Kara Lennox - Tame An Older Man

She was just going to have to disabuse him of those notions, now, wasn't she? And she saw no better time than now. So what if he laughed at her or thought her goals preposterous? His opinion of her couldn't get much lower than it already was.

"Has it ever occurred to you to wonder what classes I'm taking at ASU?"

Wyatt watched as Phoebe found her shirt and stretched it over her head and arms. Sensing that he wasn't going to dissuade her from dressing-or leaving-he sat up and reached for his own shirt.

"I guess I didn't think about it much," he admitted. "I figured you were taking something related to your career."

"You mean like Cosmetics 101?" She settled a piercing gaze on him that made him very uncomfortable.

"Or some kind of advanced drama classes. You were interested in acting once," he reasoned, "and I assume you enjoyed it. Even if you aren't planning to act professionally, I could see you taking classes to keep your skills sharp."

Apparently that wasn't the right answer.

He tried again. "If the truth be known, I assumed you were taking continuing education classes because you wanted something to occupy your time, and because you had a social structure at the college, a group of friends that study together or trade notes or… or…"

"Or hang out at the malt shop together?"

He was just digging himself deeper, wasn't he. "Apparently I assumed wrong?"

She said nothing as she pulled on her slacks.

"Well, if I'm so badly misinformed, it's because you've never volunteered any information. I figured if it was anything important, you'd have said something."

"I'm studying biochemistry," she said abruptly.

"What?" He burst out in nervous laughter. It sounded as if she'd said biochemistry .

"I'm a biochemistry major," she said, enunciating every word, "with a business minor. I have less than two years to go for my degree if I continue to carry my current class load. This semester I'm taking Organic Chemistry, Statistics, Calculus and PE. I have to carry twelve hours or I lose my scholarship."

"You have a scholarship? In bio-bio-" He couldn't believe this. Phoebe Lane, glamorous TV actress and makeup artist, wanted to be a biochemist? "Why?"

"Because I like it. Because I'm good at it. And because when I graduate, I'm going to start my own all-natural cosmetics firm, Bio-Techniques. I've already trademarked the name."

Wyatt's head was spinning. This put a whole new light on the Phoebe Lane he knew. Or the one he thought he knew.

She flipped on the light. "You look a little shell-shocked."

"That's because you just turned on the light. But I am… surprised. I mean, I think it's wonderful you have all these goals and plans, but…"

"But you can't imagine why a pretty girl like me would want to worry her pretty little head over big, bad subjects like math and science?"

"I did not say that."

"But you were thinking it."

He couldn't deny it. Yes, he was shocked. "How are you doing?"

"Well, all those big numbers are sooooo confusing," she said in a little-girl lisp, "and I have just a terrible time with some of the big words-"

"Phoebe…"

"I have a four-point-oh this semester. Every semester, in fact, except the last one. Physics kicked my butt."

"Four-point-oh…" he said, feeling slightly faint. He'd never in his life pulled a 4.0. And he'd majored in liberal arts, which was considerably less demanding than science and business.

Fully dressed, she sat down on the end of the bed. "Any more questions?"

"What did you make on the SAT?" he asked suspiciously.

"When I took it in high school, eight hundred or so. I don't really remember."

He felt a bit relieved. Only average. He'd made a 1240 out of 1600, which he remembered because his grandparents had been so proud at the time. He'd thought they might suggest he have the number tattooed on his forehead.

"But when I took it again a few years ago, I did considerably better. I guess I didn't try very hard in high school."

"So that means you made a…"

"Fifteen-sixty. Do you want to know about my IQ, or have you been shocked enough for one evening?"

He'd better hear it all now. "Lay it on me."

"One thirty-seven."

"Oh, my God, I just made love to a genius."

"Not quite. One-forty is considered genius level. Still, pretty good for a dumb blonde, huh?"

"I have never called you a dumb blonde," he said hotly.

"You thought it. Every time you used a big word, you stopped and defined it for me. You patiently explained about the political history of Russia, even though I certainly didn't ask you to. Just this evening, you lectured me on classical music. You even wondered if I understood percentages when you were explaining about the effects of light filters."

Damn. He was guilty of all those things. "I over-explain everything to everybody," he said in his own defense. "Just ask Phyllis, or Kelly, or Kurt. I would never be attracted to a woman I didn't think was… bright."

"Bright," she said, her voice brittle. "A word normally reserved for children and dogs. Good night, Wyatt."

"But-" She wasn't going to listen to him, he decided. He couldn't stop her from walking out that door.

She did, without a backward glance.

Damn, he'd blown it this time. Okay, so his sweet little blond bundle of passion was a genius. He could see it. He could get used to it. Most of the women he'd dated over the years had been above-average intelligence. In fact, he was sure he would never be seriously attracted to a woman who couldn't conduct an intelligent conversation, or who never read anything more challenging than a tabloid newspaper.

He'd never, ever, thought Phoebe less than intelligent. He'd just assumed she wasn't well educated. And certainly he'd never guessed she was smarter than him.

Well, damn it, he thought, she didn't go out of her way to flaunt her braininess. She didn't use a lot of big words. She never joined in at the station when he and Phyllis got into philosophical arguments, which was frequently. And when he explained things to her, she didn't gently but firmly inform him that she already understood.

She played it just a little bit dumb, he concluded. Therefore, if he'd made a wrong assumption, he couldn't be blamed entirely for it.

He couldn't mount this ever-so-logical argument, however. Phoebe was gone, and likely not speaking to him in the near future.

Dejected, he went through the condo, picking up the trail of clothes he'd left. Maybe this was for the best. A few minutes ago he'd been ready to commit to a relationship with her. A real, monogamous, regular boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing. Since it seemed they couldn't keep away from each other, he'd decided they might as well accept the bond growing between them instead of fighting it, which took more time and energy than giving in would have.

Phoebe would have no trouble keeping her hands off him now.

Phoebe crept into her apartment. All was dark and quiet. She released a sigh, relieved her mother hadn't awakened. Maybe she'd taken a sleeping pill.

Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep herself, Phoebe made herself some hot tea and took it onto the balcony. The night air was crisp, but she didn't care. It felt good against her overheated skin. She sat down on a deck chair, set her tea on the little wrought-iron table and proceeded to sob quietly.

Phoebe had never thought of herself as an emotional person. But when she did give in to her feelings, she did it with gusto. She figured the best way to get through this crisis with Wyatt was to wallow in it, cry it out, let it get real messy, then move on.

So she sobbed. She cried, she snuffled, she hiccuped, and she cried some more. She used up an entire box of tissue. And just when she thought she was all cried out, the balcony door opened and Olga stepped outside. She wore a satin caftan, and her hair was wrapped in a sleep turban.