TAME AN OLDER MAN Page 5

  "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 4

  « ^ »

  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.

  But some days, like today, Wyatt had his doubts about whether the show would go on at all. The featured guests, a 16-year-old star of a hot new nighttime soap, gave new meaning to the word ego. The show's hosts were engaged in a romantic quarrel, something Wyatt had known would happen eventually, given their volatile personalities.

  And now his makeup artist was threatening to quit.

  "If that oversexed little snip grabs my breast one more time," Carmen complained, "I'm going to give him a black eye!"

  "Carmen, you can't assault our guests, no matter how bad their behavior."

  "You wouldn't say that if he groped you!"

  "I'll have a talk with him."

  "No. I want you to get Jean to do his makeup." Jean was the stylist who did Kelly and Kurt, his hosts.

  "Jean has already left for the day," Wyatt pointed out.

  "Someone else, then!"

  "We all have other jobs to do." Some of which weren't getting done. Tension on the set had a tendency to slow things down.

  "Wyatt!" screamed Kelly Cupps, the female half of his hosting team. Wyatt glanced in the direction of the half-hysterical summons. She stood on the set in a robe, hair in curlers, feet bare. "There's no bottled water in my dressing room!"

  Wyatt put a hand to Carmen's shoulder. "Carmen, please, I just need you to—"

  She jumped away from him. "You men are all the same, always touching, touching, touching. Well, I'm through! I quit!" And she did.

  Wyatt stared after her, incredulous. "Wyatt, what about my water!" Kelly screamed. Damn it, he was the producer, not an errand boy. He grabbed one of the grips. "Do me a big favor and get the Aqua Queen some bottled water?"

  "That violates union rules, man. Sorry."

  Wyatt got the water himself, out of his own stash in his office. Then he called around and tried to find another makeup artist. But his contacts in Phoenix were limited. He simply hadn't lived here long enough. Jean didn't answer when he paged her. He put out calls to a couple of others he found in his director's Rolodex, but by sixty minutes to airtime he still didn't have anyone to do his guests' makeup.

  He was about to borrow Kelly's suitcase of cosmetics and do the job himself, when he remembered someone else he knew who did makeovers. What was the name of that spa where she worked? Sunshine … no, Sunrise.

  On impulse, he dialed Information.

  * * *

  Phoebe carefully removed electric rollers from the fragile, auburn-tinted hair of one of her clients, Mrs. Cooper.

  "I just don't know, honey," the sixty-something woman said, frowning into the mirror. "I'm not sure this color is me. I used to be a redhead, you know."

  Phoebe knew. Mrs. Cooper had informed her of that fact several times a day last week while Phoebe tried every hair color on the shelf to please her.

  "Why don't you try living with it for a few days?" Phoebe suggested. "It looks good with your coloring."

  "I'll decide what looks good, missy," Mrs. Cooper said curtly. "I'm the one paying a thousand dollars a day."

  Phoebe stifled a groan. Not all the rich ladies she worked with had this kind of attitude. In fact, most of them were very nice, and sometimes quite gracious when Phoebe worked her magic on them. She firmly believed that every woman, no matter how seemingly plain, had beautiful qualities that could be accentuated with the right hairstyle or makeup choices. Some of her clients were downright astounded when she brought their inner beauty to the surface.

  Then there were the Mrs. Coopers of the world, who would never be beautiful because they never smiled. They treated Phoebe like a servant with no feelings.

  Phoebe's intercom buzzed, dispelling her dismal thoughts. "Phone for you" came the voice of Pam, Sunrise's receptionist.

  "I don't take calls during appointments," Phoebe gently reminded Pam. She also firmly believed all her clients—even Mrs. Cooper—deserved a hundred percent of her attention.

  "I know, and I'm sorry," Pam said, sounding anxious. "But he said it's an emergency."

  Phoebe's heart skipped a beat. All she could think about was her mother, her only living relative. Olga Phelps was healthy as a horse, as far as Phoebe knew. Had something happened to her? Phoebe apologized to the tightly frowning Mrs. Cooper and picked up the phone.

  "Phoebe Lane

  ."

  "Phoebe, thank God. It's Wyatt Madison."

  Now her heart went into overdrive. Why would he be calling her? "It's not—I mean, your grandparents are okay, aren't they?" she asked.

  "Yes, yes, they're fine. I'm calling because… How would you like to make a fast three hundred bucks?"

  "What?"

  "Whoa, let me rephrase that. I need a makeup artist. Mine just walked out, and my show goes on the air in forty-five minutes. You're my last resort."

  Phoebe's first instinct was to say no. She'd left the entertainment industry three years ago without a backward glance, and she had no intention of making a comeback. But the real reason she wanted to say no was that she didn't need any more excuses to hang out with Wyatt. The man drove her crazy. Knowing he lived and slept just two doors down from her was bad enough, even if she didn't see him very often. But now that she knew he thought of her as a "leggy blonde," things were ten times worse.

  "I'll make it four hundred," he said, when her extended silence became uncomfortable.

  "To do what, exactly?" She couldn't believe she was even considering his offer.

  "Make up our guests. We have two. Shouldn't take longer than thirty minutes. Kelly and Kurt already have their makeup on," he added.

  She supposed she should know who Kelly and Kurt were, but she seldom watched TV. No time.

  "Five hundred," Wyatt said, sounding desperate. "Final offer."

  "I'll do it on one condition," she finally agreed, unable to say no to him. Shoot, five hundred bucks for less than an hour's work wasn't something she could afford to walk away from. Her financial needs were modest, given that she owned both her car and her condo outright. But the spa didn't pay her that much, and school was expensive.

  "Name it," Wyatt said.

  "I want your promise there'll be no more 'leggy blonde' comments. I promised myself when I left L.A. that I would never again—"

  "Oh, hell, I didn't mean that. Sorry if it upset you or anything. I was testing you."

  Well, that was a new twist. Phoebe thought. She'd heard all kinds of excuses when a man tried to save face, but none had ever claimed to be testing her.

  "When Daisy told me you were an actress," he explained, "I thought for sure you'd try to use me to somehow revive your career."

  "What on earth would make you think—"

  "Past experience. The same thing that makes you think I'm out to jump women."

  Point taken, she thought with a small pang of guilt. "You're safe w
ith me, I promise," he added. Phoebe was annoyed by the sense of disappointment she felt. Did he find her totally unappealing?

  "Will you do it?" he asked again.

  "Did I pass your test?"

  He chuckled. "With flying colors. Been a long time since anyone so thoroughly bruised my ego."

  "Then I'll come to the station immediately." She actually heard his sigh of relief before they hung up. If she'd thought for a moment he was anything but sincere in his plight, she'd never have agreed to help. Helen and Rolland Madison would be really hurt if she turned her back on their precious grandson when he was in a jam.

  "Mrs. Cooper, I'm—" She stopped. Mrs. Cooper was gone. Phoebe had been so wrapped up in her conversation with Wyatt, she hadn't even noticed her neglected client getting up and leaving. Phoebe was about to go in search of the woman to apologize, when the door to her treatment room flew open without a knock. Her boss, Madelaine Fitzhugh, burst in looking as if she wanted to chew on something firm—like Phoebe's butt.

  "What did you do to Mrs. Cooper?" Madelaine demanded, her arms crossed beneath her improbably large breasts.

  "Aside from dying her hair for the fifth time?"

  "Don't be snippy with me, Phoebe."

  Phoebe hated being spoken to like a sixth grader caught smoking in the bathroom, but she did her best to screen the irritation out of her voice. "I took a phone call. Three minutes, max."

  "She said you were gushing with your boyfriend."

  Phoebe almost laughed. What on earth had given Mrs. Cooper that idea? "No. It was a friend, and I've got to help him with an emergency." She peeled off her smock.

  "You're leaving?"

  "I don't have another client until four o'clock," Phoebe assured her boss. And she was paid by the client, not the hour.

  "But I might need you. Flora Cummings wants a manicure at one."

  "Madelaine, you know I can't work from eleven to three."

  "Except in special circumstances. This is special."

  "I need twenty-four hours' warning. That's our deal." Anyway, Phoebe had her organic chemistry test at two. No way was she giving any manicures this afternoon. She gathered up her makeup and arranged it in a big silver case.

  Madelaine narrowed her eyes. "Who are you working for? You did sign a non-compete agreement."

  "It's not a spa. It's for a TV show."

  Madelaine tried to look nonchalant, but Phoebe could tell she was angry. She stepped toward the lighted wall mirror, picked up one of Phoebe's brushes and fussed with her bangs.

  "Well, between this TV gig and your other mysterious comings and goings, sounds like you don't really need the Sunrise Spa. So don't bother coming back."

  Phoebe was incredulous. "Oh, Madelaine, don't go all melodramatic on me." But she was talking to thin air. Before she had even finished voicing her objection, Madelaine had gone.

  "Great," Phoebe grumbled, hoisting her case and her purse and heading for the nearest exit. Something else to feel irritated with Wyatt for. He'd gotten her fired. Indirectly, of course, but still…

  She stopped that line of thinking. She'd gotten herself fired. She'd long ago shed the victim mentality learned from her mother. She was responsible for taking Wyatt's call, for ignoring Mrs. Cooper and for being "snippy." She could always go back to work for Weldon's Department Store, passing out perfume samples until she found something better—though the pay was dreadful. But maybe she could at least negotiate regular hours. Being at Madelaine's beck and call had wreaked havoc on her studying.

  All that rationalization didn't stop her from feeling annoyed.

  * * *

  It was fifteen minutes to airtime when Phoebe finally walked through the studio door. Wyatt had alerted security of her imminent arrival and instructed them to give her a visitor's badge and escort her posthaste to the set. The moment he saw her, he felt a tremendous rush of relief coupled with a bothersome surge of lust. But what healthy male wouldn't lust after her? he reasoned. Dressed in a snug knit top and even snugger black pants, walking with that graceful, loose-limbed gait of hers, she was an erotic dream waiting to happen.

  She looked around, finally catching his gaze and waving an acknowledgment. She started toward him, and he met her halfway. About damn time, he wanted to say. But he knew that was his own anxiety talking. She'd no doubt gotten here as quickly as she could, and since she was his last hope of preventing this show from self-destructing, he sure as hell couldn't afford to tick her off.

  "I'm sorry it took me so long," she said breathlessly. "Traffic was terrible."

  "That's okay." He took her heavy case, grabbed her elbow and steered her toward a hallway that started at the back of the studio and extended past dressing rooms and offices. He tried not to think about the fact that even Phoebe's elbow was sexy.

  When they reached one of the dressing rooms, he tapped, and a female voice told them to come in.

  Wyatt opened the door and led Phoebe inside. "Phoebe, this is Muriel Topper. She wrote—"

  "That diet book!" Phoebe said, sounding surprised and pleased. "We sell it at the spa where I work, and we can't keep enough copies in stock. I'm Phoebe Lane

  ."

  Muriel, gracefully thin and quite beautiful for a seventy-year-old, smiled and extended a hand. "Nice to meet you. Hope you've got something in that case of yours for these bags under my eyes."

  "In fact, I do. But I don't notice any bags," she quickly added.

  "You only have about fifteen minutes to get Muriel ready," Wyatt cautioned. "Then I need you to step next door and start on our other guest. He won't be on 'til nine-thirty."

  "No problem," Phoebe said breezily, already opening her case and selecting sponges, brushes and various colors of foundation and eye pencil. "Who's the other guest?"

  "An actor," Wyatt answered.

  Phoebe frowned. "That narrows it down."

  "Taylor Shad."

  She froze. "You're joking. This is a joke, right?"

  "'Fraid not. You know him?"

  "Well, yeah. He played my little brother on 'Skin Deep.'"

  "Then you all should have a lot to catch up on. Yell if you need anything."

  Wyatt got out of there. The expression on Phoebe's face was trouble. He could tell she didn't like Shad—who did?—and he was half afraid she might refuse to do the kid's makeup. Better to not even give her the chance to slither out of her commitment.

  * * *

  "That Shad kid is a real piece of work, isn't he?" Muriel commented, as Phoebe touched up her hair.

  Phoebe had immediately liked Muriel. She'd written an easy-to-understand nutrition book for senior women, and it was selling like snow cones on a hot Phoenix street

  corner.

  "You've met him?" Phoebe asked.

  "When I first got here. He said, 'Hey, mama, you don't look bad for an old broad.'"

  Phoebe gasped. "Sounds like he's even worse than when I knew him three years ago. Back then he used to pinch bottoms, snap bra straps and tell dirty jokes."

  "Well, I don't want to alarm you," Muriel said, "but I think Taylor Shad is the reason the makeup artist quit in a huff."

  "Oh, really?" And Wyatt hadn't even warned her about him. Well, the little snot sure wouldn't bully her into quitting, she thought. She'd been harassed by worse than him.

  An intern came to get Muriel. Phoebe, pleased with how the older woman's makeup and hair had turned out, wished her good luck, then packed up her supplies to move to Taylor's dressing room. How old would he be now? About sixteen, Phoebe calculated. She hadn't kept up with his career, or anyone else's for that matter. She hardly ever watched TV or went to the movies.

  She knocked on Taylor's door.

  "Enter" came the imperious response.

  She cautiously opened the door. Taylor Shad looked more man than boy, now.

  His eyes lit up with surprise. "Well, I'll be damned, if it isn't Vanessa Vance."

  "Phoebe Lane

  ," she corrected him, irritated he didn't remem
ber her real name. As she stepped into the room, she purposely left the door open.

  "I didn't know you were gonna be on 'Heads Up,' too." Then he spied her makeup case. "Oh, don't tell me. You do makeup now?"

  "Yup." She set her case on the vanity and mechanically went through the motions of selecting colors and applicators.

  He hooted with laughter. "Kind of a comedown, huh, sister dearest?"

  She didn't respond.

  "Man, oh, man. I knew nobody picked you up after Vanessa got killed off, but I can't believe you sank this low. Tell me it's a joke."

  Phoebe gritted her teeth. "I got out of acting because I didn't like it. I enjoy doing makeup."

  "Yeah, right," Taylor said. "How much do you get paid for this grunt work?"

  "Today, five hundred dollars an hour," Phoebe said, just to shut him up.

  It didn't work. "On my new show, I get fifty thousand dollars an episode."

  "How nice for you." Even if he was telling the truth, which she doubted, she was unimpressed. "Close your eyes, please." She turned toward him with a sponge full of foundation makeup.

  Taylor complied, and for a few moments Phoebe thought he might be quiet and cooperate. No such luck.

  "You smell great," he said.

  "Thanks," she replied, no emotion in her voice.

  "I bet you taste good, too."

  "You'll never know, will you?"

  "All the guys on 'Skin Deep' had a running bet about you, you know."

  "No, I didn't know," Phoebe said, bored. "Lift your chin." She gingerly applied makeup to his neck.

  "We were betting whether your breasts were real or not."

  Phoebe didn't reply. Let him wonder all he wanted. "Mark said they were, but Vinnie said they weren't."

  "As if either of them would know." She tried not to let it get to her that a couple of low-life technicians on the "Skin Deep" set claimed they had intimate knowledge of her body. "Turn to the right."

  By the time she finished his foundation, she thought the discussion was over. But he wouldn't drop it.

  "You look like you've gained weight."

  "I've been working out."

  "You must have pretty good muscle tone." He grabbed her butt. "Yeah, you do."