Tame An Older Man

“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.”