1-900-Lover

And it did. Anonymity had been her first line of defense. Only one other person knew about her side-job—her best friend, Alexa, and Rowan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Alexa hadn’t betrayed her confidence. Her friend was one of those rare souls who could actually keep a secret.

But if this guy found her this easily, who was to say that another guy couldn’t? One without an understandable cause? It completely unnerved her. In this case, Rowan could easily see what had happened. His nephew had made the calls and, in addition to paying for them, he’d have to tell the kid’s parents. She grimaced. Not fun, she’d agree. Nevertheless…

For the first time he seemed to consider that he’d made a mistake, a tactical error of sorts and he knew it. He shifted uneasily, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and shot her an uncomfortable look. “I, uh… I have a friend in the P.I. business,” he reluctantly admitted. “He made a few calls.”

She cocked her head and shrewdly considered him. “I see. I’m assuming since this friend was able to give you my name and address, he also had my regular telephone number.” She paused, and was rewarded when he started to squirm. “And yet you still decided that a visit was in order.”

He winced, looked out over her garden, then shot her a sheepish smile. That half grin had to be one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen and it had the singular ability to drain every bit of the irritation still inhabiting her spine. “I was pissed.”

Oh, she’d just bet he was, Rowan thought, resisting the urge to smile herself. “Well, since you’re here, you should probably listen to those tapes.”

He started. “Right.”

Without waiting to see if he followed her, Rowan turned and headed toward the house. For some unknown reason, her stomach did a little anticipation-overload flop, and the back of her nape prickled with awareness. An indication of just how pathetic she was, she decided with an inward harrumph of disgust.

Jesus.

This guy hadn’t tracked her down to follow through with an initial attraction—he’d come over here with the express purpose of chewing her up and spitting her out. He’d bared his big-bad-wolf teeth and had planned to make a meal out of her. One, by the looks of things, he’d fully intended to enjoy.

Rowan darted a look over her shoulder and felt a perverse flame of heat lick her belly. She smiled and bit her lip.

Pity she wasn’t ready to be served up on a platter…yet.

4

WILL’S GAZE inexplicably dropped to Rowan’s retreating ass. Then the retreating part triggered in his sluggish brain, and it belatedly occurred to him that he was supposed to be following her. Annoyed, he cursed under his breath and hurried after her.

She paused on the front porch, giving him time to catch up. She wore a faint smile, as though she knew precisely why the minimal wait had been necessary.

To his absolute astonishment, he felt a blush creep into his cheeks.

The phone sex operator was making him blush.

How screwed up was that?

Hell, he didn’t know why he expected anything to be normal today, of all days, when this had been the most bizarre few hours of his life, most specifically the past few minutes.

Only seconds ago, he’d listened to this woman fake an orgasm over the phone, then rather than having the decency to be the stereotypical bored, homely housewife, she had the nerve to be gorgeous. Not passably pretty, or merely nice to look at.

She was gorgeous.

She was hometown-beauty-queen-meets-wet-dream-porn-star and, despite all reason, he found himself absolutely intrigued by her. Hell, who was he trying to kid? He’d been intrigued by her from the first sultry syllable he’d heard her utter to dear old Roy.

Then, before he’d thought better of it, he’d applauded her performance, and she’d turned around…and he’d gone from being slightly curious to downright captivated.

His impression of her hair had been right. It was long and dark brown, and it slithered over her shoulders, cascaded down her back and landed in a gentle wave a couple of inches below her waist. It was sexy as hell and, while it was politically incorrect, it evoked the caveman in him—not to mention several other primal urges he’d had to forcibly tamp down.

She had a kind, open face with high cheekbones, a pair of bright green eyes that glinted with equal amounts of humor and intelligence, and a ripe mouth the color of a dusky pink rose. And the voice that came out of that mouth…

Mercy.

Sweet and slightly husky, almost sleepy, for a lack of better description. She could undoubtedly read the possible side effects on a medical-warning label and make it sound sexy.

In addition—as though those things weren’t enough—she drove a vintage Vette, was obviously a master gardener as well as an artisan and, though she possessed a healthy modest streak—she’d blushed to the roots of her hair when he’d caught her verbally servicing Roy, he thought wryly—she’d chosen phone sex, of all things, as her career path.

The combined incongruity was astounding.

She was the proverbial riddle wrapped in an enigma…and there was nothing more interesting to Will than the challenge of a good mystery.

He let his gaze drift slowly over her as he followed her inside the house and mentally rocked back on his heels. Figuring her out would undoubtedly be a treat—one he’d most likely forfeited the minute he’d flown off the handle and violated her privacy, he reminded himself grimly. Sheesh. What the hell had he been thinking? Will wondered. Had he lost his freakin’ mind? What on earth had possessed him to track her down—

She threw him a look over her shoulder, and he caught a glimpse of continued humor in those leaf-green eyes. “Let me wash my hands, then I’ll get those tapes.”

Oh, yeah. The tapes. Will frowned. Considering he’d made a grand show of running her to ground, he figured he’d better look interested in listening to them. He arranged his face into what he hoped look like a serious, slightly perturbed expression and, rather than continuing to study her—a perpetual impulse—he let his gaze roam around her house.

Like its owner, it created an instant impression.

It boasted beautiful hardwood floors, tall floor-to-ceiling windows and lots of heavily carved molding and trim work which was a prevalent theme in the traditional antebellum style.

But the similarities to traditional ended there.

Fresh-cut flowers in old light-blue Mason jars lined the mantel. Stained glass dressed every window, and hand-painted furniture and art—obviously hers—rounded out the eclectic decor. Lots of color, energy and light. The whimsical design reminded him of her garden—it was distinctly unique.

Like her.

“Okay,” the object of his instant fascination said as she breezed back into the room. “I’ve got them.”

Once again, Will feigned appropriate concern, but from the sidelong glance she slid him combined with the slight quiver of her full lips, he didn’t think he’d successfully maintained the ruse.

Hell, he didn’t doubt for a moment that the whole damned scenario was precisely as she’d claimed. She wouldn’t have offered proof otherwise, and though he’d been initially horrified that she recorded her conversations—his distrustful mind had immediately leaped to some form of blackmail—he had to grudgingly admit that it was quite a crafty move. Smart, really.

An antique display case which housed mismatched china pieces and other bric-a-brac served as a counter of sorts. Butted against the lower kitchen cabinets, the old piece formed a bar between the kitchen and living room.

Rowan shifted a few items aside and hefted a boom box, along with a couple other tapes onto the glass surface. While she wrestled with the plug, the things she’d moved out of the way snagged his attention. His eyes widened and, before he could check the impulse, a startled laugh, which he barely morphed into a cough, broke up in his throat.

A bottle of strawberry wine, three enemas and two treatments of wart remover stood on the makeshift counter.

Rowan started, then shot him a look and ultimately followed his gaze. She inhaled sharply, then closed her eyes tightly shut and groaned miserably. Color bloomed on her cheeks and she sank her teeth into that ripe bottom lip. “The wine is mine,” she said haltingly, obviously—adorably—mortified. “The other things…are not.”

“That’s a relief.” Will felt his lips twitch. He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “For a moment there I was afraid you were a warty, constipated alcoholic.”

The comment drew a droll smile and, while he couldn’t be sure, he thought he saw a flash of reciprocated interest in those too-perceptive green eyes.

“I’m the alcoholic,” she deadpanned. “My landlord is warty and constipated.”

He grimaced, shifted and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s…unfortunate,” Will finally managed, unable to come up with anything that remotely resembled an appropriate response.

“Ah,” she sighed knowingly. A ghost of a smile played on her lips and she crossed her arms over her chest, then leaned a curvy hip against the counter. “So you can be tactful.” She paused, allowing the dart to penetrate, then continued before he could respond. “I run errands for her,” she explained. “As you can imagine, buying those particular items—” she glanced meaningfully at the ignoble remedies “—results in considerable embarrassment. So,” she sighed wistfully, “in the vain hope that I could preserve a little dignity, I decided to stockpile them.” Eyes twinkling, her gaze darted to him and she blew out a resigned breath. “Clearly, it didn’t work.”

For whatever reason, Will got the distinct impression that her efforts to thwart humiliation rarely worked. He smiled, unreasonably enchanted. “Ah, well. Better luck next time,” he offered, once again unable to conjure an artful remark.

She chuckled grimly, pulled a slight shrug, then turned her attention back to the tapes. “One can hope.” She slipped a tape into the player, and hit the rewind button. “So Scott’s your nephew? How old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen.”

“He seems like a good kid. Bright.”

“He is. Though obviously his judgment isn’t always on the mark,” he added pointedly.

Rather than being insulted, she merely smiled. “He’s a teenager,” she said, as though that explained everything. “They’re a breed apart until those hormones level out. Particularly boys.”

Interestingly, her matter-of-fact tone resonated with the voice of experience. Still… Will grimaced. “I don’t think that excuse is going to fly with his mother.”

She depressed the play button and shot him an enigmatic look. “Then perhaps you should talk to his father.”

Impressed with the insight, Will inclined his head. Actually, he’d considered bypassing his sister and talking to Jim. Jim, he knew, would at least understand the motivation behind his son’s ignorant, thoughtless episode. He winced.

Lori…wouldn’t.

She’d be angry and appalled, and the combination of the two wouldn’t leave any room for understanding. Will had initially rejected the idea of bypassing Lori—it was the easy way out for him, ergo it had to be wrong. Now he wasn’t so sure. Now he—

His thoughts ground to a halt as Rowan’s voice, then his nephew’s sounded from the machine—her sultry “Hello,” then Scott’s nervous squeak.

“Hi. I, uh…” He cleared his throat and his voice lowered to a comical level. “Hey. What’s happening, baby?”

Will felt a smile tug at his lips and his gaze instinctively found hers. She, too, wore an amused expression.

“Look, Slick, you’re not old enough to have this conversation,” Rowan told him, instantly seeing through the ploy. “Call back in a few years.”

“Wait!”

From there, things happened exactly the way she’d told him. They’d chatted, she’d tried to disconnect, citing the enormous phone bill someone would not approve of, and his nephew, to Will’s astonishment, had glibly announced that his uncle wouldn’t notice another 1-900 number because he frequently called them himself. In fact, Scott had continued, his uncle had probably called her in the past. Rowan had laughed at Will’s outraged expression as he fervently denied the charge.

“I don’t need to have phone sex,” Will felt obliged to repeat after she’d turned off the tape. The unspoken because-I-can-get-laid-without-it hung between them, eliciting another mysterious smile from her. Her eyes twinkled.

“I’m sure you don’t.”

He nodded succinctly. “Damn straight.”

She chewed the corner of her lip, presumably to keep from chuckling at his expense, and busied herself by putting the cassette away. She was laughing at him, Will knew, and he couldn’t blame her because he was making a macho ass of himself. But he couldn’t help it. It was a matter of honor, dammit. Men who could get laid in the traditional sense didn’t call total strangers and whack off to the tune of a few well-rehearsed pants and sighs.

Phone sex? Will thought dubiously. Come on? He preferred his sexual encounters of the physical kind, thank you very much. He liked slow and tender, hot and frantic, and wasn’t averse to a little kinky now and then. Sex was sex and, regardless of the method employed, hell, he thought with a slow smile, it was always good.

He’d never once thought about having a woman talk him through it…but he wasn’t averse to a helping hand every now and then.

His gaze instantly drifted to her hands, and it took very little effort to imagine one of hers wrapped around him, touching him the way she’d implied she’d touched good ole Roy. A flash of heat detonated in his loins and a serious sense of excitement, one he hadn’t felt in eons, pulsed through him.

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Do you— Do you want to listen to the other tapes, or will that one suffice?”

Will grunted, unnerved. “That one will suffice.”

She nodded, apparently still not trusting herself to look at him. “Good. Could I see that phone bill?”

He frowned, baffled. He couldn’t imagine why, but he handed it to her nonetheless. “Sure.”

Her lips moved as she silently scanned the bill, and it belatedly occurred to Will that she was tallying the multiple charges. In her head, without the aid of a calculator. Impressed, he readied his mouth to comment, but was interrupted as she handed the statement back to him. “Okay. Let me get my purse and I’ll write you a check.”

He blinked. “A check?”

“For the charges,” she called over her shoulder. She disappeared into the back of the house, then emerged seconds later with a wallet. By the time she’d made the return trip, he’d managed to organize his chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order.

“Look, this isn’t necessary. I didn’t come here to get you to refund the charges.” And he hadn’t. Quite frankly, he hadn’t thought beyond blasting her into oblivion, but he hardly needed to share that with her, did he?

She finished writing the check, scrawled her name across the bottom, then tore it out of the book and handed it to him. A smile caught the corner of her ripe mouth. “No, you came here to rip me a new one.”

He’d opened his mouth to argue, but a guilty laugh emerged, beating him to the punch. He pulled a shrug. “Like I said, I was pissed.”

“You don’t say?” She batted her lashes with feigned innocence. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He owed her an apology, Will knew, and though saying he was sorry wasn’t a phrase that came naturally to him—quite frankly, he wasn’t used to being wrong—tendering the expected nicety now didn’t seem quite so onerous.

He exhaled mightily. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, albeit awkwardly. He glanced at the floor and was momentarily distracted by her bare feet. Lots of toe rings and a small tattoo of a butterfly decorated the skin right above her pinkie toe. Another bolt of heat landed in his groin and he struggled to find the rest of the apology. “I— I shouldn’t have come here. I, uh— I should have called.”

“Yes, you should have,” she replied levelly. “However, when Scott needed further tutoring, I should have given him my home number instead of continuing to let him call the 900-number.” Her lips formed another droll smile, and her eyes twinkled with humor. “In my defense, I was trying to guard my privacy.” She sighed softly. “At any rate, I intend to refund the charges, so just take the check, we’ll be square and we can forget about this mess.”

He doubted it, but he reluctantly pocketed the cash anyway. “At least let me pay you for the tutoring sessions,” he offered. He laughed grimly. “Believe me, if the kid had asked me for help with science he would have been sadly disappointed.”

If memory served, he’d barely passed science. Not because he’d lacked the intelligence or ability, he’d merely lacked the drive. Will had been one of those kids who survived high school by way of sports.

And—thanks to the kind hand of his father and grandfather—he’d known from the time he was old enough to plant a seed what he’d be doing with his life, so the only classes he’d been interested in throughout high school had been the ones that had pertained to agriculture.

Both his father and his grandfather had been farmers, had earned their living from the land. Corn, cotton, soy beans. Feast or famine, depending on the weather. They’d expected him to take the same route, but while Will had shared the same enthusiasm for the land, the same fascination with the soil and all she grew—the sheer interdependency of everything—he’d ultimately decided to carve his own path. He’d liked the combination of design, the challenge of outdoor architecture found in landscaping. He’d ridden through college on a football scholarship, had majored in landscape architecture with a minor in business administration, and the rest had been history. Unable to completely abandon his farming heritage, Will had added an heirloom seed catalog to his repertoire.

“No, those tutoring session are on me,” Rowan told him, dragging him back into the conversation. She rolled her eyes. “Hell, I needed them as much as he did.”

An important insight lurked behind that statement, Will decided. Intrigued, he arched a brow. “Oh?”

From her oh-hell expression, it was obvious that she thought she’d said too much. She swore under her breath, then released a pent-up sigh. “Oh, well,” she finally relented. “It’s not like you don’t know everything else about me.” She shot him a wry look. “I’m a teacher. I teach—” She winced grimly. “Correction, I taught science at Middleton High. Budget cuts ate my job, so until the system finds the money to put me back to work—hopefully in the fall—then I’m out of a contract.” She shrugged, then bit her lip and, though she met his gaze directly, he detected a hint of vulnerability he instinctively knew that she’d resent. Which, curiously, made her all the more attractive. “For obvious reasons, I would appreciate your discretion. I, uh… I don’t think the board of education would approve of my interim job.”

Will mentally whistled. She’d certainly mastered the understatement. They wouldn’t merely disapprove—they’d freak. A phone sex operator teaching their impressionable youth? Not here, not in this century.

The gravity of the situation he’d put her in finally dawned and he inwardly winced with regret. He’d royally screwed up by coming here. He’d literally jeopardized her livelihood. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Her slim shoulders sank in obvious relief. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

She nodded. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Will hesitated. “Why phone sex?” he finally blurted out. The question had been burning a hole in his brain. She was obviously smart, educated. Geez, God. Why phone sex, of all things? Granted it was sexy and listening to her had made him unbelievably hot, but still…

Eyes twinkling, she shrugged. “Why not phone sex? It beats checking groceries at the Bag-a-Bar-gain. It’s lucrative, and leaves me time to do the things I enjoy.” She gestured around her living room. “Like stained glass, art and gardening.” An ironic chuckle bubbled up her throat. “Believe me, I tried other things first. No one wanted to buy my art, and the whole starving-artist gig didn’t appeal to me.” Her lips curled. “I’ve grown accustomed to the little things, you know? Food, shelter, electricity.” She sighed. “What about you? Aside from tracking down unsuspecting…entrepreneurs, what do you do?”

Will grinned, properly chastised. “I’m a landscape architect,” he told her. “Foster’s Landscape Design. Almost ten years in business without a single unsatisfied client.” Will grimaced as Doris sprang to mind. “At least for the moment, anyway. I’m working with a woman now who might ruin that particular endorsement.”

“Oh?”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Doris Anderson.” He gave her the abbreviated version of the past three years, then shared the episode he’d endured this morning. “It’s insane. I can’t make her happy, can’t satisfy her.”

Rowan’s eyes twinkled with sexy humor. “Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

Will blushed, shot her a look from beneath lowered lashes. “That didn’t come out precisely right, did it?”

She laughed. “I sincerely hope not.” Her gaze drifted slowly over him and she rocked slightly back on the balls of her feet. “That would be a tragedy.”

Again that little zing of missing excitement buzzed through him and he barely resisted the urge to preen like a puffed-up peacock at the implied compliment. His gaze tangled with hers and he felt a smile flirt with his lips.

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