Virtually every male who passed gave her an appreciative once-over, and then they looked at Wyatt, sizing up his worthiness. A few even gave him a nod, silently approving his male prowess in capturing such a prize.
His caveman instincts came to the surface. He was pretty hot stuff.
A large crowd had formed in front of The Pit, an unremarkable brick-front building with blacked-out windows and lots of purple neon. A big-bellied bouncer type in baggy, striped pants, a leather vest and no shirt was apparently controlling entry into the club.
'Uh-oh,' Wyatt said. 'Maybe we should have gotten here earlier.'
'Not to worry,' Phoebe said with a confident smile. She sailed right through the crowd, which seemed to part for her as if she were royalty. Wyatt followed in her wake.
The frowning bouncer suddenly found a big grin when he spotted Phoebe.
'Phoebe, darling, where have you been?' He leaned down and air-kissed her cheek. 'Go right in.' He moved aside to give her access to the door.
Phoebe gave Wyatt an I-told-you-so look over her shoulder, then reached for the door. But the bouncer stepped in front of Wyatt. 'Not you, pops.'
Phoebe screeched to a halt and gave the bouncer a scathing look. 'He's with me.'
'Oh, sorry,' the bouncer said, almost bowing and scraping. He quickly moved aside to let Wyatt into the club.
'Pops?' Wyatt said, once they were inside the door.
'Oh, forget him,' Phoebe said, taking Wyatt's hand. 'Let's see if we can find a table.'
Wyatt was still seething. At thirty-nine he was no longer a kid, but he wasn't ready for a wheelchair and Geritol, either. In fact, he still thought of himself as kind of studly.
As they wove their way through the packed club, Wyatt's feelings of studliness decreased by the moment. He was the oldest guy here. He searched the crowd for a hint of gray hair, a wrinkle or two, but clearly this was where Phoenix's beautiful people gathered. Make that
Here he was, producer of a show about everything cutting edge, yet in this place he felt decidedly clueless.
With unerring instinct, Phoebe led them to the only available table, which overlooked a sunken dance floor. On a small stage, a band was setting up.
The moment they sat down, a cocktail waitress appeared in very short shorts, a sports bra and something that looked like a chain-mail vest.
'What can I get you to drink?' She teetered slightly on her four-inch platform shoes.
'Club soda with lemon, please,' Phoebe said.
'Orange juice,' Wyatt said. The waitress looked at him blankly. He amended his order. 'A screwdriver, hold the vodka.'
'Oh, okay.' She disappeared.
Phoebe smiled. 'Not a health nut, I guess.'
That was the last easy conversation they had for some time, because the band started up. Or at least, Wyatt assumed the noise emanating from the amplifiers was supposed to be music. It sounded to him more like a dozen cats thrown into a room full of pit bulls, and the decibel level bad to be damaging his hearing.
But the crowd seemed to like it. The dance floor filled immediately and soon became one writhing, pulsating glob of youthful gyrations. Wyatt couldn't even tell who was partnered with whom. The dancers weren't holding on to each other, but they rubbed up against each other in blatant sexual abandon.
Phoebe smiled and tapped her foot to the music.
He tried to find the humor. He'd spent his early youth in crowded, smoky clubs, getting his ears blasted out by garage bands trying to reproduce the sounds of Arrowsmith, Springsteen and ZZ Top.
He'd never dressed as weirdly as these kids, though. His generation, sandwiched between the fashion nightmare of the '70s and the retro '90s, had done their rebelling in khakis, button-downs and Topsiders.
Phoebe tried to yell something to him, but he couldn't understand her. Finally he realized she was pointing at the dance floor. She leaned across the table, giving him an entrancing glimpse of cleavage, and spoke loudly into his ear. 'Look who's here!'
He looked, and there were Kelly and Kurt, right in the thick of the dancers.
He was relieved to know members of his team were frequenting this den of the oh-so-hot-and-trendy-so he wouldn't have to. If the sound decibels didn't get to him, the cigarette smoke would.
The waitress brought their drinks, and wrote down his total on a pad of paper and showed it to him. He paid her, including a generous tip, figuring she deserved it just for surviving this place night after night.
The band paused, and Phoebe clapped and whistled. Wyatt dutifully clapped.
'Do you want to dance?' Phoebe asked.
'Um, no, not really,' he replied. Though he wouldn't mind rubbing his body against Phoebe's, he didn't know the moves, and he refused to go out on the dance floor and look like a turkey. 'But you can if you'd like. I'm not the jealous type.'
He could tell she wanted to. 'Maybe I'll dance with Kelly and Kurt,' she said.
Group dancing?
'Don't you like to dance?'
'Sure, I just-I'd rather watch for now.'
The band screeched to life again. Phoebe gave his hand a 'be right back' squeeze, then worked her way onto the dance floor.
He enjoyed watching her dance. She knew how to move her body, that was for sure. She laughed with Kurt and Kelly, as they all flowed with the beat. And when that song was over and a slower one started, all three headed back to the table. Kurt and Kelly dragged up chairs and ordered drinks.
'I never thought I'd see you here,' Kurt said to Wyatt. 'Doesn't seem like your kind of gig.'
'I'm pretty adaptable,' Wyatt said, which was true. He could be a chameleon when he wanted to be. But this place was so far removed from his normal sphere of reality, he didn't know how to adapt.
They couldn't talk much while the music was blaring, but when the band took a break Wyatt leaned back and observed his three younger friends talking about music.
He didn't recognize a single song they mentioned, or the names of the artists-except he'd heard of KoiPaloi because they'd been on 'Heads Up' his first week in Phoenix.
When the band started again, Kelly and Kurt jumped up and headed for the dance floor. Phoebe gave him a sweet smile, stood, and offered her hand.
Okay, so he'd dance with her.
But instead of heading for the dance floor, she made for the exit.
The cool night air felt like heaven. 'Why're we leaving?' he asked.
'Because you were miserable.'
''Miserable' is a bit strong. 'Out of my element' is more like it.'
'So you're not really into alternative music?' she asked, swinging hands with him as they ambled down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.
'If that's what that band was playing, no. '
'What music do you listen to, then? Other than classical.'
He suspected that if he admitted he listened to classic rock, she would be appalled. 'Why don't I just show you?'
She smiled. 'Okay.'
Wyatt knew of a little jazz bar that was just on the fringe of downtown, not too far. Phyllis had taken him there for a drink after one of their late-night planning sessions, and he'd loved the soft, smoky music and the low-key atmosphere. Plus, the music wasn't so loud that you couldn't talk over it.
He found a parking place right in front. Phoebe looked around as they entered, her eyes bright and curious.
They had no trouble finding a table. The fifty-something waitress wore a long black dress and spike heels. Phoebe ordered coffee, and Wyatt switched to club soda. Then he settled back to let the music warm his blood. Saxophone music was just downright sexy.
Now he felt in his element. He studied the other patrons. Plenty of silver hair here. And neckties. In fact, he
