He'd always thought he wanted to get married someday, but someday had never come. He was thirty-nine but still in no hurry, not when he was on such a crucial rung of his career ladder, working sixteen-hour days to get "Heads Up" off on the right foot. He especially wasn't interested in a platinum-blond beauty. The pretty ones were always trouble, their motives never to be trusted.

Still, Phoebe's voice had sent pleasurable chills up his spine. He couldn't be blamed for wanting to look.

When the plumbing job was finally finished, Wyatt took a moment to admire his handiwork. The kitchen faucet now ran hot and cold water at an appropriate volume without flooding the countertop. Satisfied, he grabbed a bottle of fruit juice as a reward and headed for his balcony. Since his move to Phoenix, he'd been stuck in the studio night and day. Now that he finally had a day off, he could appreciate the fine spring weather. What a switch it was from Chicago!

He sat down in one of the deck chairs and took a draw on his O.J. But relaxing didn't come easy to him. Never had. First he saw some brown leaves on one of his grandmother's ferns that had to be pinched. Then a spot of something orange on the balcony decking caught his eye. He picked up the small, soft, orange lump and sniffed it.

Smelled like fish. Cat food. Uh-huh.

Apparently Miss Phoebe felt the need for subterfuge in getting into his apartment. Apparently she believed that just introducing herself was too obvious.

He sighed, disappointed. Though why should Phoebe Lane be any different from every other attractive woman he met? It wouldn't matter how subtle her machinations. He couldn't, wouldn't, get her on TV.