Tame An Older Man. Kara Lennox

a guy who thinks wife is a four-letter word.”

      “It is a four-letter word.”

      “You know what I mean.”

      “Well, I still think he’d be better than Wyatt Mad—” Phoebe stopped mid-name, then blinked her eyes a couple of times to clear them. Surely after one margarita she couldn’t be hallucinating.

      “What’s wrong?” Elise asked.

      “Daisy and Wyatt. They’re gone.” The buffet table, where they’d been huddling a few moments earlier, was now empty.

      “Hmm. They certainly are. Maybe they hit it off, and they’ve gone somewhere a bit more private.”

      “Bite your tongue.”

      “Phoebe!”

      “What do we really know about Wyatt Madison? What his grandparents have told us, and they’re partial. He’s in the entertainment industry, and that’s a strike against him. You have no idea what kind of wolves work in television. He could be an ax murderer!”

      Elise just gave her a long-suffering look. “I was just kidding before when I suggested you wanted to keep Wyatt for yourself. But you keep this up, I’ll start to believe you really do want him.”

      “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Besides, that would be almost incestuous. The Madisons think of me as their daughter, and they raised Wyatt as their own son—”

      “You’re making excuses.”

      Phoebe would have argued more, but Elise’s fiancé, James Dillon, approached them. Or rather, he approached Elise. Phoebe doubted he even saw her there. He was so completely in love with Elise, he only had eyes for her.

      “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he chastised gently, kissing her on the cheek.

      Phoebe quietly sighed. Watching Elise and James fall in love had been fun. Elise had never been so happy. James was absolute proof that good men did exist. Still, in Phoebe’s experience, they were few and far between.

      Phoebe’s mother had always told her she had everything she needed to land herself a good husband—drop-dead good looks and a body that wouldn’t quit. Phoebe hadn’t found her mother’s advice to be true. After the Hollywood fiasco, she had stopped thinking about husbands, and men in general. She was creating her own future, one in which she wouldn’t have to depend on her sex appeal to bring her success. Nor would she have to depend on another person—husband, boss, casting director, agent, plastic surgeon, whoever.

      “You are way too gorgeous to be standing around by yourself,” Jeff said. “Wanta blow this joint and go make our own action?”

      Phoebe smiled. “You have to work and I’m the hostess. I can’t disappear. Otherwise, I’d jump at such an attractive invitation.”

      Jeff shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

      PHOEBE AWOKE the next morning feeling unsettled and not very well rested. Then she realized why. Daisy and Wyatt had disappeared last night, and she hadn’t seen either of them for the rest of the evening.

      Daisy was very vulnerable. Recently her doctor had told her that if she ever wanted to have children, she needed to do it now, before her endometriosis rendered her infertile. Daisy did want children, very much. But she refused to have a baby without a husband. She’d been a “love child” herself, and no kid of hers was growing up without a father.

      Now Daisy was so focused on the idea of finding Mr. Right and settling down that her usually keen powers of discernment might be impaired. If Wyatt had taken advantage of Daisy’s clouded judgment, Phoebe would string him up by his toes!

      Phoebe hopped in the shower to clear the fuzz from her mind, threw on a pair of overalls and a purple ribbed shirt, then grabbed the phone and dialed Daisy’s number.

      No answer. Even the answering machine didn’t pick up. That was a bad sign.

      Phoebe went out into the hallway and walked slowly past Wyatt’s door. His newspaper was out in the hallway, uncollected. Another bad sign.

      She stopped right in front of the door. Then she pressed her ear against it. Nothing, darn it. Then again, the walls and doors at Mesa Blue were extraordinarily well insulated.

      Just then the door jerked open, and Phoebe pitched forward. A strong pair of arms prevented her from falling flat on her face.

      “Good morning to you, too,” Wyatt said, setting her back on her feet.

      “Oh, uh…” Think, Phoebe! And she’d better come up with an excuse real fast. But somehow, she couldn’t think of anything but those strong arms catching her.

      Wyatt bent down and retrieved the paper. He wore only a pair of running shorts—no shirt, no shoes.

      “I came to borrow some, um, coffee,” Phoebe finally said. “I’m all out, and I really need the caffeine.”

      He smiled as if he didn’t believe her for an instant. “I don’t drink coffee, and my grandparents don’t have any, either.”

      Phoebe tried to nonchalantly peer past him into the apartment for any sign of Daisy. But Wyatt seemed intent on blocking her view with his annoyingly well-muscled chest, making it hard to look at anything else.

      “I have orange juice,” he offered.

      “No, thanks. Sorry to bother you.”

      Phoebe fled. She didn’t know what else to do in the face of all that overwhelming maleness. She didn’t look back, she just scurried into her own apartment and slammed the door.

      Damn! What an awful time for her hormones to act up. Living in L.A., after a few of those will-you-respect-me-in-the-morning liaisons, she’d gotten disgusted with herself and made it a blanket policy to just say no. She’d virtually shut down her sexual responses to men.

      It had been years since she’d even thought about getting involved with a man, and she liked it that way. Her track record was abysmal when it came to romance, anyway. The few relationships she’d ventured into had never progressed past shallow and physical. Men she’d dated had just never wanted to know anything about her except her erogenous zones.

      Now, when she least needed it, her body had reawakened. To Wyatt Madison, of all people. Was Elise right? Had she been against Daisy and Wyatt getting together because she wanted to save Wyatt for herself?

      No, she told herself firmly. Maybe Wyatt wasn’t an ax murderer, and maybe he had nice grandparents, but that didn’t mean he could seduce Daisy on their first meeting and get away with it. Phoebe had to find out what really happened last night and be prepared for damage control with Daisy.

      Fortified with new resolve and a new plan, she headed down to Frannie’s apartment. She would spy on Wyatt’s balcony from Frannie’s patio. There was a good chance that if he had an overnight guest, the two of them would sit out on the balcony to read the paper, drink their orange juice, and enjoy the marvelous spring weather amongst Helen’s potted forest of green.

      But Frannie wasn’t home, either. Was she with Bill, maybe?

      Phoebe was not to be dissuaded. She marched back up to the third floor, and after hesitating only a moment to ask herself, Are you crazy? she knocked on Wyatt’s door.

      He answered after a few moments, still in the same fetching costume. This time he stood there, a bottle of orange juice in his hand, a section of paper folded under his arm.

      He stared at her, perplexed. And maybe a little irritated. “Yes?”

      “Where is she?”

      Now he just looked confused. “Who?”

      “You know who. Daisy.”

      “Daisy,” he repeated.

      “The redhead? Green dress?” Phoebe figured maybe he’d forgotten to ask Daisy’s name.