1-900-Lover Page 6

  “It wasn’t a cock-n-bull story,” Will interrupted before she could really get wound up. His mother could spend hours lecturing on the slippery-slope perils of self-delusion. “It was the truth.”

  Her eyes widened and she blinked. “Says who? Your 1-900-Lover?” she scoffed.

  “She’d recorded the conversations. I listened to them.” He pulled a negligent shrug, absently drummed a pen against his desk. “No harm, no foul, and she refunded the charges.”

  His mother hummed under her breath. “Now that’s interesting. A scrupulous phone sex operator.” She smiled, and that shrewd motherly gleam which had unearthed countless secrets flared to life in her gaze. “I’ll just bet that threw you for a loop, Mr. Black-and-White.”

  Will grunted in response to the nickname. His family had called him that for years. As far as Will was concerned, there were no gray areas, period, and people who saw gray simply weren’t strong enough in their convictions. He made a decision and he didn’t walk the fence.

  But had his mother’s keen perception once again ferreted out a hidden truth? Will wondered. Had that been why he’d been so fascinated by Rowan? Because he couldn’t find a category for her in his black-and-white, right or wrong world? For instance, the idea of phone sex had been singularly unappealing…until he’d met her. Now he couldn’t get her voice out of his head, couldn’t stop thinking about her saying those erotic little comments to him in that wonderfully sensual voice of hers.

  She didn’t fit any mold, Will decided. Didn’t fit in any of his preformed categories, that was for sure. He’d have to give it further consideration.

  But not right now. Not while under his mother’s intuitive radar.

  He purposely directed the discussion to business, and after the majority of issues were settled, the conversation turned once again to Dreaded Doris.

  “What are you going to do about her?” Millie wanted to know. “Honestly, Will. This is ridiculous. You can’t call it wasted time because she’s always paid you. Still…” She frowned. “Something’s gotta give.”

  Will blew out a breath. “She’s connected, Mom. If she’s not happy, she’s going to howl.”

  A convenient excuse, one his mother undoubtedly saw through, but he hauled the old line out anyway. She knew how he was. Knew that he couldn’t stand the idea of having a single unhappy customer. The idea drove him nuts. Naturally Will knew that it was unreasonable for him to expect to be in any form of public service and never have an unsatisfied customer, but he’d managed to do it for the past ten years—ten years—and he simply refused to let Doris Anderson ruin it for him. “I’m working on it,” he assured her.

  “All right,” she sighed, then pushed to her feet. “I’m going to call it a day. Shouldn’t you go home and get ready for your date?” she asked innocently.

  Will smiled at her tenacity. “I don’t have a date.”

  “Which is precisely my point,” she needled with a soft harrumph of displeasure. “Keep it up,” she told him as she made her way to the door, “and you’re going to end up taking the same dial-a-date detour Scott did.”

  Will chuckled as he watched her leave, but in truth her parting comment triggered Rowan Crosswhite’s last edict, one that had plagued him since leaving her house this morning. It had ricocheted around his brain, pinging him at the most inopportune moments.

  You’ve got my number. Call me.

  Will speared his fingers through his hair once more and exhaled a long, pent-up breath.

  A simple phrase, a simpler request, and yet he found himself completely stymied, a state that was as annoying as it was unfamiliar. Will prided himself on being a decision maker, on being able to swiftly process data, cull the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, and generally make the right call. This mealy-mouthed do-I-or-don’t-I? circle he’d found himself in for the past several hours irritated the hell out of him. It was completely out of character.

  But just what the hell had she meant, dammit?

  He leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the edge of his desk. Had she wanted him to call her on her regular line…or had that innocuous little instruction held a double meaning? Had it been a subtle suggestion to dial her 900-line? Or was that merely wishful thinking on his part? Hell, who knew?

  Too many questions and not enough answers. A quick glance at his wall clock confirmed that he didn’t have much time left either. He didn’t know what sort of hours Rowan kept—undoubtedly her phone sex business peaked at night, he thought darkly—but in his opinion anything beyond six implied more pleasure than business.

  And, against all reason and better judgment, he wanted both.

  The question was; which one did he go after first?

  Twenty-four hours ago if anybody had told him that he’d be entertaining the idea of calling a 1-900-number for phone sex, Will would have never believed it. Truthfully, he had trouble believing it now. Hell, he hadn’t been a participant in the Five Knuckle Olympics since he’d talked Katie Webber into giving him a hand job in junior high. His lips quirked. After that enlightening experience, self-service had lost its tarnished appeal.

  But the mere memory of hearing Rowan’s sweet throaty voice made his palms itch and a snaky heat writhe in his loins. Made his imagination run reel-to-reel X-rated material starring her in the lead role, and the idea of listening to her tell him that she was hot made him forget that phone sex surely paled in comparison to the genuine article.

  Regardless, he had a feeling Rowan Crosswhite could make a man forget the world was round if she were so inclined.

  Though logic and intuition had told him her version of events with Scott had been dead on, Will didn’t doubt for a moment that she could have easily convinced him even without her “proof.”

  The minute he’d heard her voice the head without the brain had successfully mutinied, and the one responsible for cognitive control had meekly conceded defeat. He’d tracked her down in order to rock her world and, as a result of that infantile arrogance, he’d been the one to walk away shaken and unsure. An unfamiliar condition he’d discovered he didn’t care for in the least.

  So what to do? Will wondered for the hundredth time. Ultimately, he knew it would be best to err on the side of caution. If she hadn’t meant that she wanted him to call on her 900-line, then he’d look like an opportunistic moron, not to mention heartily embarrassed and, though it was vain, he had too much pride to risk the humiliation. In addition, he still needed her help with Doris Dilemma and he didn’t want to risk inadvertently pissing her off and nixing that plan.

  On the presumption that Rowan would say yes—and he honestly thought that she would—he’d gone ahead and run the idea past Doris this afternoon. Hell, Will thought with a small smile, anyone who thought phone sex was a pragmatic, practical solution to money woes surely wouldn’t balk at helping design a garden. Furthermore, he’d seen Rowan’s senses go on point, had watched those gorgeous green eyes brighten with excitement when he’d outlined the offer.

  Predictably, Doris had balked, but with a little minimal finessing—which almost made him gag—he’d brought her around. The idea of having a special “team manager” had been more than the hard-to-please old biddy could pass up. Now, provided he could bring Rowan on board, everything should be right with his world very shortly. He liked things being right with his world. Anything out of sync—even something as remarkable as this flash-fire attraction for Rowan Crosswhite—messed with his head. Made him antsy. Which meant he needed to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, and pull himself together.

  So, Will decided as he reluctantly sat up, business had to come first…and if he played his cards right, the pleasure would come later.

  Luckily, regardless of what line he dialed, he would still get to talk to her, to listen to that sleepy, sultry bedroom voice. The thought had a consoling effect and left him inordinately—ridiculously—pleased.

  Which was pathetic and made him wonder just what the hell had been so wrong with his l
ife that a few mere minutes with this woman would make his entire existence seem that much better. Was he that pathetic? Though it galled him to admit it, that lonely? God knew his mother harped on that enough, Will thought, perturbed at the idea. She was constantly going on and on about finding somebody to settle down with. Sharing his life. He chuckled grimly. His mother was convinced that a woman would make him happy, and his sister was equally convinced that having children would humble him.

  They acted like he didn’t want either, when in truth there was nothing that he wanted more. But he didn’t take the decision lightly, and after his last failed attempt at a meaningful relationship, he was a little gun-shy. Deservedly so, if you asked him.

  Will cursed under his breath, bullied the thoughts to the back of his mind where he normally kept them. “Idiot,” he muttered. “Just call her.” He pulled in a bolstering breath and blamed his shaking fingers and quivering gut on low blood sugar as he reached for the phone. He wasn’t nervous, dammit. He had friggin’ nerves of steel. It was a simple phone call, an offer of employment, one he’d extended countless times.

  But for reasons which escaped him, Will instinctively knew he had more riding on this offer than Doris’s displeasure, more than a hundred-percent-satisfaction-guaranteed record.

  Precisely what, escaped him, but the knowledge was there all the same.

  He entered her number—for some idiotic reason, he’d memorized it—and waited for her to pick up. After the fourth ring, he knew she wasn’t going to answer. On the fifth ring, her machine picked up. Rather than her voice, a Humphrey Bogart soundalike played over the line.

  “Of all the answering machines in the world you had to call mine. Maybe the voice messages between two people don’t add up to a hill of beans, but if you’ll leave me a message, I’ll get back to you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. Who knows? Maybe this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  Chuckling, Will left his message. Leave it to Rowan not to have a typical greeting on her answering machine, he thought, once again enchanted. Thus far, he hadn’t noticed anything typical about her. She definitely put the U in unique.

  Though initially he’d been annoyed—not disappointed because that would be just plain sickening—that she hadn’t been home, Will decided it was probably to his advantage…because he’d just officially put the ball back into her court. He kicked back in his chair once more, laced his hands behind his head and a slow smile drifted over his lips.

  It would be interesting to see what she’d do with it.

  6

  “SHE SAID CHUNKY MONKEY,” Rowan muttered angrily under her breath as she let herself into the house. She slung her purse into the chair by the door, hung her keys on the hook, toed off her shoes, then made her way to the kitchen for a spoon. “I know she said Chunky Monkey. The old harpy just wanted my Cherry Garcia.”

  Note to self, Rowan thought. The next time I make an ice-cream run, don’t make the mistake of showing Ida what I bought for myself. Better yet, the next time Ida called on her cell phone—man, did she rue the day she’d given that number to her landlord, Rowan thought with a grim laugh—she’d simply ignore the call.

  She pried the lid off the container, loaded her spoon, then groaned with pleasure as the cool dessert did its magical thing and vastly improved her mood. A Ben & Jerry’s antidepressant, she sighed. It did the trick every time.

  Honestly, she didn’t know why she’d gotten so irritated. Hell, it was only ice cream. It wasn’t like Ida had pulled a playground bully trade, for pity’s sake. She still had a dessert, one that she happened to be quite fond of. Good grief. What was wrong with her? If this was the worst thing that happened to her today—Ida stealing her Cherry Garcia—then she was in pretty good shape. Yes, she got sick of running Ida’s errands—they were usually mortifying—but it was a relatively easy way to make part of the rent. Sheesh. She had to get a grip.

  It was Alexa’s fault, Rowan decided as she shoveled another spoonful into her mouth. Her eyes narrowed. Alexa, with her little popping-the-phone-sex-cherry prediction. Rowan knew she hadn’t picked out that particular flavor because it was her favorite, or because she liked it above all others—she’d picked out Cherry Garcia because she’d been thinking about Will Foster.

  Hadn’t stopped thinking about Will Foster since he’d left her house this morning.

  Would he really call her? she wondered. Her gaze inexplicably slid to her answering machine and a bubble of anticipation fizzed in her belly. Or the better question might be, had he called her? The red light, which signaled a message, blinked furiously, and with a sinking heart, Rowan realized he’d probably already called—and, just her luck, she’d missed it. Damn.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  Damn.

  Hauling her dessert along with her, she double-timed it to the living room, sank heavily onto her couch, then pulled the machine into her lap and hit the play button. She winced as her initial fear was confirmed.

  “Rowan. Hi, it’s Will Foster. I was calling about that proposition I’d run by you this morning. If you’re interested, you can give me a call back on my cell or at home.” He rattled off the numbers. “I, uh… I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks. Bye.”

  Well, hell, Rowan swore, heartily disappointed. No doubt he’d called while she’d been running Ida’s ice-cream errand, she thought uncharitably. In all fairness, he could have called while she’d been at Grady’s, but right now laying any and all blame at Ida’s hideous feet held considerable catty appeal. Her inner bitch was PMS’ing.

  Since he’d taken the first step and contacted her, Rowan didn’t see any reason—aside from the herd of butterflies which had taken flight in her belly—why she shouldn’t just go ahead and call him. She’d told Alexa she would. Had insisted that she wasn’t off her game. And she wasn’t, dammit.

  Furthermore, in an hour or so, her 900-line would start a perpetual ring, and she wouldn’t have time for something as normal as idle chitchat. Even idle chitchat with a guy who made her hormones sing along to the tacky tune of an eighties porn flick. Chic-a-wow, chic-a-wow-wow, Rowan thought with a soft chuckle, instantly imagining them in a similar circumstance.

  Once again the idea of an intimate conversation with Will Foster took hold. What naughty things would he say to her? Rowan wondered, her belly clenching at the mere thought. Better yet, how long would it take her to make him set himself off? Her breath stuttered out in a quiet hiss and her very bones seemed to liquefy as an image of him doing just that materialized behind her drooping lids. Sweet Jesus. She wanted this guy.

  Truly, desperately, with every fiber of her hopelessly horny being.

  So she should do it, Rowan decided abruptly, blinking out of her self-induced lust-trance. She should call him. Was going to call him. Right now. He’d offered her a job—admittedly one that she’d love to do, and frankly, she couldn’t afford to turn down the money—so there was absolutely no reason to be nervous or nauseous, or be cursed with any shaky affliction. Because that would imply that she wasn’t the mistress of her world, wasn’t in control and that was unacceptable.

  Rowan set her ice cream aside, took a deep calming breath, blew it out, then shook the tremors out of her hands. Okay. She was calling. Right now. She picked up the phone and dialed his home number before she could change her mind.

  Shit! She’d called him!

  “Hello.”

  Shit! He’d answered! Rowan squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Er…Will?” Okay, moron, Rowan told herself. Breathe. Hyperventilating over the phone would not help convey the calm, cool, collected chick she longed to portray.

  She was so not that chick.

  “Rowan?”

  “Yeah. I was just returning your call.” Very good. She didn’t stutter, sounded smooth and offhand, as though she weren’t pacing the stain off her hardwood floors. She could do this. Would do this.

  “Right. I, uh— I’d just wondered if you’d thought any more
about my offer.” He cleared his throat. “If you’re interested, I’d like to bring Doris by your place and let her have a look-see.”

  “Yeah, I’m interested,” Rowan replied with a chuckle. “I’m not as sure as you are that she’s going to like my garden—my style isn’t for everybody—but you’re welcome to bring her by whenever. I’m generally home.” So she’d see him again. She did a little happy dance around her coffee table.

  “Good. I’ll give her a call in the morning, and if she’s free, we’ll probably come by—” he hesitated, evidently trying to figure out his schedule “—er…sometime before noon. I’ve got my guys started on the tear-out now. She’s got friends coming in soon—Peace Corp buddies,” he clarified wryly, “and wants to have everything finished, so we’re kind of in a time crunch. Is that going to work okay with your schedule?”

  Rowan laughed softly. “Hey, I’m basically unemployed, so I’m flexible.”

  “Good. You’re really helping me out of a bind. I’m, uh— I’m at my wit’s end with this one.”

  Rowan didn’t get it. If the woman was that damned difficult, why did he keep going back? Why was this satisfaction-guaranteed thing so important to him? Rather than wonder about it, she decided to ask. “Look, it’s none of my business, I know, but if she’s such a problem why do you keep dealing with her? Why not let it go?” Rowan settled back down on the couch and took up her ice cream once more. She spooned a bite into her mouth.

  A rueful laugh sounded in her ear. “I wish that I could, but I… I just can’t.”

  Rowan grinned. Male pride. Was there anything more powerful?

  “And, honestly, I can’t complain because she’s always paid her bill. She’s never tried to stick me. It’s just so damned frustrating. She’s thrilled, she’s ecstatic, she’s over the moon—right up until the day we get finished. Then she wants something completely different.” He blew out a disgusted breath, punctuating the thought. “You wouldn’t believe the work I’ve put into her damned yard. And all for naught.”