1-900-Lover

“So, what do you want? A straight orgasm, or the works?”

Will pressed the telephone receiver more tightly to his ear, blood pooling in his loins. This woman was going to be the death of him. “Wha—whatever you think is best.”

“Okay,” Rowan replied. “I’m really glad you called. I’ve been lonely, lying here in this big old bed.”

Her voice was husky, rife with the promise of a wet dream. Suddenly Will didn’t want Rowan playing this phone-sex-operator role—he wanted her to participate, to sigh and moan for real. To be as turned on as he was…

Will pitched his voice lower to match hers. Payback was going to be sweet. “Lonely, huh? Maybe I can do something about that. What if I were to kiss the sweet curve of your neck, trace my fingers over your breasts…?”

A sharp gasp on the other end told Will he’d made his point. “Then I’d kiss my way down your belly, hook your legs over my shoulders and taste you,” he continued. “And once you’d melted, I’d slide into your heat, over and over, until you came again.” His breathing grew ragged, snapping under the strain of their sexy wordplay.

“Can you feel me there, Rowan?” he whispered. “Can you feel me?”

Dear Reader,

Like many of my ideas, the creative nudge behind this book came from a trip to my hairdresser’s. (Honestly, so many ideas have come out of that shop, I’ve begun to wonder if my muse isn’t addicted to hair chemicals, color foils and bleach.) Anyway, I picked up a magazine and read an article about an unemployed woman who turned to phone sex to make ends meet, and while the color lifted from my ever-darkening hair, the creative juices started flowing.

When budget cuts put high school teacher Rowan Crosswhite out of her job, she comes up with an ingenious way to make ends meet—she installs her own 1-900 phone sex line. It’s safe, it’s harmless and most important, it’s profitable. And when Will Foster comes onto the scene, it becomes deliciously wicked fun.

I hope you enjoy the heat, humor and heart in Rowan and Will’s story. For more information about past and upcoming books, be sure to check out my Web site, www.booksbyRhondaNelson.com.

Happy reading,

Rhonda Nelson

1-900-Lover

Rhonda Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This one’s for you, Granny. For panty-hose wigs and Martian hats, paper dolls and peanut butter sandwiches.

For countless hours of undivided attention, tight hugs, fishing trips and sewing lessons. For invaluable advice, unwavering support and unconditional love.

You’re the best, and I love you dearly.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

1

“WHAT AM I WEARING?” Rowan Crosswhite echoed into the phone, her voice artfully pitched to a breathy sultry purr. Grimacing, she used the hem of her T-shirt and her frayed denim cutoffs to clean the majority of the potting soil from her hands, then took up her watering can. “I’m wearing a black leather bustier, fishnet hose and stiletto heels.”

The fabricated description lacked originality, yes, but thus far in her experience in the phone sex business, she’d learned that any imaginative effort she put into her descriptions wasn’t appreciated. So why bother?

When Rowan had first considered selling phone sex, she’d worried about being appropriately creative, about fabricating a believable performance for the men who dialed her number. She’d even called a couple of 1-900 numbers for research purposes because being prepared was the keystone to any successful venture, and her near-manic obsession with doing everything to the absolute best of her ability—even something as seedy as being a phone sex operator—had prevented her from doing otherwise.

The research had been a wasted effort and she’d worried needlessly about conjuring a suitable performance.

In fact, ironically, she’d learned the less said the better. Rowan rolled her eyes. Hell, all she really had to do was gasp, wince and moan—easy to do, particularly when one was, say, cleaning the toilet or weeding a flower bed—and the guys, thank God, took care of the rest. One of the many advantages of phone sex.

And, surprisingly, there were many.

First of all—most importantly—it was safe. There was no risk of abuse or disease, and if a guy freaked her out, all she had to do was sever the connection and block the number. She mentally shrugged. Simple enough. Furthermore, and equally important given her recent unfortunate circumstances, it was lucrative. At $3.99 a minute, where the average call hovered around the twelve-minute mark, that was roughly $240 an hour. Her lips twitched. Considerably more than her previous job as a high-school science teacher.

Just a year shy of tenure, Rowan had been one of the unlucky souls left unemployed by deep state budget cuts. Her boss at Middleton High had promised that as soon as the funds were available, she’d be under contract again.

Regrettably, until then, more panting, moaning and wincing would be in order—and the more dramatic the better—otherwise she’d ultimately starve and, much to the detriment of her heavily padded thighs, she liked food entirely too much to go hungry.

Since she’d been paying off student loans and attending night school to get her master’s degree, Rowan had been caught with a grand total of $633 in savings, even less in checking and nothing—aside from a 1962 Chevrolet Corvette that had belonged to her father, and for which she would prostitute herself in the literal sense to keep if need be—of any value to sell.

She did substitute teaching when she could, but that income hadn’t been enough, or even dependable, for that matter. Then she’d read an article about a woman who, in similar circumstances, had morphed herself into a phone sex entrepreneur, and the rest had been history. She’d weighed the advantages and disadvantages, deemed it a good temporary choice, then installed her line and invested in a good mobile headset.

This freed up her hands and allowed her to do the things that she really loved—gardening, stained glass and metal-working. Tinkering, according to her father. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. Initially, she’d tried to make ends meet by selling her garden art, but unfortunately—and this thoroughly baffled her—no one seemed to get her style. Rowan cast a glance around her eclectic garden—whimsical metalwork, stained-glass whirligigs, antique roses, bulbs and vines—and swallowed a despondent sigh. Screw ’em, she thought, the tasteless traditional cads. She was an artiste. Her garden thrived and made her happy, which when one really thought about it, was all that mattered anyway.

A stuttered breath hissed across the line, cut through her musings. “Wh—what about your panties? What do they look like?”

Rowan glanced at her watch. She’d had this guy on the phone for eight minutes. Time to finish up. She had some impatiens to transplant, and her roses were looking a little droopy.

“I don’t wear panties,” she lied breathlessly. “They…constrict.”

Predictably, the line worked. A garbled groan and the telltale whine of a zipper echoed into her ear.

She lowered her voice. “Can I tell you a secret, Jeff?” she asked, purposely using his name. It played into the whole say-my-name, who’s-your-daddy mentality. Sheesh. Men were pathetically predictable.

“S-sure.”

“Sometimes…when I’m alone…I like to touch myself.” She barely suppressed a snigger. Rowan Crosswhite, former high-school science teacher turned kinky phone sex queen.

Another broken hiss sounded. “Are you— Are you touching yourself now?”

“Oh, I want to, Jeff. Do you want me to?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Then I should probably lie down.” Rowan affected a dramatic wince. “My sheets are cool…especially since I’m so hot.” That wasn’t a complete lie. It was hot. And humid, she thought pulling her tank top away from her chest, a vain effort to circulate a little air beneath her shirt.

A harsh breath stuttered across the line. “How hot are you?”

“I’m on fire, Jeff. I’m imagining that you’re touching me. Can I touch you?”

“Yes.”

Thirty seconds later it was over. She was thirty-six dollars richer and her sheets were still clean. Honestly, if a woman was going to use her body for profit, phone sex was definitely the way to go. In all seriousness, Rowan knew there were some people who would criticize her choice of temporary employment, but she’d used her own morality meter when making the decision. As far as she was concerned, she was providing a harmless form of entertainment. She simply played a part, catered to men’s fantasies from a comfortable distance. No harm, no foul. It was a practical business arrangement, one that benefited her, kept food in the fridge and the power on.

She waited until his breathing slowed before she spoke again. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Jeff. Call me again, anytime.”

Jeff exhaled a long, satisfied breath. “You can count on it.” He paused. “Hey, as long as you’re still there, do you mind if I ask you a quick question?”

“Sure. Go ahead.” This was common. Men frequently asked her for all kinds of advice. Everything from how to remove stains, to what brand of fabric softener did she prefer. She didn’t mind. It was their dime, after all. Cha-ching.

She’d even had a teenage boy call—she’d taught enough of them to recognize the pubescent squeaking croak—and, after she’d neatly avoided the sex issue, she’d ended up tutoring him in science. He’d contacted her several times during one week, then the calls had abruptly ceased. She’d been tempted to give him her home number, but Caller ID and cross-referencing had prevented the impulse. What she did on her own time wasn’t anyone’s business, but she didn’t think Middleton’s Mississippi Bible Belt board of education would agree. She’d fully expected a call from an outraged parent, but so far nothing had come of it, and she sincerely hoped nothing did.

“I’ve got a date tonight,” the caller said, “and I really want to impress this girl. What do you think? Burger King or McDonald’s?”

Rowan rolled her eyes. Her clients, the poor fools. No wonder they could never get laid in the traditional sense. “Wow her,” she told him flatly. “Head for the border.”

“Taco Bell?” A thoughtful hum, then, “An even better choice. Thanks.”

“No problem.” She chuckled under her breath and disconnected. Just in the nick of time, too, Rowan thought, as she watched her elderly neighbor, Ida Holcomb, amble unsteadily across her backyard toward Rowan’s fence.

Rowan rented the small guest house, which was located at the rear of Ida’s property, from the older lady. The white frame house was small, but two-storied with full, sweeping porches on both levels. It was the mini-version of Ida’s grand antebellum home and, for what it lacked in modern convenience, it more than made up for in character.

There was only one plug-in in the bathroom, and the pipes invariably froze in the winter, but the ten-foot ceilings lent an airy mood to the house, and the crown molding, fireplace, and hardwood floors had been handcrafted with a quality of workmanship which couldn’t be duplicated much less found in today’s power-tool, particle-board world. The small greenhouse, workshop and attached garden had made it the perfect choice for Rowan.

When Rowan lost her job, Ida had sacrificed part of the rent in exchange for errands and personal services. Rowan did Ida’s grocery shopping, took her to and from the hairdresser’s, paid her bills and whatnot. She plucked her eyebrows—not that there were that many left because Ida had been part of a generation where having no eyebrows was fashionable—and stoically—miserably—rendered the occasional pedicure. Her gaze involuntarily moved to Ida’s slowly-approaching slippered feet and she quelled a shudder. In Rowan’s opinion, there was nothing remotely attractive about feet, and there was something downright yuck about knobby, gnarled old-people feet.

Ick.

For all of that, however, she’d nonetheless grown very fond of her neighbor. Her grandparents had passed away when she was small, and her parents had decided to make the most of their retirement by seeing how many stamps they could add to their passports before they grew too old and feeble to globetrot. They were part of the new generation of fashionable retirees. They’d visited the Pyramids of Giza, the Great Wall of China and were currently on an extended tour of Europe.

Rowan had one brother, who naturally begrudged their parents the fruit of their hard-earned labor and, rather than admiring them for packing as much living into their lives as she did, only bemoaned the loss of his dwindling inheritance. Though they both lived in Middleton, she rarely saw him, which, sadly, was fine with her.

Were her parents aware of her circumstances, Rowan knew they wouldn’t hesitate to help her out, but pride, the insistent desire to fend for herself and the idea that they might miss another stamp because of her kept her from asking. She scowled. Besides, her brother had his hand out often enough for both of them.

She could make it on her own.

Would make it on her own. All she had to do was get through another month, then hopefully she’d get called back to school. Until then, she’d just answer her 1-900 line every time it rang and take care of her neighbor. It was a small price to pay for her independence.

Rowan summoned a weak smile as Ida drew near and silently—fervently—prayed that the woman hadn’t developed another ingrown toenail.

“I swear, you’re the dirtiest female I think I’ve ever seen,” Ida chided. “Gardening is dirty work, I’ll grant you. But—” her lips twisted with displeasure as she inventoried every smudge and smear on Rowan’s body “—I think that you get down and roll in it.” Her lined face folded into a frown. “How do you ever expect to find a man when you look more fit to be the bride of a pig?”

Rowan barely smothered a sigh. In addition to being part of the no-eyebrow generation, Ida was also of the outdated opinion that a woman wasn’t complete until she had a man to make her whole. It was penis envy to the nth degree and the mentality never ceased to make her grind her teeth in frustration.

Furthermore, Rowan had been burned once and, call her crazy, but she simply wasn’t up to a repeat performance of that disaster at the moment. She’d been in love, imagining the happily ever after that Ida relentlessly preached—she’d even reluctantly let that bastard drive her car, her biggest regret because he hadn’t been vintage-Vette worthy and she’d known it—but hadn’t heeded her own intuition because she’d been too busy picking out china patterns and bridesmaids’ dresses. She’d tricked herself into thinking that she was in love, and he’d tricked her into believing he reciprocated the sentiment.

He’d been reciprocating something all right, but it hadn’t been with her.

Two weeks before the wedding, she’d shown up at her fiancé’s apartment for some surprise sex. It turned out to be surprise sex, too, only she was the one surprised and he was the one having sex.

Bitter pill, hard lesson.

Since then, she’d developed an unspoken code of sorts, one that her father had unwittingly inspired. She didn’t date anyone who didn’t fully appreciate her car, and she didn’t sleep with anyone who had the gall to ask to drive it. Bizarre? Yes. But it worked.

Rowan glanced at the sleek little convertible parked in her driveway and felt her lips curl at the corners. Dubbed the first American sports car, the Vette was an unparalleled testament to fine engineering at its best. Honduras Maroon with fawn interior and a white ragtop, it had a 327 V-eight with four on the floor, and it purred with megahorse-power perfection. It had been her dad’s first brand-new car and he’d cared for it with the kind of reverent regard the vehicle deserved. She’d shared his passion and, as a result, he’d handed her the keys when she’d graduated from high school.

Rowan had decided that while she might not be a ’62 Vette, she nonetheless deserved the same care and attention, and the same reverence. Until she found a guy willing to ante up all of the above, she planned to play her cards close to her vest. Did she occasionally long for more? Of course she did. She enjoyed her independence, yes, but not to the point of being a perpetual loner. There were nights when the silence closed in around her and she literally ached for the presence of another body. A big, warm masculine body. Nights when she craved conversation and companionship, a lover and friend. A safe harbor amid the ordered chaos of her life. But she refused to settle for anything less than the total package, and therein lay the rub.

Ignoring Ida’s bride-of-a-pig remark, Rowan summoned a smile. “Was there something I could do for you, Ida?”

Ida started. Her preoccupied gaze darted away from Rowan’s grimy shirt and settled on her face. Then she frowned, huffed an exaggerated breath and fished a napkin from the front pocket of her housecoat. “Honestly,” Ida complained as she wiped Rowan’s cheek. “It’s all over your face, too.” She tsked under her breath. “I hope you’re hosing yourself down before you climb into that old tub. Those drains are slow enough as it is.”

“I always do,” Rowan lied easily. Ida was forever offering little tips on how to care for the aging guest house. Don’t overload the circuits. Use oil soap to clean the floors. Ida Holcomb was a woman of many opinions and she could be counted on to share them—liberally—whether one wanted to hear them or not. A droll smiled curled Rowan’s lips.

Seemingly satisfied, the older woman stuffed the napkin back into her pocket. “There. That’s better, though I really wish you had time to change. You’re my representative, you know,” she said, drawing herself up primly. “How you look reflects directly upon me.”

So an errand was in order, Rowan thought, resisting the urge to smile. “I can change in a flash, Ida. Where do you need me to go?”

“To the drug store.” She winced uncomfortably and rubbed her belly. “The fiber and prunes didn’t do the trick. I need an enema.”

And she should definitely be turned out for that mission, Rowan thought dimly, equally horrified and revolted. After all, buying an enema was important business. But just par for the course in her train wreck of a life. She was so used to being humiliated she often wondered what it would feel like to be normal. To not blush or squirm or writhe with embarrassment.

Rowan swallowed, nodded jerkily, not trusting herself to speak.

“In fact, you’d better get two. Better safe than sorry,” Ida prophesied grimly.

Rowan managed a sick smile. Right. And better this than hungry, she tried to tell herself.

The argument might have worked, too…if she hadn’t just lost her appetite.

2

AT THIRTY-TWO and in perfect health, Will Foster found himself skating the edge of an anger-induced aneurysm, or at the very least, a massive stroke.

Doris Whitaker had screwed him again.

Not in the literal sense, of course—Will shuddered as her heavily made-up, wrinkled face flashed through his mind’s eye—but figuratively, he might as well have painted a big bull’s-eye on his ass.

The ass she was undoubtedly watching, the old perv, Will thought with an unhappy start as he strode across her yard to his truck. He cast a glance over his shoulder, and sure enough, she’d been watching him leave. Her painted lips slid into a wider smile and she twinkled her arthritic, bejeweled fingers at him.

Will forced a tight smile and waved back. “Goodbye,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

His company, Foster’s Landscape Design, had spent the better part of three summers, not to mention thousands of dollars, trying to fulfill their “satisfaction guaranteed” promise.

To no avail.

Though he knew he should simply let it go—should simply concede defeat—perversely, Will couldn’t do it. He’d get that satisfied-customer stamp of approval from her, dammit, or die trying. It was the point of it. All bragging aside, he was good at what he did. He loved his job. Loved developing a landscape, then pulling it together and seeing it to fruition. Loved getting his hands dirty, nursing blooms and watching things grow. He had a tremendous amount of respect for the codependent design of the world. The whole oxygen and carbon dioxide cycle that made plants and animals dependent on one another. It was…awe-inspiring.

Furthermore, Foster’s Landscape Design was swiftly approaching their ten-year anniversary and in those ten years, he’d never had an unsatisfied customer.

He absolutely refused to let Doris ruin that record.

His team had finished up today and, though she’d been pleased throughout the process—had approved the design herself once again—she’d decided that it wasn’t what she’d wanted after all.

Tear it out and start over.

Will had wanted to tear something out all right, but it hadn’t been the cacti she’d decided she hated. This was the third freakin’ time she’d pulled this shit. He was at his wit’s end, and quite honestly, if he wasn’t afraid she’d howl blue murder down at that country club she virtually funded, he’d be tempted to tell her to take that cactus and shove it up her—

Two loud beeps, followed by his mother screaming “Will?” into the two-way radio interrupted the uncharitable thought. Despite the fact that he’d told her repeatedly that yelling wasn’t necessary, Millie Foster, perversely, continued to do it. On purpose, he suspected, because it never failed to startle the hell out of him.

Will swore, unsnapped the combination radio/phone from his belt and dredged the bottom of his soul for an ounce of unspent patience. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Mother, for the last time, you don’t have to yell.”

“Sorry,” Millie replied unrepentantly. “I just wanted to make sure that you heard me.”

“I heard you. What’s up?” Will detected a bit of laughter and catcalling in the background. He frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to let you know that you have a dinner date tonight, so be sure and finish up in time to take a proper bath.”

Dinner date? Will thought, utterly confused. A proper bath? He hadn’t made a date with anyone. In fact, he hadn’t had a date in months. Even if he’d met someone who’d sparked any interest—which he hadn’t—he wouldn’t have had the time. Spring was the busiest season of his year, the time of year when his laughable social life was shoved to the back burner. Besides, his last serious relationship had left a bad taste in his mouth—a combination of bitter regret, bad judgment and plain stupidity—and it wasn’t a flavor he wished to sample again anytime soon.

Will frowned as the implication of this conversation finally surfaced in his muddled brain and he mentally swore—she was matchmaking.