TAME AN OLDER MAN Page 13

He unfastened the shoulder straps of her overalls and pushed them out of the way, then kissed her breasts with a thoroughness that had been lacking during their previous encounter. They'd been much too rushed to take their time.

  But, oh, what they'd been missing. Phoebe squirmed as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, rolling his mouth over the nipples until they pebbled into hard peaks. Her whole body was on fire, with a particularly noticeable warmth between her thighs. But Wyatt seemed in perfect control, and she had a strong feeling he was going to enjoy driving her crazy with wanting before he brought her to satisfaction.

  While he was sucking on her breasts, he managed to undo the side buttons of her overalls. Before she knew it, he'd slid the denim garment effortlessly down her legs. How had he managed that? she wondered. Even she couldn't take them off that easily when she was alone in her bedroom at home. With a surge of jealousy, she realized he'd probably undressed lots of women.

  She made a token effort to unbutton the gray cotton shirt he wore, which still looked crisp and smelled like starch despite the long day he'd put in. But she was easily distracted when he moved down to kiss her stomach, so she gave up trying to undress him. He'd work it out on his own. She was drowning in sensations, almost paralyzed, and he would have to orchestrate things from here.

  Her brain wasn't completely paralyzed, she discovered. "What are we going to do about protection?" They'd used his one and only condom a week ago.

  He chuckled. "Not to worry." He moved away from her. She raised herself to see what he was doing, and found him rummaging in his briefcase.

  "You keep … those in your briefcase?"

  He sat down on the edge of the sofa by her feet and calmly took off his shoes and socks. "I found some more in my closet. And I threw one in my briefcase because I had this fantasy about you and me in conference at the studio—behind a locked door."

  "Wyatt. I thought we'd agreed."

  "It was a fantasy, okay? But I figured it wouldn't hurt to be prepared in case the impossible happened."

  Now that Phoebe thought about it, it didn't sound so impossible. In fact, it sounded downright delicious. "We could do it on your desk," she said in a naughty whisper.

  He stood up and unzipped his pants, casually dropping them and kicking them aside. He wore navy blue briefs. She'd been too dazed before to pay attention. Now she did. How could she not, when the evidence of her effect on him was so clearly, wonderfully obvious?

  "We could do it on the set with a spotlight on us," he said as casually as if they were discussing a trip to the supermarket. "After everyone's gone home for the day."

  A thrill ran up Phoebe's spine. "We could do it in Kelly's dressing room, on that ridiculous fur rug she has."

  Wyatt froze in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. "Phoebe, stop. I won't be able to keep a straight face anywhere in the studio if we keep this up."

  She laughed. "We could drag Kelly's fur rug into the studio, turn on a red spotlight, maybe borrow a bottle of wine from that locked cabinet in the commissary—"

  He shrugged out of his shirt and was on her in a flash. "No more."

  Then he was kissing her, and she felt no more urges to laugh or giggle. Wyatt was very serious about his lovemaking. Very thorough. Very single-minded. Like he was about his work.

  She wouldn't mind if he put his work first, she thought desperately. She wouldn't mind if he worked until midnight every night. She wouldn't mind if he could only spare her a half-hour every other Sunday. If only, when he was with her, he would focus on her like this, to the exclusion of everything else.

  It was the most erotic turn-on she'd ever experienced.

  Slightly frantic now, they both removed the last obstacle of clothing between them. Phoebe took a moment to appreciate what a splendid male animal Wyatt was before she opened herself to him, but he didn't accept her silent invitation right away. First he made sure she was thoroughly kissed in the most intimate way possible. He made sure she was as worked up as a woman could get.

  He made her beg.

  Finally, when she thought she would scream, he entered her in one quick, possessive thrust that branded her as his.

  Compared to his previous gentleness, he was almost rough, taking his pleasure, and she reveled in it. He might have been trying to make her lose control, but he was the one behaving like a savage now.

  And she loved it. She loved this side of him, the slightly wild sexual conqueror.

  With that thought she went over the edge with a cry of pure, unbridled ecstasy, which was followed almost immediately by Wyatt's final, exultant thrust.

  For long moments afterward they lay together, panting, damp with perspiration though the room was well cooled. After a couple of minutes they pulled apart and found a semi-comfortable position, with Phoebe lying against Wyatt's chest.

  Finally Phoebe spoke. "Oh, my God."

  "What?" He sounded concerned.

  "We did it on your grandparents' sofa."

  "Oh, my God."

  Another long silence. Then she said, "Wyatt?"

  "Mmm."

  "I can't stay with you tonight."

  That got his attention. He pushed himself up on one elbow and peered into her eyes. "I'm not letting you leave. I'll tie you to the bedposts."

  "Hmm. Interesting though that sounds, my mother is staying with me. She'll wonder where I am, and I can't tell her I slept with you."

  "Why not? She seemed a fairly modern, liberated lady to me."

  "You're not her daughter. She's as protective of her only-born as a she-bear, and unless you are prepared to explain why you're not marching me down the aisle posthaste, you'd better let me leave."

  "Ah."

  She could see he most certainly did not want to make any explanations to Olga.

  "You're expecting to keep our relationship a secret, then?"

  Wyatt's use of the word relationship startled her. For a moment she froze and just stared at him, dumbfounded.

  "Or are you going to look me in the eye and tell me we made yet another mistake, and this isn't going to happen ever again?"

  She honestly hadn't thought that far ahead.

  "Make no mistake, Phoebe, this is going to happen again. And again and again, if I have anything to say about it. Denying the attraction, avoiding each other, feeling uncomfortable around each other, takes more energy than just giving in, don't you think?"

  He had a point, but she still wasn't sure how to respond. Relationship? That sounded kind of scary. Delicious, but scary.

  He brushed her cheek with his finger and softened his tone. "You scare the hell out of me, you know that?" he said, echoing her thoughts. "I can't believe some of the things that come out of my mouth when I'm around you."

  "Believe me, I understand."

  "I'm not good at dealing with gray areas. I like to nail things down, define exactly where we stand."

  "So you don't have to think about it."

  "Well, maybe," he agreed. "But it would make things easier if we both knew what to expect. Then we could just … proceed."

  And Phoebe was just the opposite. She wanted to stick her toe in the water and test the temperature, do things on a trial basis—so she could retreat if she had to, preferably without losing face or breaking any promises.

  "Can't we just play it by ear?" she ventured.

  "Something tells me you're a little commitment-shy. Even tiny commitments, like a regular Saturday night date."

  "Is that what you want?" she asked quickly. His proposal didn't sound so bad. In fact, she kind of liked it.

  "Would you agree to it?"

  "Maybe," she said coyly.

  He twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. "I'm not sure once a week is enough. You're highly addictive."

  "How about Tuesdays and Saturdays?" she countered. She couldn't believe she was negotiating a dating schedule. But if that's what it took to make Wyatt comfortable, she'd do it. She enjoyed a little more spontaneity in her love life, when
she had one, but maybe she and Wyatt could work up to that.

  "I think I could manage that."

  "Great. You like music?"

  "Sure."

  "I know this great little club where they have the best bands. We could go there Saturday."

  "It's a deal." He kissed her on the nose to seal the bargain. Then he let her get up and get dressed, but only reluctantly.

  "I'll warn you, I'm not good at sneaking around," he said. "If you insist on keeping our relationship a secret I'll try, but—"

  "Not a secret," she said. "But I don't want to advertise it, especially at work. You are my boss, after all, and that can get a little sticky. I know from experience."

  "Fair enough."

  "And I'll let my mother know. In my own way."

  "Okay. What about your friends?"

  "Elise and Daisy will figure it out. They've got a sixth sense where these things are concerned." They would want details, too, which she did not intend to provide. After having her romantic liaisons detailed in one of the lesser tabloids, she turned into a very private person when it came to her personal life.

  * * *

  Phoebe wasn't too far off in her estimation of Elise's and Daisy's sixth sense. She didn't say one word, but when the three of them, plus her mother, met at The Prickly Pear Friday night, as was their habit, it didn't take them five minutes to pick up on her change of mood.

  "You're humming," Elise said, after they'd given their order to George. "What's got you so perky?"

  "Oh, nothing much," Phoebe said. Of course, her face immediately heated up when she fibbed.

  "Nothing much?" Daisy repeated. "You're blushing."

  "I bet I know," Olga said in a singsong voice.

  "Mama…" Phoebe implored.

  "It's Wyatt!" Daisy and Elise said together.

  Phoebe nearly choked on her iced tea. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

  "I saw him this morning," Daisy said. "I had to get to the gallery early, and he was on his way to his car. He smiled and waved, and he had a spring to his step I've never noticed before."

  "And I saw him as he got home from work," Elise said. "I passed him on the stairs. When I asked him how he was doing, he said, 'Fantastic.' Only one thing I can think of changes a man overnight from a grouchy, hibernating bear to Mr. Congeniality."

  "He got the weekly ratings yesterday," Phoebe said. "'Heads Up' is first in its time slot." Which was true. But Elise and Daisy weren't buying it.

  "Oh, just tell them," Olga said. "You can't keep a man like Wyatt secret for long, and I don't know why you'd want to."

  Phoebe sighed. "Yes, Wyatt and I have been spending time together—but it's nothing serious," she added quickly. "We're just having fun. Wyatt's new in town, he doesn't know anyone, and the Madisons did expect me to help him get settled into Phoenix."

  "That's great, Phoebes," Elise said, squeezing Phoebe's arm. "I thought from the beginning there might be a little spark there."

  "I told you so," Daisy added. "I knew he was smitten."

  "Now don't you guys go making wedding plans. This is not some fairy tale, I'm no princess, and Wyatt certainly isn't Prince Charming. I doubt this thing will last through the summer. What with working together, we'll probably get tired of each other."

  "My, what a bright, sunshiny outlook you have," Elise said dryly. "Nothing like low expectations."

  "I'm just being realistic," Phoebe argued. "My expectations aren't low, they're reasonable. And if things don't … when things don't work out, I won't have so far to fall." She'd learned the hard way about falling, with Joel. She'd lost that starry-eyed attitude a long time ago, and she had no intention of bringing it back.

  "I just have one question," Daisy said. "If you and Wyatt are an item, how come you're not with him tonight?"

  "How come Elise isn't with James?" Phoebe countered.

  "We're meeting later," Elise said.

  "Well, that's fine for you. You're getting married. But I have no desire to attach myself to Wyatt at the hip. We both have our own lives to live."

  Then why did she suddenly, desperately, wish she could be with him? She'd seen him just this morning, but at work she couldn't touch him, kiss him, laugh with him. She'd thought that giving in to their desires would decrease the tension and make her stop thinking about him so much. In fact, the opposite was true.

  She was rapidly becoming obsessed with the man.

  * * *

  Wyatt did his best to honor Phoebe's wishes about privacy. At work he resisted the urge to touch her, even innocently, though it just about killed him to do so. Even so, by the end of the first day the whole crew knew something was up with him and Phoebe, especially when they both got a case of the giggles talking to Kelly in her dressing room, assiduously avoiding even a peek at the fur rug.

  Phoebe seemed okay with it when Phyllis, the director, made a teasing remark, so he tried not to worry.

  He didn't need more worries in his life. Running this show and trying to juggle dozens of people's expectations and ego trips was aging him. At least the ratings were good so far—steadily increasing. He must be doing something right.

  On Friday night, for the first time since moving to Phoenix, he found himself bored. No budgets or forecasts to do, no phone calls to make. He gave the condo a good cleaning, in anticipation of bringing Phoebe here tomorrow night, but that only took an hour. He made himself a hamburger for dinner, gave all his grandmother's plants some plant food, and dutifully talked to the cacti. That took him to eight o'clock.

  He worked out in the Mesa Blue weight room, hoping he might run into Phoebe or one of her friends there, but the room was deserted. He showered.

  Nine o'clock.

  Maybe two nights a week weren't enough.

  He decided to call Phoebe. He could at least finalize their plans for tomorrow. But her answering machine picked up.

  Where was she? he fumed. Out with one of her college beaux?

  He knew his anger was unreasonable. He had no claim to Phoebe, just as she had none on him. He could pick up the phone right now and call that cute brunette who worked at the deli where he often had lunch. She'd thoughtfully included her phone number with his hoagie sandwich earlier this week.

  But the brunette held little appeal. It was blond hair he thought of now—long, straight, white-gold silk he could swim in.

  He went to bed with a boring book, hoping it would dull him to sleep.

  * * *

  Phoebe dressed with more than usual care for her Saturday date with Wyatt. She wanted to look her best—she wanted to look hot. But she didn't want to look like a teenager. So she tried on one outfit after another, while her mother gave her a running commentary.

  "What about this?" Phoebe asked as she stood in front of the mirror in red hip-hugger jeans, platform clogs and a ribbed halter top.

  "Beautiful," Olga said. "If you want to look like a teen hooker. All you need is a ring in your navel."

  She didn't tell her mother she'd actually had her navel pierced when she lived in L.A. She'd done it for Joel. After they broke up, she decided it didn't suit her and quit wearing the ring. She still had a tiny scar.

  Next she tried on a pair of baggy pants and an oversize T-shirt.

  "Lovely," Olga said. "Except no one can tell you're a girl. Don't you have something in between? Gawd, not those overalls," she said quickly, when Phoebe reached for a lilac pair. Phoebe hid a secret smile, remembering how she'd wanted to peel off her overalls during her first confrontation with Wyatt.

  She finally settled on snug black pants, a crop top that showed only a narrow strip of skin at her waist, and flat-heeled boots. She wouldn't set the fashion world on fire, but she wouldn't scare Wyatt.

  He knocked on her door promptly at ten. He'd sounded a little dubious when she'd suggested that time, but when she'd explained that The Pit, the club she wanted to take him to, didn't really get going until midnight, he'd agreed. She liked that about him: his flexibility. Joel had al
ways wanted to be right.

  She opened the door, taking a moment to appreciate the visual impact. He wore a pair of starched khakis, a forest-green shirt, polished loafers—and a tie. A grown-up preppie. Apparently he'd taken more than a little care with his wardrobe, because even at work he didn't wear a tie.

  He spent no small amount of time studying her before finally smiling in approval. "Hi."

  "Hi, yourself. Come in and meet my mother."

  "Gee, I haven't been through this ritual since high school."

  She touched his forearm in a small gesture of reassurance. Olga would approve.

  Olga stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, as Phoebe led Wyatt into the living room.

  "Oh, hello," she said, as if her appearance hadn't been calculated down to the last second. "You must be Wyatt."

  "Hello, Ms. Phelps." Wyatt extended his hand to her, and she shook it a bit awkwardly. "I'm looking forward to having you on the show."

  "I'm looking forward to being there," she cooed, batting her eyelashes. "My, Phoebe said you were handsome, but she didn't tell the half of it."

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. When Olga turned on the full force of her feminine charm, it was a thing to be feared. But Wyatt just rolled right along with it.

  "And Phoebe didn't tell me how pretty you are. Your photo doesn't do you justice."

  Olga patted her blond, puffy hair and batted her false eyelashes. "Oh, how you do go on. "

  Phoebe decided she'd better get Wyatt out of there before they were hip-deep in treacle. "We'd better get going."

  "You won't keep her out too late, will you, Wyatt?" Olga admonished.

  "Mama, I haven't had a curfew since I was seventeen. Do not wait up for me."

  "Of course not, dear," Olga said complacently, but Phoebe knew her mother would sleep with one ear open.

  As soon as she was alone with Wyatt, she let out a pent-up breath. "She makes me crazy."

  "She seems perfectly charming and delightful to me."

  "You're not her daughter. Wyatt…" she began, as they stepped onto the elevator. "You look great."

  "You look hot. I hope I don't have to fight off other guys."

  Phoebe hoped not, too. Usually when she went to a club—and she didn't do it very often anymore—she spent a good deal of time fending off unwanted male attention. There was something about yards of blond hair that raised testosterone levels. Yet she was too vain to cut it off. Though she'd turned her back on Hollywood and claimed disdain for a world that valued looks and sex appeal above everything, she nevertheless made the most of her own physical assets.