by Kara Lennox
"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.
"I don't know where she is," he finally said. "Have you tried her apartment?" He opened the door wider, indicating Phoebe should come all the way in.
She did, intending to conduct a thorough search. Daisy would probably be really mad at her for being so nosy, but someone had to watch out for the woman.
"She's not home," Phoebe said, looking all around. No sign of an overnight guest. No discarded clothing lying around on the living room floor. No breakfast place setting for two at the dining room table.
She turned to face Wyatt. "You were hitting on her at the party last night. You didn't even pay your respects to the hostess, which you should have after you told me you weren't coming. But you didn't waste any time cornering poor Daisy and whisking her off someplace."
"Poor Daisy?" he repeated incredulously.
"She's very vulnerable right now," Phoebe persisted. "She doesn't need some wolf twice her age overwhelming her with promises he has no intention of keeping."
Wyatt narrowed his eyes. "Twice her age? Not unless she's nineteen. Exactly how old do you think I am?"
Phoebe took a deep breath. "All right, the age reference was out of line. I didn't hear you denying you're a wolf, though."
"Phoebe, look at me. Look me in the eye, because I want to be sure you're listening."
She didn't want to. Those velvety gray eyes of his saw too much. But
she did. Bless it, he was too darn good-looking for anyone's peace of mind, least of all hers.
He took a step closer, until she could feel his body heat. "I did not hit on your friend Daisy. I did not whisk her off anyplace. And though I don't like to gossip, I will tell you that I did see her leave the party—with some guy."
"Who?" The single word dripped with suspicion.
"I have no idea. I don't know anyone here."
"What did he look like?"
Wyatt shrugged, stepping back and giving them both some much-needed breathing room.
"How should I know? I don't pay that much attention to how guys look."
"Just women," Phoebe couldn't resist adding.
"Why would you think that?" Wyatt said, sounding genuinely perplexed. He flopped down onto the sofa and started straightening the newspaper that was strewn about. "Did my grandparents tell you I was some sort of lecher?"
"No, no, they've never had anything but nice things to say about you."
"Then what? I've never done anything since I moved here except keep to myself!"
"Well, you work in television," Phoebe said, knowing she sounded lame.
"And that makes me out to nail every female I meet?"
"I'm just going by my personal experience."
Wyatt didn't seem to know what to make of that. He didn't look at her, just kept stacking sections of newspaper together neatly.
"Okay," Phoebe finally said, "maybe I jumped to conclusions a little."
"A little?" He pushed the newspapers aside and leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. "I can assure you, the last thing on my mind right now is adding notches to my bedpost. I have a new job, the kind of opportunity that comes along once in a lifetime, and I have maybe a few weeks at most to prove myself. If the show succeeds, the world is my oyster. If it tanks, I'm back to producing local cooking shows and public service announcements. I spend every waking moment worrying about that damn show."
Phoebe studied Wyatt, really studied him. Suddenly he didn't seem like every other schmoozy show-business guy she'd known. He cared about his work. In fact, it appeared he actually worked, rather than taking long expense-account lunches and talking on his cell phone.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what I was thinking, or why I said those things." Temporary insanity, maybe.
He smiled at her, though she couldn't imagine why. He should have just thrown her out into the hall on her ear.
"The truth is, Phoebe, I have no use for women right now. But if I did … if I were going to hit on anybody living at Mesa Blue, it would be you. Daisy is pretty, but leggy blondes are more to my taste."
Phoebe's heart slammed into her chest. Had she actually been thinking charitable thoughts about him only moments ago? Had she actually apologized for thinking he was a wolf? He was grinning at her, a grin that would put any wolf at the zoo to shame.
"Thanks just the same," Phoebe said coolly. "As it turns out, I have no use for men at this point in my life. So that works out well, doesn't it?"
Wyatt nodded. "Very convenient."
Something else was going on here, Phoebe thought. He was watching her, as if he expected her to pull a rabbit out of her ear or something.
"So I should just go, I guess."
"Seems we've said all there is to say."
"Well, goodbye, then."
"Goodbye." He picked up a section of newspaper and started reading.
The nerve!
Phoebe finally managed to drag herself out the front door, marveling at her reluctance. She tried to convince herself she'd merely wanted to come up with a zinger of an exit line. But by the time she made it back to her apartment, she had to admit something awful: she'd been tempted by Wyatt's come-on. She'd been a heartbeat away from meeting his flirtation with one of her own.
She paused a moment, standing just inside the front door, to picture it. "Oh, Wyatt, I'm flattered, but … actually, I find you quite attractive, too," she would say. "But, of course, if you don't have time for women, I understand…" And while she talked, she would slowly unfasten her overalls, first one shoulder, then the other…
Back in the present, she could only gasp at the outrageous turn her little fantasy had taken. "Adelaide Phelps," she said aloud, using the name she'd grown up with, the name no one but her mother even knew about. "That wasn't a flirtation, that was a seduction, and if that's what's on your mind, you better just stay away from Wyatt Madison!"
* * *
Wyatt tossed the newspaper aside, his entire body thrumming with anticipation for something that would never happen.
He ought to be consumed with relief that Phoebe hadn't taken his bait. He'd been testing her with that come-on line. If she'd had any intention of using his show-business connections to revive her career, he'd just given her the perfect opportunity.
But she hadn't responded as predicted. In fact, she'd all but crossed herself and hung garlic around her neck to keep him away. Wait a minute, was garlic for werewolves or vampires?
Well, no matter. She'd made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. She thought he was old, damn it. He was thirty-nine, in the prime of his life. He wasn't old; it was just that Phoebe was young. When he'd been in college, she'd been jumping rope on the playground.
He had to keep reminding himself of things like that. Because he hadn't felt at all relieved when Phoebe had turned her nose up at his flirting. He'd felt keen disappointment. And just what would he have done if she'd responded? He'd like to think he would have politely but firmly sent her home with a pat on the head. Unfortunately, he knew damn well he'd have peeled those overalls right off her, given even half a chance.
* * *
"Well, if it isn't my three best customers," said George, Phoebe's favorite waiter at The Prickly Pear. The upscale bar and grill was only a few blocks from Mesa Blue, and the three friends ended up here for dinner at least once a week, as did several of their neighbors.
George automatically set drinks in front of Elise, Daisy and Phoebe, already familiar with their habitual choices. The three friends always chose the same table, when it was unoccupied, so George could wait on them.
"Evening, George," Phoebe said with a smile, letting him kiss her on the cheek. Like Jeff, his flirtations were harmless. He had a wife he adored.
"You lovelies want the usual?" George asked.
They all nodded. Chicken Caesar salads all the way around. Their order never varied.
It was two days after Phoebe's last encounter with Wyatt. She'd tried to forget about it, push it out of her mind, but she found herself annoyingly preoccupied with thoughts of what might have happened if she'd reacted differently to his come-on.
Elise made an exaggerated throat-clearing sound. "Will you join us, Phoebe?"
"Huh?"
"You're off in never-never land again," Daisy said.
Elise nudged her. "This is an important occasion, and I want you paying attention."
"Sorry." She focused on Elise. Important? Had she forgotten someone's birthday? "What is going on?"
"Momentous, in fact," Elise said. "You were both very supportive during James's and my … courtship."
"Courtship?" Daisy said dryly. "More like a roller coaster."
"So tonight," Elise continued, ignoring her, "I am officially asking both of you to be bridesmaids."
Phoebe was unexpectedly touched, as Daisy appeared to be. They both jumped out of their chairs to hug their friend.
"I figured with all those sisters, you wouldn't need any more bridesmaids," Phoebe said.
"This is my one and only wedding, and I plan to have as many bridesmaids as I want. Six, so far, and it's not eight only because one of my sisters will be out of the country and another will be eight months' pregnant by September and she refuses to waddle down the aisle."
"I love weddings," Daisy said on a sigh. "I'm really happy for you, Elise, but I wish it were mine."
"We'll have you married off in no time," Elise said. "In fact, t
here's a new teaching assistant in the Languages Department. Spanish. He's gorgeous, kind of like Antonio Banderas, and he's single." Elise pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to Daisy. "He said for you to call him."
Daisy took the card without much enthusiasm. "How old is he?" she asked suspiciously.
"Oh, I don't know."
"He's younger than me, I bet," Daisy said.
"Maybe a little, but that shouldn't matter. He's very nice, very much a gentleman."
Daisy sighed. "I'm reduced to begging for dates with destitute grad students."
"He's not destitute," Elise argued. "Anyway, the last rich guy you went out with drove you crazy with all his things."
Daisy groaned. "The dentist. Why do I let you guys keep fixing me up?"
"Because it's a numbers game," Elise said. "You have to kiss a lot of toads before you find the prince. And, anyway, the rejects have single friends."
"Maybe…" Phoebe ventured, "maybe Daisy doesn't want us to fix her up anymore because she found someone on her own."
"What?" Daisy said sharply. "Phoebe, I told you, Wyatt and I are just friends. We talked for about ten minutes, and that was it."
"Not Wyatt," Phoebe said. "The other guy. The one you left the party with."
"Oh, do tell," Elise said.
Daisy took a long sip of her iced tea. "So, Elise, have you chosen your colors yet?"
Well, that didn't go over well, Phoebe thought. She'd been hoping to tease Daisy into revealing the identity of the mystery man Wyatt had mentioned. She figured there would be a simple explanation. But clearly Daisy didn't want to talk about it.
"I'm not sure about colors yet," Elise said, "but I was thinking maybe a pale yellow for the bridesmaid dresses."
"Only if you want me to look like a corpse," Phoebe said flippantly, then wished she'd thought before she'd spoken. Elise should be allowed to pick any color she wanted. It didn't matter that yellow washed out Phoebe's skin and made her hair look like straw.
"I forgot—you do look dreadful in yellow. No offense."
"None taken. Don't worry about that, though. Pick whatever color you like best."
"No, no, I don't want any Night of the Living Dead bridesmaids. Maybe pink—"
