Kara Lennox - Tame An Older Man

She sat up slowly and pushed her disheveled hair out of her face, feeling dizzy and disoriented. If she didn't put some distance between herself and Wyatt, she might do something that would jeopardize not only her nifty new job, but also her peace of mind.

She grabbed the wad of paper towels and dropped it onto his stomach. "Maybe you'd better clean up your own clothes."

He clutched the paper towels, but otherwise didn't move. He looked completely dazed. Surely one little kiss-okay, one big kiss-from her hadn't done that to him?

Before she could lose her determination, she pushed herself onto her feet, fighting lightheadedness. Somehow, she had to get their relationship back on a professional footing.

"It's late. I'm going to bed." And just to be sure he didn't misunderstand her, she added, "You can see yourself out."

She marched out of the living room, down the hall and into her bedroom, before she changed her mind and dragged him with her.

Wyatt lay on Phoebe's living room floor a few more seconds before he was able to summon the strength to sit up. He blotted his clothes, then raised himself onto his knees and daubed at a few drops of orange juice that had hit the carpet. He'd been right: her carpet didn't stain easily.

Moving mechanically, he took his O.J. glass and her cup to the kitchen and rinsed them in the sink. He threw away the paper towels. He switched off her coffeemaker. All the while, he was listening, half hoping he would hear Phoebe's bedroom door open. Praying it wouldn't. Because he wouldn't be strong enough to resist if she changed her mind about continuing what they'd started.

But all was silent.

He turned off her lights and left. It wasn't until he was safely in his apartment that he shook off his numbness and realized fully what had just happened. When he did, he was nearly overwhelmed with self-disgust.

Only this morning, through his own negligence, Phoebe had been forced to fight off unwanted sexual advances. Though he admired the way she'd dismissed it and tried to put it behind her, he knew damn well the experience had shaken her. The last thing she needed only a few hours later was some macho come-on, and from the very man who was supposed to protect her.

He'd meant only to be charming. He'd told himself he just wanted her to like him. She'd injured his male pride by refusing to consider him as potential husband material.

But before long he'd forgotten completely about any narcissistic plans to feed his ego. He'd enjoyed her company. He'd gotten so caught up in talking with her, sharing his dreams for the show, listening to her ideas, that he'd dismissed the stupid marriage book from his mind.

The kiss had come out of nowhere. When she'd spilled the orange juice, then tried to wipe up the mess, her touch had immediately aroused him to the breaking point-a fact that hadn't escaped her attention, unfortunately. Men were at a disadvantage that way.

The kiss was not a calculated seduction. And her response, he was pretty sure, was not a premeditated attempt to woo him into a matrimonial frame of mind. The desires pulsating between them had been too raw, too genuine, to be anything but pure instinct.

As for her well-timed retreat, he could only admire her for it. She really was trying to discourage him. No woman played that hard to get.

For whatever reason, she didn't want to marry him. Though that realization might bruise his ego a bit, deep down-really deep-he felt relieved.

In the future, no matter how much he desired her, he would keep their relationship on a completely professional level. If he needed to tell her anything about the show, he would do it at the studio or on the phone.

Satisfied with his decision, he took a quick shower-a nice cold one-and climbed into bed. But sleep was a long time coming.

The next two days went smoothly-almost too smoothly, Wyatt thought. Phoebe showed up at the studio at precisely six a.m. the morning after their orange-juice kiss, looking tired but well polished and professional. Had she lain awake as he had? he wondered, then immediately put a clamp on that line of thought He had to forget about that night. He was sure she would.

She wasn't cold to him, but neither was she warm and friendly and animated, as she'd been in her apartment. She did her job quickly and efficiently, the models seemed pleased with her work, and she proved a hit with the rest of his staff.

As soon as the show was over, she came to him and asked for a briefing for the next day. Then, at precisely eleven-fifteen, she left.

Where was she going? He knew it was none of his business. He should be concerned with her work performance, nothing else. She claimed she didn't have another job. What, then? A boyfriend? If she was in a relationship, why hadn't she just told him, instead of pretending she didn't have time for men?

Was the guy someone she was ashamed of? Maybe he was in prison, and she rushed out of the studio so she could make visiting hours.

He had to laugh at his own speculation. Phoebe wasn't dumb enough to date someone in prison, but a boyfriend was the only explanation for her behavior that made sense to him. She was looking for a husband, she'd found a candidate, but she didn't want to share him yet. That was acceptable, he supposed.

Acceptable, hell. It made him inexplicably, inappropriately furious.

After meeting with Kelly and Kurt about a wardrobe problem, Wyatt stepped into his director's office to brainstorm about upcoming shows. One of the things he did as producer was encourage the entire staff, from the director down to the lowliest grip, to contribute ideas. He figured everybody operated in a slightly different sphere. The more spies he had out in the world keeping their eyes and ears open for cutting-edge trends, the less likely he was to miss something important coming down the pike.

His director, Phyllis Cardenza, was a tiny dynamo of a woman who was as dedicated to the show as he was. She was 45, divorced, with two teenagers on whom she doted.

"We've got the dog trainer confirmed for next Wednesday," she said, as soon as Wyatt stepped into her office.

"Great. What about the breeder with that new… what's it called?"

"A thimble poodle. She's confirmed, too."

"Okay, what about…" Wyatt's words trailed off as he spotted a familiar blue-and-white book peeking out from under some papers on Phyllis's desk. He grasped a corner of the book and pulled it out. "Phyllis, I had no idea you were husband-hunting."

"Oh, stop it, it's not for me," she said, grabbing the book back from him. "Haven't you looked at the bestseller list lately? 2001 Ways to Wed is hot. Number five this week. I'm predicting number one next week."

"You're kidding? Doesn't that strike you as kind of… I don't know. Distasteful?" he asked Phyllis.

"Why?"

"I don't know. The whole idea of a woman plotting to trap a husband seems so archaic." And out of character for Phoebe, he added silently. "Aren't women more liberated these days?"

"It's not that way at all." Phyllis handed the book back to him. "Read it. I've already got a call in to Jane Jasmine's agent-don't look at me like that, I wouldn't book anyone without your okay. I just wanted to see when she might be available. All the single women I know are reading this book, and I even know a couple who swear Jane's advice really works."

Wyatt took the book, his mind suddenly churning with ideas. "Maybe we could get a few people on the show who've found husbands by using the book," he said, thinking aloud.

"Or, maybe we could bring some hopeless cases on-you know, women who think they'll never find a man-and Jane can do a relationship makeover on them, give them some strategies, then bring them back in a few weeks to see how they've done."