eighteen, she must not have gone to college. Of course, she was taking classes now, but he assumed she was only dabbling.
'I keep telling you, I'm Danish, not German-and I've never been near the Rhine.'
'You've been reading German folklore?' he asked, genuinely surprised.
'My mother read folktales to me when I was a child.'
'Ah.' He could picture the child Phoebe-or Adelaide, as she was then-curled up in bed, her pretty mother reading from a book of folklore. Only, in his mind the mother became Phoebe and the child was her daughter. His daughter.
The mental picture gave him a peculiar ache. He didn't even understand why he'd thought of something so preposterous, much less why it bothered him. He'd never longed for marriage or family, and he wasn't going to start now.
'Wyatt? You have an odd look on your face.'
He didn't doubt it. That was the strangest break from reality he'd ever had. He supposed a gorgeous woman in his lap could have peculiar effects. 'If I look strange, it's because I'm dying to kiss you. But we do sort of have this understanding.'
'Yeah, we do,' she said glumly.
'Wasn't that understanding your idea?'
'You agreed to it.'
'I agreed not to touch you? Temporary insanity. Anyway, you're the one who started this by not maintaining a proper distance from me. If you're close enough I can smell your perfume and see individual eyelashes, that's too close.'
'I'll move.' She started to wiggle out of his lap, which only inflamed him further. He was stiff as a poker, and there was no way she wouldn't know that.
'You just stay where you are,' he said, holding on tighter.
'Only if you absolve me.'
'You're absolved. It's all my fault. Everything.'
'If only more men knew how to speak those words…' She didn't finish the thought. She was too busy kissing him.
Her mouth was a thing of wonder. He explored it at a more leisurely pace than he had before, invading with his tongue, then retreating to nip at her full, soft lips, kissing hard, kissing soft.
Before long they were lying on the couch instead of sitting. He was on his back, and she was on top of him. When she wasn't kissing him, she was tickling his ear, playing with his hair, running her tongue along his neck.
'Um, Phoebe, wait.' He couldn't believe he was doing this. He would have to resign his macho-guy membership.
Phoebe crossed her arms over his chest and propped her chin on them. 'What?' she asked with exaggerated innocence. With her hair all mussed and her eyes heavy-lidded with passion, she was just about the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
'Nothing has really changed… has it?'
She lowered her eyes. 'No.'
'I'm still not good boyfriend material. I'm a slave to that TV show. Furthermore, I'm very set in my ways. Been alone too long. I wouldn't know how to make room for a regular woman in my life.'
'I know,' she said impatiently, sitting up.
'I'd disappoint you.'
'I have no expectations, all right? I just… want you. Is it so hard to understand that I might want to make love to you without expecting anything in return?'
Frankly, it was almost impossible. He'd never met a woman yet who didn't have an agenda. With Phoebe it might not be acknowledged, but he firmly believed women simply weren't hard-wired to enjoy casual sex the same way men did.
Ah, hell, who was he kidding? 'It's me I'm worried about,' he finally said. 'I'm the one with the old-fashioned expectations. I feel like I'm being unfair to you.'
'Why don't you let me worry about me?'
'Because that's the man's job.'
'You are old-fashioned.'
He wouldn't argue. 'Maybe I'm worried about my own expectations, too. If any woman could make me change my priorities, you could. But you've made it pretty clear you don't want to be tied down yet. You could hurt me pretty bad.'
'Now you're teasing. I can't imagine my dashing your fantasy of a white picket fence.'
Then she didn't know him very well. What would she think, he wondered, if she were privy to that bedtime- story fantasy he'd entertained a few minutes ago? Sure, he thought about white picket fences, in unguarded moments.
'So,' he said, 'is there an argument I could use that would make you get up and go home?'
'You could say, 'Phoebe, I am not interested in making love. Go home and stop throwing yourself at me, you're making a fool of yourself.''
'You want me to tell a bald-faced lie?'
'I don't want you to lie. But those are the magic words, whether they're true or not, that would get rid of me.' She played with his lower lip, touching it gently with the pad of her finger. He took it into his mouth and sucked it.
It would take a pair of pliers and three strong men to pull those words out of his mouth. He wasn't going to send her away. They were going to make love, though nothing was settled. They would have all the same regrets, all the same problems they had before.
When Phoebe kissed him again, he flat out didn't care.
Chapter 10
Phoebe didn't care about anything at the moment except being with Wyatt. They'd made love once before and had still managed to work together. No reason they couldn't do it again. She just couldn't keep away from him.
When he'd so patiently explained what his hopes were for Olga, how he wanted to help her and the other lovelorn guests that would be coming on the show, her anger had evaporated like summer rain in Phoenix.
He'd been completely sincere, and she should know. In L.A. she'd been inundated with every smarmy line, every sob story, every act of false humility, all to get her into bed. She could smell a line from a mile away. She knew when someone was trying to manipulate her. Wyatt might play the part of the tough producer, but he had a heart as big as a bowling ball. He would be thrilled if Jane could help Olga and the other husband-less ladies find happiness-and not just because it would boost ratings.
'Just tonight, Wyatt. Just one more time.' She knew she sounded desperate.
'Whenever, however you want it,' he said, sounding equally desperate. In a deft maneuver he flipped her onto her back and was looming over her. 'You didn't honestly think I would say no, did you?'
He kissed her, hard, and her nipples tightened beneath her clothes. She'd worn short overalls and a tube top tonight, not out of any desire to turn Wyatt on but because that happened to be what was handy. Now she was glad of her choice, because Wyatt could slide his hands inside the overalls, give the tube top one healthy yank, and her breasts were completely exposed to him.
He pushed himself up to admire his handiwork. 'Now, this is how a woman ought to wear overalls.'
'You're a horrible sexist.'
'Just an honest man.'
Though he was teasing, she knew it was true. He'd never been anything but honest with her. She wished she could say the same for herself.
She wanted to confide in him about her goals and dreams. He was a savvy businessman; he would probably
