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.