“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