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.
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
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.
Chapter 6
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
