Phoebe,” Bill White said. He sat at a small table, working on a plate full of fajitas. “You’re looking beautiful, as always.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said automatically. “Where were you an hour ago? I was in desperate need.”
Bill shot a quick, guilty look toward Frannie, who sat at the same table but pretended not to pay attention to him. “Oh, just around. What’s the problem?”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” Phoebe said, realizing that Bill, who had always been available to fix any problem, had probably for once in his life turned off his beeper because he’d been spending time with Frannie. Bill and Frannie had been making cow eyes at each other for years, both of them too shy to do anything about their mutual crush. But Elise had set them up on a date a few weeks ago, and despite a shaky start, now they were something of an item.
Cupid had been busy, Phoebe mused as she left them to find Elise and James. Now, if only he’d shoot Daisy with one of his little arrows.
Phoebe spent the next few minutes meeting some of James’s friends and family, including his jovial housekeeper, MaryBelle, whom he clearly adored like a favorite aunt.
“You look so familiar,” MaryBelle had said at once. “Wait, I, oh, I know! Vanessa Vance! You look exactly like that woman on ‘Skin Deep’!”
“That was me,” Phoebe admitted. By now she was used to being recognized, though it happened less and less often as “Skin Deep” faded from the public memory.
At least MaryBelle didn’t gush. “I was really mad when they killed off Vanessa,” she said quietly. “You were the best one on the show. It got canceled right after you left.”
Phoebe smiled, no longer bitter about the experience.
“Why didn’t you get on another show?” Mary-Belle asked innocently. “Or in the movies? You were good enough.”
“I tried,” Phoebe said. She’d gone on lots of auditions, but she never got cast in anything except bit parts and a vacuum cleaner commercial. “I guess my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. I’m glad to be out of Hollywood.”
MaryBelle gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand, then went on to chat with one of Elise’s sisters. Elise herself slipped away from the knot of her family and joined Phoebe, who was straightening a stack of napkins and putting out more forks on the buffet table.
“You look thirsty,” Elise commented.
“Daisy was going to bring me something, but she’s disappeared.”
“Come on, I’ll walk over to the bar with you,” Elise said. Then she whispered, “Any sign of Mr. Mysterious yet?”
Phoebe repeated her appalling tale yet again, as they ambled toward the far side of the courtyard where the bar had been set up.
“So he’s not coming?” Elise asked, disappointed. “How are we ever going to set him up with Daisy if he hides in his apartment like a hibernating bear?”
“You know, I just don’t think he’s right for Daisy,” Phoebe found herself saying. “He’s a workaholic. And he’s too old.”
“Too old?” Elise repeated.
“At least thirty-eight.”
Elise laughed. “So? Daisy’s thirty. What’s the big deal?”
Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Trying to keep him for yourself, huh?” Elise teased.
“No!” Phoebe’s denial was quick and emphatic.
Elise looked at her curiously.
“You know I’m much too busy to even look at a man, but if I wasn’t, which I am, I certainly wouldn’t look at him. He works in television, and you know how I can’t stand to be around—”
Phoebe halted her tirade. Elise was grinning at her.
WYATT RAN DOWN the column of numbers one more time, tapping them into his calculator, but he got yet a third different total. How could he possibly concentrate with that damn mariachi music blaring from the courtyard?
He certainly hoped these weekend parties weren’t a regular event at Mesa Blue. How could his grandparents stand it?
Hell, he knew the answer to that question. If they weren’t on vacation, they’d be down in the thick of the party, probably starting a conga line. But his grandparents didn’t have to show up at a meeting Monday morning with a revised budget for “Heads Up.”
It wasn’t just the music that bugged him. It was the chatter. The laughter. All those people yukking it up. Half of them probably didn’t even know Elise and What’s-His-Name, they just came for the free food and free drinks.
Wyatt tried one more time to focus on his addition, but it was no use. The band’s lead singer was now doing a very bad Julio Iglesias impression. Someone had to put a stop to this.
He set down his ledger and calculator, slid into some loafers and started for his front door. He could have simply yelled off his balcony for the party-goers to keep it down, but that seemed a little déclassé, and his grandparents wouldn’t be pleased if he antagonized all their neighbors.
He would find Phoebe and discreetly request that either her so-called musicians put a sock in it, or he’d call the cops.
As he reached for the front doorknob, he looked down at himself. The jeans and T-shirt he’d exchanged for the ones he’d gotten wet at Phoebe’s were pretty disreputable. He toyed with the idea of changing—just so he wouldn’t call attention to himself—but he finally decided against it. He wasn’t planning on staying long enough for anyone to form an opinion about him.
When he stepped into the courtyard, the guests were so thick he could have stirred them with a stick. How would he ever find Phoebe in this mess? Then it occurred to him that he wouldn’t recognize Phoebe, anyway, unless she happened to be wearing guacamole from the buffet.
He searched the crowd, his gaze finally stopping on a pretty lady with dark red hair sitting alone at the end of the pool, her bare feet dangling in the water as she nursed a frothy drink.
She happened to look up just then, catching him watching her, and she smiled warmly. Since no one else paid the slightest attention to him, Wyatt decided to ask the woman to help him find Phoebe. He walked determinedly over to her.
“You’re Wyatt, right?” she said, before he could get a word out. “Have a seat.” She patted the concrete beside her.
He hadn’t intended to spend any time at the party. But the redhead looked lonely, so he joined her. “How’d you know who I am?” he asked.
“You look just like your grandfather. Well, like he probably did forty years ago. He’s a handsome man.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” She blushed prettily. “You probably think I’m flirting with you now.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“No. I mean, yes, because I don’t usually flirt. Phoebe sent you over here, didn’t she?” the woman said miserably.
“Actually, your smile brought me over here.”
“Now who’s flirting?”
Maybe he was. Maybe that was because the redhead put him completely at ease. Though she was undeniably pretty, with that gorgeous auburn hair, he could tell right away there wasn’t a bit of chemistry between them. If they got to know each other at all, it would be as friends.
“I’m Daisy Redford. Phoebe said you weren’t coming.”
Daisy Redford! Alarm bells went off in Wyatt’s head. This was the one Phoebe had been praising earlier.
“Is Phoebe trying to set