Loe raamatut: «Tame An Older Man»

Chapter One

Phoebe Lane knocked on her downstairs neighbor’s door. The sound of multi-cat yowling greeted her from the other side. “Frannie?” she called. “You home?”

“One minute, one minute,” Frannie called. “I’d probably scare you if I came to the door naked, now, wouldn’t I?” A moment later the door opened, and Frannie welcomed Phoebe with a smile and slightly bleary eyes. Her red beehive pouf of hair was a little flat on one side and not quite as perky as usual.

“Oh, Frannie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.”

“That’s okay, hon, come on in before the cats get out.” She dragged Phoebe in by the elbow. The cats—Phoebe saw at least six—had no intention of escaping. They knew where their meal ticket was. They followed Frannie with adoring eyes and twitching tails, as she led Phoebe into the kitchen and put the coffee on. “I needed to get up, anyway, and feed my babies.”

Frannie managed to hold the coffeepot under the tap with one hand while pouring dry cat food into several pet bowls with the other. Phoebe could only hope Frannie didn’t get mixed up and put cat food in the coffeemaker.

“What’s got you up so early on a Saturday morning?” Frannie asked.

“It’s our new neighbor. His car is in the carport, so he must be home for a change. I was hoping I could get a look at him. I bet we can see his balcony from your patio.”

Frannie’s eyes sparkled. “The mysterious, reclusive Wyatt Madison. Why can’t you spy on his balcony from the courtyard?”

“I can’t see his balcony through those overachiever palm trees growing from your patio,” Phoebe explained.

“And what makes you think Mr. Madison will come out on his balcony this particular morning?”

“’Cause the weather’s nice?” Phoebe sagged a bit. “All right, so it’s not a great plan. Got a better one?”

“Hmm.” Frannie distributed the cat food among her herd of felines, her brow furrowed in thought. Then she smiled. “Ah, I know. This will be great.”

Phoebe watched, curious, as Frannie selected among her pets one half-grown Siamese kitten. She picked it up and cuddled it, though it protested at being taken away from the food. “Igor loves to climb trees, don’t you, baby?” She grabbed a can of cat treats from the top of the refrigerator and headed toward the back of her apartment. “Follow me.”

Phoebe couldn’t wait to see what her resourceful neighbor had planned. Frannie made it a point to know everything about everybody who lived in Mesa Blue, their condo complex. But Wyatt Madison, who was house-sitting while his grandparents were away on a month-long cruise, had proved quite a challenge. No one had seen him. All they knew about him was that he’d moved recently from Chicago to Phoenix to produce a nationally syndicated talk show, “Heads Up,” and that his grandparents thought he walked on water.

“You’ll be sweet to Wyatt, won’t you?” 80-year-old Helen Madison had asked, as Phoebe helped her with the last-minute packing for her European cruise, the vacation she and her husband Rolland had planned for years. “He’s such a dear, but he needs some, er, female guidance, if you know what I mean.”

Precisely the reason Phoebe was so curious about the man.

“You know,” Frannie said as she led the way through the living room and to her large patio, where a couple more cats lazed in the sun, “I don’t blame you for trying to meet Wyatt before any of the other girls in this building get their hooks in him. It’s about time you took an interest in romance.”

Phoebe laughed. “I’m not interested in romance with Wyatt Madison. Please!” She’d sworn off men for the foreseeable future.

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” Frannie said, batting her eyelashes. “Nothing makes a woman feel young and gorgeous like an attentive man. Of course, I guess that doesn’t apply to you. You’re already young and gorgeous.”

“It’s the burden I live with,” Phoebe quipped, though she was half serious.

“Anyway, if you’re not out to jump his bones—”

“I’m just curious, Frannie,” Phoebe said with a laugh. Actually, she was interested in Wyatt’s romantic potential. But not for herself. One of her best friends, Daisy Redford, who lived on the second floor, had a ticking biological clock. Phoebe and her other best friend, Elise Foster, had pledged to help Daisy find her man. They were leaving no stone unturned—even if it meant going along with some wacky scheme of Frannie’s.

Frannie stood at the back of the patio, set the cat down, opened the can of cat treats, and let Igor have a sniff. “Yummy, yummy,” she said. Then she took a morsel from the can and lobbed it up toward the third floor—toward Wyatt’s balcony.

“You aren’t serious!” Phoebe said, laughing. “This won’t work!”

“Just watch.”

It took her a few tries, but Frannie had an admirable hook shot. Eventually a piece of the treat actually landed on Wyatt’s balcony. And the cat, watching carefully, saw it.

Frannie held the cat next to the trunk of a palm tree that grew straight up from her patio to the third floor. Igor immediately got the idea. He sank his claws into the tree and, with his goal firmly in mind, started to climb.

“How did you know he would do that?” Phoebe asked.

“Like I said, Igor loves climbing trees. He also always gets stuck. Now we have a perfect excuse to knock on the mysterious Mr. Madison’s door.”

Phoebe and Frannie watched long enough to feel certain the sure-footed feline would complete his mission, then scurried up to the third floor themselves, though they chose to use the stairs.

Phoebe’s heart thumped as they approached Wyatt’s door. “This is kind of dishonest, don’t you think?”

“Of course not. The cat is stuck, or he will be shortly. How else would I get him down?” Frannie stopped before the door and knocked smartly.

“Who is it?” a deep, oddly muffled-sounding voice asked from the other side.

“It’s your neighbors, Frannie and Phoebe,” Frannie said brightly.

“Come on in,” the voice beckoned. “Door’s unlocked.”

Frannie didn’t hesitate. Phoebe followed her inside, and both of them looked around for the source of the voice.

“Mr. Madison?” Frannie called.

“In the kitchen.”

The women followed the sound of the voice into the kitchen, and Phoebe stifled a gasp as she laid eyes on the most delightful set of male buns she’d ever seen. It quickly became apparent why Wyatt’s voice had been muffled. He had his head and shoulders buried under the kitchen sink.

“I’m right in the middle of something,” he said, pleasantly enough. “If I let go, I’ll flood the whole kitchen. Can I help you?”

Frannie, her gaze riveted on that wonderful butt covered with snug, faded denim, couldn’t seem to articulate an answer. Phoebe jumped in.

“We’re really sorry to bother you, but Frannie’s cat seems to have climbed up a tree by your balcony, and now he’s stuck. We thought you could get him down for us.”

“I, um, can’t right now.” Wyatt seemed to be wrestling with a stubborn pipe or something. His muscles bulged as he applied pressure to a wrench. The wrench slipped. “Ouch. Damn it! Um, ’scuse me.”

“How long do you think you’ll be?”

“At the rate I’m going? Hours. Why don’t you go on back to my balcony and see if you can get the cat yourself?”

That wasn’t the plan! Phoebe looked at Frannie, who shrugged helplessly. “I guess we can try,” Phoebe said. With luck, the cat would be too high or too low for them to reach.

Phoebe tried to take everything in, searching for clues to Wyatt’s personality as she and Frannie headed for the French doors that led out to the balcony. But the apartment looked almost identical to the way it had before the elder Madisons had left—tastefully decorated, accented with a few souvenirs from their travels around the world. Wyatt hadn’t put much of a stamp on the place.

When they stepped outside, a veritable jungle of plants greeted them. Helen had quite the green thumb, and she nurtured everything from ferns to cacti on her roomy terrace. They all looked happy and healthy, as if Wyatt was taking good care of them. He probably was, too, knowing how unhappy Helen would be if any of her darlings expired during her vacation.

Phoebe noticed a couple of new additions, two huge potted cactus plants. Then she spotted Igor perched in the top of a palm tree—at shoulder level, perfectly within reach of either woman. Rats. He mewed pitifully, and Frannie plucked him out of the tree and cuddled him. “Oh, poor baby. Mama played a mean trick on you, didn’t she, pushing you up that tree when she knew you’d get stuck. Let’s go home and get a treat.”

“I guess we can’t linger out here without arousing suspicion,” Phoebe agreed.

They stopped in the kitchen on the way out. Wyatt was still busily engaged with his plumbing. Well, at least they’d discovered he had a nice rear and a pleasant voice.

“Did you get the cat?” he asked.

“Yes,” Frannie said. “May I bring you some brownies to thank you?”

“I didn’t really do anything. Anyway, I’m allergic to chocolate, but thanks.”

Frannie and Phoebe looked at each other, but they were both out of ideas. “Well, guess we’ll leave,” Phoebe said. “Unless you need help with that plumbing?”

“Got it covered, thanks.”

They left. “Mission failed,” Phoebe murmured as she bid Frannie goodbye at the top of the stairs.

WYATT JUST LAY THERE under the sink for a few moments after the two women left. He’d been dying to get a look at the young one, Phoebe. He knew she was young because his grandparents had spoken endlessly of how beautiful she was, how nice, and how single. It was no secret they wanted him safely married off and providing them with great-grandchildren.

He’d always thought he wanted to get married someday, but someday had never come. He was thirty-nine but still in no hurry, not when he was on such a crucial rung of his career ladder, working sixteen-hour days to get “Heads Up” off on the right foot. He especially wasn’t interested in a platinum-blond beauty. The pretty ones were always trouble, their motives never to be trusted.

Still, Phoebe’s voice had sent pleasurable chills up his spine. He couldn’t be blamed for wanting to look.

When the plumbing job was finally finished, Wyatt took a moment to admire his handiwork. The kitchen faucet now ran hot and cold water at an appropriate volume without flooding the countertop. Satisfied, he grabbed a bottle of fruit juice as a reward and headed for his balcony. Since his move to Phoenix, he’d been stuck in the studio night and day. Now that he finally had a day off, he could appreciate the fine spring weather. What a switch it was from Chicago!

He sat down in one of the deck chairs and took a draw on his O.J. But relaxing didn’t come easy to him. Never had. First he saw some brown leaves on one of his grandmother’s ferns that had to be pinched. Then a spot of something orange on the balcony decking caught his eye. He picked up the small, soft, orange lump and sniffed it.

Smelled like fish. Cat food. Uh-huh.

Apparently Miss Phoebe felt the need for subterfuge in getting into his apartment. Apparently she believed that just introducing herself was too obvious.

He sighed, disappointed. Though why should Phoebe Lane be any different from every other attractive woman he met? It wouldn’t matter how subtle her machinations. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, get her on TV.

RATHER THAN TRAIPSING back to her own apartment two doors down from Wyatt’s, Phoebe went down to the second floor and knocked on Elise’s door.

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” Elise called. That seemed to be the policy around Mesa Blue. Everybody knew everybody—except Wyatt, of course—and since access to the building was controlled by twenty-four-hour security, the building had become its own small town. That was one of the reasons Phoebe had decided to move here. Her grandmother had left the condo to her in her will. Surprised and grateful—Phoebe had scarcely ever met her father’s mother—she welcomed the opportunity to flee Hollywood and settle into Mesa Blue’s warm, friendly environs.

She entered Elise’s apartment to find her friend lounging on her sofa reading a Bride magazine and sipping coffee. Her light brown hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore gym shorts and a T-shirt, looking as if she’d just finished an exercise routine.

Elise smiled a welcome. “Hey, get some coffee and sit down.”

Phoebe did just that. She loved Elise’s apartment, with its comfy furniture and its eclectic collection of books, pictures and plants. It was the sort of apartment a college professor should live in, which was only fitting, since that’s what Elise was. She taught French at Arizona State University.

Phoebe was sad that Elise would be moving out when she got married in a few months, though happy her friend had found such a wonderful man in James Dillon.

“Any progress in checking out Wyatt Madison?” Elise asked.

“That’s why I’m here. I’ve failed miserably. Although I can tell you he has a butt to die for.”

Elise’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, really?”

“And a nice voice.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

“He had his head stuck under the sink, for gosh sake,” Phoebe said. “Even Frannie couldn’t lure him out. We’ve got to come up with a plan.”

Elise set aside the magazine. “In that case…” She hopped up, went to her bookcase, and after a moment’s perusal selected a large white paperback with blue lettering.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Phoebe said with a laugh, as Elise resumed her seat and started flipping through the book, 2001 Ways to Wed by Jane Jasmine. The book was a surprise hit with women all over the country, women who previously thought they were doomed to a life of loneliness. From Seattle to Miami, they claimed Ms. Jasmine’s eminently sensible advice had helped them find husbands.

Actually, Elise was one of those women, although she hadn’t actually been looking for a husband when she’d found James. She’d only been looking for a temporary escort to take her to a family wedding and pretend to be her fiancé. She’d sought out someone in the Drama Department at the university, a professor who could act the part of a devoted fiancé, and had found a millionaire, instead.

“This book actually has some wonderful advice,” Elise said.

“Any advice for luring a workaholic recluse from his lair?” Phoebe asked. “I swear, if the Madisons didn’t insist he was such a catch—so absolutely perfect—I wouldn’t bother with him.”

“There’s a whole chapter called ‘Don’t Forget Your Neighbors’ on finding compatibility with the boy next door. Actually, that’s the chapter that gave me the idea to go looking in the Drama Department. They’re my neighbors at the university.”

Phoebe stretched her legs out, propping them on Elise’s coffee table. “Let’s have it. What does Ms. Jasmine advise?”

“‘Sometimes the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’” Elise read. “‘Bake him a batch of welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies.’”

“Would you believe Frannie already tried that? He’s allergic to chocolate.”

“Hmm. Oh, how about this one? ‘Is the man an animal lover? You could accidentally-on-purpose lose your dog or cat in his yard—’”

“Been there, done that. He had no interest in rescuing Daisy’s cat from a tree.”

“Darn, he is a tough case.” Elise flipped the page, scanning the text for gems. “Here’s one—‘Next time you have a domestic emergency, before you call a plumber or electrician, try the boy next door. If you’re lucky, he’ll be anxious to show off his manly prowess with power tools. Even if the two of you don’t hit it off, you could save yourself an exorbitant repair bill.’”

“Are you forgetting about Bill?” Phoebe said. Bill White was the super at Mesa Blue. He kept the building in top shape.

“You’re right. No one would impose on a neighbor when Bill is around. Okay, one more idea. ‘Have a party and invite him. If he comes alone, good for you. If he comes with a date, be gracious to them both. They might have eligible male friends. If he doesn’t come, you can always make so much noise that he can’t resist coming over to join the fun.’”

“That’s it!” Phoebe cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I thought you hated parties,” Elise said. “You said you’d had enough of them in L.A. to last you a lifetime.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose at the reminder. Those Hollywood parties had seemed exciting when she’d first moved to California. She’d loved the schmoozing—name-brand producers making promises, aging movie stars making passes, other agents trying to steal her away from the one she already had. And all of them telling her how beautiful she was.

About the time she’d landed the part as Vanessa Vance on the nighttime soap opera “Skin Deep,” however, the schmoozing got old. Everyone assumed she’d slept with the handsome producer just to get the part.

People would have laughed if she’d told them the real reason she’d gotten involved with Joel Spinner. She’d thought she was in love with him. She hadn’t realized what a can of worms she’d opened. Joel had been less than discreet about their affair, and next thing she knew, the studly young star of the show assumed she would sleep with him. And when she didn’t, he told everybody she had.

For a few weeks, she was labeled Hollywood’s slut-du-jour. Unfortunately, she couldn’t claim complete innocence. On the rebound from Joel, she’d made a few bad choices in the romance department.

Still, she never sank to the level of sleeping with someone just to get a part, though the opportunities were there. And once it became obvious Phoebe Lane didn’t play the casting-couch game, she went from rising young star to has-been in a short time span. Vanessa Vance was killed in an unsightly car wreck. The soap got canned. And her agent expected her to do the next round of parties—only this time it would be harder, because she was no longer the freshest face in town.

And she had a bit of a rep.

That’s when she’d made her escape from Hollywood, much to her mother’s disappointment.

“My party would be nothing like those parties in L.A.,” Phoebe said. “Anyway, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. As one of your best friends, I must give you and James an engagement party.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t hinting around,” Elise objected.

“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.