't have taught you how to talk."

  Phoebe sighed. "She lied about her age. She's fifty. And I've had diction lessons, years of them."

  "Really? You had a Jersey accent?"

  "Wanna make sometin' of it, Chicago boy?"

  Wyatt struggled not to laugh. She sounded like Sylvester Stallone. But he had to get back to the subject at hand. He studied Olga Phelps's picture. She was an undeniably attractive woman, with blond hair the exact color of Phoebe's, though it was short and feathered around her face, then teased into a beehive almost as high as Frannie's. And she wore a lot of makeup. He knew Phoebe wore makeup, too, but she applied it so skillfully he never noticed it.

  "Convinced?" Phoebe asked, perching on the arm of the sofa, far too close for his peace of mind.

  "If you say she's your mother, I'm sure she is, but I had no way of knowing."

  "I can't believe she didn't mention it."

  "Not a whisper."

  "Well, I still don't approve of what you're doing. My mother doesn't need any pointers on husband-hunting. She's made a career out of it."

  "An unsuccessful career, apparently. That's why Jane picked her to be on the show."

  "Jane picked her?"

  "I let Jane review all the people who sent in pictures and letters. She picked Olga first. She said if anyone needed her advice, it was your mother." Wyatt pulled a notebook from his briefcase and flipped to the page of notes he'd taken during his last phone call with Jane Jasmine. "She said Olga demonstrates classic self-esteem problems coupled with unreasonable expectations about romance and marriage."

  Phoebe was silent. Wyatt suspected she saw the truth in Jane's assessment.

  He returned his attention to the photo and statement Olga Phelps had sent in. Even he could see she tried too hard to be glamorous and sexy when she didn't have to. She was a natural beauty, like her daughter.

  He glanced at the handwritten statement. "Hey, wait a minute. She says her only daughter's name is Adelaide."

  "Uh, that would be me. Adelaide Phelps. I changed my name when I moved to L.A. when I was eighteen."

  Wyatt let that bit of information sink in for a moment. Gorgeous, sophisticated Phoebe was really Adelaide?

  Well, hell, what did that matter? The important thing was, she didn't sound so mad at him anymore. "Whatever. I had no intention of hurting or ridiculing your mother in any way. That's not what 'Heads Up' is about. Jane thinks she can help Olga overcome the self-destructive patterns she's been stuck in and, um—" he read from his notes "—'put her on a different, healthier path that will lead to her ultimate self-satisfaction.' Once she's happy with herself, she has a far greater chance of finding a compatible life partner."

  Phoebe sighed. "I'd like to believe that."

  "Wait 'til you meet some of the women who followed Jane's advice and found husbands. They're like religious converts. The woman walks on water as far as they're concerned. Wouldn't you like for your mother to find similar success?"

  "Of course I would. I just don't want to see her disappointed again. I happen to know of one woman who has followed all the advice in 2001 Ways to Wed, and still has no husband to show for it."

  "Would she like to be on the show?" Wyatt asked eagerly. He liked dissenting viewpoints.

  "No, I asked her already. The point is, Jane doesn't work miracles on everybody."

  "Phoebe, let it go. Your mother chose to be on the show. She's really excited. Maybe it'll change her life for the bette
r."

  Phoebe was silent for a moment. "I guess you're right. I shouldn't be interfering in my mother's plans. I'm sure she wouldn't approve, any more than I do when she meddles in my life."

  "Then you'll stop chewing on me?" Wyatt realized what he'd just said and suddenly wished Phoebe really would chew on him. Or nibble, rather. He had a whole closetful of reasons he and Phoebe shouldn't sleep together anymore, but right now he couldn't recall a single one, not when she was this close.

  Decisively, he put everything back in his briefcase and closed it. If she didn't take that as a signal and move away from him, he wasn't going to be responsible for his actions.

  He set the briefcase on the floor. Phoebe didn't budge.

  "Was there anything else?" he asked almost crossly.

  "I think I owe you an apology. I guess I overreacted."

  "You were concerned about your mother. Nothing wrong with that."

  "But I should have known you wouldn't do anything exploitive on the show. You're not like every other TV guy I've known. You have scruples, and you treat everyone with dignity. I've seen enough now to know how you operate."

  "You think I'm a smooth operator?" He looked up at her, seeing a warmth and openness that surprised him. All week they'd been friendly, but she'd maintained a certain reserve that had kept him at arm's length. That reserve didn't seem to be anywhere in evidence.

  She smiled. "I think you're flirting with me."

  "It's pretty damn hard not to." His thinking about Phoebe had changed a lot over the past couple of weeks. How could he ever have suspected Phoebe saw him as a stepping-stone to stardom? He supposed he'd had so many negative experiences with grasping, teasing, insincere women, it had taken him a long time to recognize a real diamond when it fell in his lap.

  And speaking of things falling into his lap… He put his arm around Phoebe's slender hips and gave the slightest of tugs, sending her sprawling right across his thighs.

  "Wyatt!" she cried through her giggles.

  He settled her against him more comfortably, and she didn't struggle. "Don't tell me you didn't know what you were doing, sitting on the arm of the sofa like that."

  "Oh, sure, blame the victim."

  "I'm the victim here. Tempted beyond the bounds of human decency by a witch, a siren."

  She ruffled his hair, then stroked his face. "Are you calling me a witch?"

  "A Lorelei." He wondered if she would get the reference. If she went to L.A. to be an actress when she was eighteen, she must not have gone to college. Of course, she was taking classes now, but he assumed she was only dabbling.

  "I keep telling you, I'm Danish, not German—and I've never been near the Rhine."

  "You've been reading German folklore?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

  "My mother read folktales to me when I was a child."

  "Ah." He could picture the child Phoebe—or Adelaide, as she was then—curled up in bed, her pretty mother reading from a book of folklore. Only, in his mind the mother became Phoebe and the child was her daughter. His daughter.

  The mental picture gave him a peculiar ache. He didn't even understand why he'd thought of something so preposterous, much less why it bothered him. He'd never longed for marriage or family, and he wasn't going to start now.

  "Wyatt? You have an odd look on your face."

  He didn't doubt it. That was the strangest break from reality he'd ever had. He supposed a gorgeous woman in his lap could have peculiar effects. "If I look strange, it's because I'm dying to kiss you. But we do sort of have this understanding."

  "Yeah, we do," she said glumly.

  "Wasn't that understanding your idea?"

  "You agreed to it."

  "I agreed not to touch you? Temporary insanity. Anyway, you're the one who started this by not maintaining a proper distance from me. If you're close enough I can smell your perfume and see individual eyelashes, that's too close."

  "I'll move." She started to wiggle out of his lap, which only inflamed him further. He was stiff as a poker, and there was no way she wouldn't know that.

  "You just stay where you are," he said, holding on tighter.

  "Only if you absolve me."

  "You're absolved. It's all my fault. Everything."

  "If only more men knew how to speak those words…" She didn't finish the thought. She was too busy kissing him.

  Her mouth was a thing of wonder. He explored it at a more leisurely pace than he had before, invading with his tongue, then retreating to nip at her full, soft lips, kissing hard, kissing soft.

  Before long they were lying on the couch instead of sitting. He was on his back, and she was on top of him. When she wasn't kissing him, she was tickling his ear, playing with his hair, running her tongue along his neck.

  "Um, Phoebe, wait." He couldn't believe he was doing this. He would have to resign his macho-guy membership.

  Phoebe crossed her arms over his chest and propped her chin on them. "What?" she asked with exaggerated innocence. With her hair all mussed and her eyes heavy-lidded with passion, she was just about the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

  "Nothing has really changed … has it?"

  She lowered her eyes. "No."

  "I'm still not good boyfriend material. I'm a slave to that TV show. Furthermore, I'm very set in my ways. Been alone too long. I wouldn't know how to make room for a regular woman in my life."

  "I know," she said impatiently, sitting up.

  "I'd disappoint you."

  "I have no expectations, all right? I just … want you. Is it so hard to understand that I might want to make love to you without expecting anything in return?"

  Frankly, it was almost impossible. He'd never met a woman yet who didn't have an agenda. With Phoebe it might not be acknowledged, but he firmly believed women simply weren't hard-wired to enjoy casual sex the same way men did.

  Ah, hell, who was he kidding? "It's me I'm worried about," he finally said. "I'm the one with the old-fashioned expectations. I feel like I'm being unfair to you."

  "Why don't you let me worry about me?"

  "Because that's the man's job."

  "You are old-fashioned."

  He wouldn't argue. "Maybe I'm worried about my own expectations, too. If any woman could make me change my priorities, you could. But you've made it pretty clear you don't want to be tied down yet. You could hurt me pretty bad."

  "Now you're teasing. I can't imagine my dashing your fantasy of a white picket fence."

  Then she didn't know him very well. What would she think, he wondered, if she were privy to that bedtime-story fantasy he'd entertained a few minutes ago? Sure, he thought about white picket fences, in unguarded moments.

  "So," he said, "is there an argument I could use that would make you get up and go home?"

  "You could say, 'Phoebe, I am not interested in making love. Go home and stop throwing yourself at me, you're making a fool of yourself.'"

  "You want me to tell a bald-faced lie?"

  "I don't want you to lie. But those are the magic words, whether they're true or not, that would get rid of me." She played with his lower lip, touching it gently with the pad of her finger. He took it into his mouth and sucked it.

  It would take a pair of pliers and three strong men to pull those words out of his mouth. He wasn't going to send her away. They were going to make love, though nothing was settled. They would have all the same regrets, all the same problems they had before.

  When Phoebe kissed him again, he flat out didn't care.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Phoebe didn't care about anything at the moment except being with Wyatt. They'd made love once before and had still managed to work together. No reason they couldn't do it again. She just couldn't keep away from him.

  When he'd so patiently explained what his hopes were for Olga, how he wanted to help her and the other lovelorn guests that would be coming on the show, her anger had evaporated like summer rain in Phoeni
x.

  He'd been completely sincere, and she should know. In L.A. she'd been inundated with every smarmy line, every sob story, every act of false humility, all to get her into bed. She could smell a line from a mile away. She knew when someone was trying to manipulate her. Wyatt might play the part of the tough producer, but he had a heart as big as a bowling ball. He would be thrilled if Jane could help Olga and the other husband-less ladies find happiness—and not just because it would boost ratings.

  "Just tonight, Wyatt. Just one more time." She knew she sounded desperate.

  "Whenever, however you want it," he said, sounding equally desperate. In a deft maneuver he flipped her onto her back and was looming over her. "You didn't honestly think I would say no, did you?"

  He kissed her, hard, and her nipples tightened beneath her clothes. She'd worn short overalls and a tube top tonight, not out of any desire to turn Wyatt on but because that happened to be what was handy. Now she was glad of her choice, because Wyatt could slide his hands inside the overalls, give the tube top one healthy yank, and her breasts were completely exposed to him.

  He pushed himself up to admire his handiwork. "Now, this is how a woman ought to wear overalls."

  "You're a horrible sexist."

  "Just an honest man."

  Though he was teasing, she knew it was true. He'd never been anything but honest with her. She wished she could say the same for herself.

  She wanted to confide in him about her goals and dreams. He was a savvy businessman; he would probably have all kinds of helpful advice about how to start her business. But not even her best friends knew the extent of her ambitions, and hiding them had become second nature.

  Given the uncertain nature of her relationship with Wyatt, she didn't dare open herself up to that extent. She trusted him completely with her body. She trusted him to take care of her on the job. But she couldn't quite trust him with her soul.

  He gave her nipple a gentle squeeze, and she forgot all about goals and dreams and cosmetics. It was pretty hard to do anything except live in the moment when she was in Wyatt's arms.