1-900-Lover

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.”