1-900-Lover

by Rhonda Nelson

  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 ha
nded 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.

  “So what are you going to do about her?” Rowan asked, moving the conversation back onto slightly firmer ground.

  Will grimaced, passed a hand over his face. “That’s the million-dollar question. I honestly don’t know.” He glanced out her window, then stilled as an inkling of an idea began to emerge. He peered out her window, specifically at the garden framed in the multipaned glass. Another finger of excitement nudged his belly.

  What would Doris think of him pulling Rowan in as a consultant? Will wondered hesitantly. For whatever
reason, he instinctively knew she’d like Rowan’s work. The whimsical layout would undoubtedly appeal to Doris’s own fantastical proclivities. In addition, the idea that he’d pulled in another designer to collaborate on the job would appeal to her “special treatment” needs.

  Furthermore, he’d gladly forfeit the entire commission to Rowan—who admittedly needed the money more than he did at the moment—simply to make sure that Doris didn’t ruin his satisfied customer record.

  That he’d be willing to let go with a sizable chunk of change simply to make that woman happy and to keep his flawless record spoke volumes about his control issues, Will knew, but he was powerless to stop it. He’d worked hard for that reputation and the idea that she could ruin it with a few whiny complaints around town—at the country club, specifically—stuck in his craw and absolutely refused to budge.

  Not no, but hell, no.

  This could work, Will decided, as his idea gained momentum. Doris would get her dream garden, Will would be rid of Doris and Rowan would be able to earn some extra cash doing something she obviously loved instead of keeping up the phone sex gig.

  For some unknown reason, the latter perk appealed to him entirely more than it should have, a fact that would need further consideration at a later time.

  “Rowan, an idea just occurred to me,” Will began, darting her a considering glance, “and I’d like to run it by you.”

  She nodded. “Er…okay.”

  Will quickly related his tentative plan, then outlined the offer. “Doris will have to go for it, of course,” he qualified. Since she enjoyed being difficult, it would require some fancy footwork on his part, but Will was confident he could bring her around. “At any rate, I honestly think she’ll love your work. What do you say? Would you be interested?”

  To Will’s supreme annoyance a soft chirp sounded from the vicinity of Rowan’s waist before she could respond. She tsked under her breath, then tilted a small beeper-sized gadget away from the front pocket of her shorts to better read the display. Her phone, he realized with an unhappy start.