Tame An Older Man

“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?”