Kara Lennox - Tame An Older Man

He might not be cover-boy material, but he had an okay face, all his teeth and a body that reflected the fact that he worked out.

Did she just not like him? Maybe he was too old for her. She'd made a big deal about his age. But he knew what was in these how-to-find-a-husband books. His insatiable curiosity had led him to read articles in Cosmopolitan when no one was looking. The advice was always the same: Don't rule out any guy until you get to know him.

Phoebe hardly knew him at all.

His competitive instincts rose to the surface. Did she have her eye on someone else? Where had she disappeared to all day today? And, damn it, what was not to like about him?

The decision was made. He would charm the socks off Phoebe. Nothing else, just her socks. He didn't want to marry her, didn't want to lead her on. But he didn't like being dismissed. He would at least show her he had worthwhile qualities.

"So, tell me about tomorrow's show," she asked, as they moved into the small kitchen.

"It's a little more complicated than today's was. We're doing a fashion segment with clothes made out of recycled tires-"

"Tires?"

"Yes. We have four models coming in, plus two additional guests, which means a lot of makeup. I'll need you at the studio by six."

He expected her to groan, but she just nodded.

"You did warn me there would be some early mornings required. That's fine. How is the rest of the week shaping up?"

As they talked about upcoming shows and waited for the coffee to finish brewing, Wyatt's mind churned. What would a woman like Phoebe respond to? Certainly not compliments about her looks. She probably heard how beautiful she was night and day. She definitely wouldn't enjoy a physical come-on, not after what had happened to her earlier today. So massages were out.

Power. Would she like that? But somehow he couldn't imagine himself dangling his authority over her, ordering her around. Besides, she might quit.

With a shrug, he decided he would just have to be his usual charming self.

Phoebe poured Wyatt a big glass of juice, then herself a cup of coffee. Her kitchen seemed far too small with the two of them standing in it.

He looked great, just fabulous. It seemed every time she saw him he was more attractive. She couldn't believe she'd thought he couldn't dress well. Tonight he was wearing a nice pair of jeans and a crisp, blue-striped button-down. Very un-Hollywood, and she loved it. She'd seen enough black turtlenecks in L.A. to last her a lifetime.

She was the one who looked as if she ought to be begging for spare change on the nearest street corner. But she'd dressed like this on purpose, downplaying her physical assets, hoping that by doing so she would guarantee that at least one of them would remain unattracted.

With their beverages of choice, Wyatt and Phoebe returned to the living room. Wyatt sat on the couch. Phoebe put her coffee on the coffee table, grabbed a notebook and pen, and sank into a beanbag chair a safe distance from him.

They spent the next few minutes just talking about the show. Wyatt explained more about his philosophy as producer and his aspirations for the show's future, providing little bits of information about the other staff members. He began to relax, and Phoebe found herself wondering if this was the same remote, austere man who hadn't even bothered to crawl out from under the sink the first time she'd encountered him.

This was the Wyatt his grandparents had told her about-funny, charming, intelligent. He treated her with respect, yet, she knew, he was aware of her as a woman, too. The combination was intoxicating.

Wyatt was the kind of man, she decided, that she'd once aspired to lure into marriage. The kind her mother would love as a son-in-law. In another time and place, she would have flirted with him. She would have used everything in her feminine arsenal to get to him-sexy clothing, perfume, body language.

But that was the old Phoebe, the one who thought her looks were her ticket to whatever she wanted. Things were different now. She had no time for a man in her life. She had career goals that would demand a hundred percent of her concentration.

And Wyatt Madison was her boss.

She'd learned a long time ago that involving herself with a producer was a terrible strategy, a one-way ticket to a bad rep. In Hollywood-and perhaps in Wyatt's circles, too-there was no such thing as innocent flirting.

So Wyatt was off-limits. Absolutely. But resisting him wasn't going to be easy.

As they relaxed into the conversation, they ended up sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. Wyatt was sketching a picture of the elaborate set he wanted to build for "Heads Up."

"The set we're using now is actually an old relic from some kids' talk show WBZZ did a few years ago. They weren't willing to put much money into upgrading it. But if the show reaches a certain audience share by the end of April, I get to build a whole new set, whatever I want."

"I have the greatest idea!" she said, suddenly inspired.

"Let's hear it."

"Redecorate your set on a regular basis. Solicit ideas from interior decorators all over the country. Pick a new one, say, once a month. Whatever one you pick redecorates the set-completely at his or her own expense-in exchange for prominent credit and a ten-minute guest shot."

Wyatt smiled uncertainly. "We might end up with some pretty weird sets."

"You give them the basic parameters so that the set is always-"

She gestured excitedly, knocking Wyatt's glass of orange juice squarely into his lap.

For a moment she just stared in horror. How could she have been so clumsy? With all the ballet classes she'd taken, she wasn't normally prone to klutzy moves.

"Uh," Wyatt said.

Phoebe hopped into action. "Don't move. I'll fix it." She jumped up and ran to the kitchen, grabbed about twenty paper towels off her roll, and ran back. She knelt down and started daubing at the sodden orange stain on the front of his shirt and jeans. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how I could have…"

She lost her train of thought when she realized exactly where she was pressing her wad of paper towels. Wyatt looked at her strangely. Her gaze locked with his, and though she told herself to move away, she couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she said again, only it came out as a hoarse whisper.

"So am I."

She had no conscious memory of who moved next, but they ended up kissing. Maybe he fell back, maybe she pushed him-but she was leaning against his chest, his arms around her, their mouths locked in the most intoxicating kiss Phoebe had ever experienced. He tasted like orange juice, sweet and tart.

She knew it was wrong, knew it was stupid, but she could no more stop than she could shoot out the stars. She kept promising herself just a few more seconds, because it felt so good, but the longer the embrace lasted, the less she wanted to end it.

He pulled the elastic band from her hair, letting the white-gold strands spill over both of them, burying his hands in it.

Gently rolling her onto her back, he slanted his mouth over hers, escalating the kiss. She touched the hard muscles in his back, marveling at how they bunched and relaxed beneath her hands when he shifted positions slightly.

She heard a noise and realized it had come from her, a soft mewling like a kitten, audible evidence of the passion he so effortlessly generated in her.

Abruptly he pulled away.

"Phoebe…" he said on an agonized groan. He lay on his back, breathing rapidly. "Damn it, what the hell just happened?"

Phoebe wished she had an answer. All she knew was that it was a colossal mistake-one she wanted to repeat, immediately. But glancing over at Wyatt, she saw that there would be no more kissing. Unlike her, he'd come to his senses.