Tame An Older Man. Kara Lennox
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more idea. ‘Have a party and invite him. If he comes alone, good for you. If he comes with a date, be gracious to them both. They might have eligible male friends. If he doesn’t come, you can always make so much noise that he can’t resist coming over to join the fun.’”
“That’s it!” Phoebe cried. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I thought you hated parties,” Elise said. “You said you’d had enough of them in L.A. to last you a lifetime.”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at the reminder. Those Hollywood parties had seemed exciting when she’d first moved to California. She’d loved the schmoozing—name-brand producers making promises, aging movie stars making passes, other agents trying to steal her away from the one she already had. And all of them telling her how beautiful she was.
About the time she’d landed the part as Vanessa Vance on the nighttime soap opera “Skin Deep,” however, the schmoozing got old. Everyone assumed she’d slept with the handsome producer just to get the part.
People would have laughed if she’d told them the real reason she’d gotten involved with Joel Spinner. She’d thought she was in love with him. She hadn’t realized what a can of worms she’d opened. Joel had been less than discreet about their affair, and next thing she knew, the studly young star of the show assumed she would sleep with him. And when she didn’t, he told everybody she had.
For a few weeks, she was labeled Hollywood’s slut-du-jour. Unfortunately, she couldn’t claim complete innocence. On the rebound from Joel, she’d made a few bad choices in the romance department.
Still, she never sank to the level of sleeping with someone just to get a part, though the opportunities were there. And once it became obvious Phoebe Lane didn’t play the casting-couch game, she went from rising young star to has-been in a short time span. Vanessa Vance was killed in an unsightly car wreck. The soap got canned. And her agent expected her to do the next round of parties—only this time it would be harder, because she was no longer the freshest face in town.
And she had a bit of a rep.
That’s when she’d made her escape from Hollywood, much to her mother’s disappointment.
“My party would be nothing like those parties in L.A.,” Phoebe said. “Anyway, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. As one of your best friends, I must give you and James an engagement party.”
“Oh, but I wasn’t hinting around,” Elise objected.
“I know. But it’s a great idea, anyway. Start making out your guest list. Your family—that’ll be a crowd right there—James’s family, and all our neighbors. We’ll have it out by the pool!”
Mesa Blue was a horseshoe-shaped building situated around a huge, blue-bottomed pool, which was another reason Phoebe had jumped at the chance to move here. Phoebe loved to swim. These days, while doing her laps, she worked out chemical equations from her organic chemistry class in her mind. The pool area was perfect for gatherings large and small, and anybody who lived here was free to make use of it.
“You know, this isn’t a bad idea,” Elise said. “I bet you can get Jeff to tend bar for you.” Jeff Hawkin was the kid who maintained the pool and courtyard grounds. He also was a part-time bartender at The Prickly Pear, a nearby bar and grill that Phoebe, Elise and Daisy had made their home-away-from-home.
“Great idea. Maybe I can get The Prickly Pear to cater it.”
Soon, Phoebe and Elise were hip-deep in party plans. The invitation list included a few bonus eligible men for Daisy, per Jane Jasmine’s advice: “Hedge your bets,” Jane had written. “You can invite any number of single men to a party, and none will know he’s being ‘singled out’ for attention.”
WHEN WYATT OPENED the colorful envelope that had been slipped under his door, he suspected ulterior motives. The flowing, feminine script was a clue. Sure, it was just an invitation to a party to celebrate the engagement of one of his neighbors, Elise Foster. His grandparents had mentioned her, too—many times. But the personal note from the party’s hostess, none other than Phoebe Lane, confirmed his suspicions.
“Everyone would really like to get to know you,” she’d written. “Hope you’ll be able to make it.”
He had to admit he was tempted. Though his co-workers at the studio had invited him time and again to socialize with them after their day’s work, he always declined. He simply had too much to do. Eventually he would delegate more responsibilities, as he collected a loyal and competent staff. But right now he felt compelled to oversee every detail personally. Interviewing potential guests took hours out of every day, but he insisted that all people to appear on the show be thoroughly screened. The last thing he wanted was for “Heads Up” to turn into another daytime trash TV show.
His grandparents would have urged him to go to the party. They’d told him often enough how much fun it was to live at Mesa Blue because of the nice neighbors. They’d made lifelong friends here.
So Phoebe’s invitation was tempting. Wyatt would have liked to meet new friends, people he could relax with—let down his guard, talk about anything and everything. A woman friend would be nice, too. He’d been without serious female companionship for longer than was healthy. But a party wasn’t the place for him to meet friends of either sex. In his experience, parties were where publicity-hungry people of every ilk tried every persuasive trick they could think of to get themselves on TV.
It had been bad enough in Chicago, where he’d produced a local morning talk show. But since “Heads Up” had made its moderately successful debut, closet wanna-be celebrities were coming out of the woodwork.
Griffin, one of the security guards downstairs, had started singing “Moon River” one night as Wyatt had entered the building from work, dead tired. A housekeeper who cleaned his office at work had left a folder on his desk filled with nude pictures. It just got worse and worse.
If everybody in the building didn’t already know about his job, he might have considered attending the party. But he knew his grandparents well enough to know they’d bragged about him to anybody who would listen. They’d raised him after his parents’ sudden death, and for some odd reason they thought he was perfect.
That settled it, Wyatt thought. Then he dropped the pretty invitation in his kitchen trash, but not without a sigh of regret.
Chapter Two
Phoebe was pleased with how quickly she’d pulled together Elise and James’s engagement party. The Prickly Pear was setting up a fajita buffet in the courtyard; Jeff had agreed to tend bar, though Phoebe suspected what he really wanted was to keep an eye on his precious pool, the maintenance of which he took very seriously. Invitations had gone out and RSVPs had come back. Almost all Elise’s siblings were coming—she had seven—along with some of James’s family and even his housekeeper, whom Phoebe gathered was more like a family member than an employee.
Phoebe had gotten some personalized cocktail napkins printed. She and Daisy had pitched in on a gift of his-and-her massages, even though Elise had made them promise no gifts. The weather was cooperating—it was a balmy 74 degrees.
Now all Phoebe had to do was get herself ready, and that was the easy part. As a former model and actress, she could do hair, clothes and makeup in nothing flat. Because she’d had time to spare, she’d applied an avocado, honey and yogurt facial mask—her own invention, very popular at the Sunrise Spa where she worked doing beauty makeovers.
Now she sat in her living room in a beanbag chair, studying her organic chemistry book. She was a bit behind on her studying because of the extra time planning the party had taken, and she had a test on Monday—but she would have all day tomorrow to study. She’d specifically requested Sunday off, though her boss hadn’t liked it.
After a few minutes of letting the mask do its thing, Phoebe consulted her watch. It was about time to jump in the shower. She stood and reached for the