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Or the time she’d accidentally crammed a straw up her nose and caused it to bleed.
Or the time she’d shut her own ear in the car door.
She was constantly getting herself into situations that made her want to shrink out of existence, or at the very least out of someone’s immediate memory. She routinely fell, got choked…something all the time. Humiliating? Yes, every last event.
But nothing—nothing—in her past or present memory could compare to the absolute mortification of this moment.
She wanted to die.
Truly, desperately wanted to die.
Because the hunk leaning against her fence had apparently heard every last syllable of her most recent conversation, from the first Oh, God to the final Oooohhhh, and every dramatic pant, wince and groan in between.
Heat scalded her cheeks, and if she hadn’t already turned around to face him, she would have pretended to be deaf, maybe even blind. Anything to avoid this panic-stricken oh-shit-not-again scenario. Rowan tried consoling herself with the old whatever-doesn’t-kill-you-will-make-you-stronger adage—her normal pep-me-up cheer—but for whatever reason, the message fell flat this time.
Though it took every iota of willpower she possessed and because she was the mistress of her world, Rowan stood, dusted her hands off and reluctantly began to make her way across the yard. And the closer she got, the more humiliated she became. Her heart sank and she swallowed a whimper.
Naturally, he had to be gorgeous.
The guy had been a hunk from a distance—casually messy blond hair, a great smile, broad shoulders and nice legs. But up close, he was downright devastating. His hair was sun-bleached, a dark tawny color around his ears and nape, but several shades lighter on top. His face was lean and tanned, with a mouth slightly fuller than average and a pair of light brown eyes that offset the alpha bone structure with just a hint of boy-next-door. It was a face that said, “Best friend or worst enemy? You choose,” and the compelling combination made a shiver dance up her spine.
“Can I help you?” Rowan finally managed.
“I’m Will Foster,” the guy told her. His smile faded and, unfortunately, a less pleasant look claimed his intriguing features.
So, worst enemy, was it? Rowan thought. Interesting.
“I’m here because your number showed up on my phone bill this month,” he continued, his otherwise nice voice throbbing with barely suppressed outrage. He crossed his arms over his well-muscled chest and an irritating smirk ruined the look of that gorgeous mouth. “But I didn’t call you.”
“If that’s the case, then you’ll need to contact the phone company,” Rowan replied, automatically offering the most expedient solution to his problem. Her nature, she couldn’t help it. She could plant a whimsical garden, draw, paint and create different types of funky art, but put a problem in front of her and she’d find the most efficient answer. She was an anomaly, a right-brained thinker with left-brained tendencies.
The left brain kicked in when she belatedly realized that he shouldn’t even be here. How had he gotten her address? Her name? A finger of un-ease prodded her spine. “How did you get my address, Mr.—”
“Foster,” he reminded her tightly. “And I did contact the phone company. They told me your number had been dialed from my house, which meant the thousand-dollar charges were correct.”
Rowan scowled, baffled. “If the charges were correct, then what are you doing here?”
This was over the line, she thought, instinctively backing away from him. If there’d been a problem that the phone company couldn’t resolve, then why hadn’t he simply called? Why had he gone to the trouble to track her down? Common sense told her she should be alarmed, but the intense irritation stiffening every muscle in her body negated the logical emotion. Her eyes narrowed. Of all the damned nerve…
“I’m here because you had phone sex with my nephew,” he retorted angrily. “My underage nephew.”
Rowan’s first impulse was to deny the charge—she knew perfectly well that she hadn’t had phone sex with a minor…but she had talked to one.
The flash of insight jimmied an exasperated grunt from her throat and she managed a slight smile. “You’re Scott’s uncle, aren’t you?” She’d been expecting this. Not this as in a visit, but at least that explained why he’d gone to the trouble to find her. She relaxed marginally. Things were beginning to make sense.
His lips twisted into another annoying smirk. “I’m impressed, Ms. Crosswhite. For a thousand dollars you should remember his name.”
The smart-ass was making it damned hard to forget her self-righteous anger, Rowan thought, heartily annoyed. Pity she couldn’t forget how gorgeous he was. “I remember his name because he called me several times.”
“I know.” He fished what she recognized as his phone bill from the back pocket of his shorts and ran an eye over it. She watched in a sort of drunken fascination as his lips moved, counting off the calls. “Six times, to be precise.”
Rowan pushed her hair over her shoulder and assumed a negligent pose, struggled to detach her gaze from those distracting lips. “That sounds about right.”
“Did you realize that he was underage? Or did you just not care?”
Rowan knew that he had every reason to be upset, particularly since he was laboring under the mistaken assumption that she’d had phone sex with his nephew. Nevertheless, she didn’t appreciate the sarcasm or the censure, and she sure as hell didn’t appreciate being tracked down at her house, having her privacy violated.
“Yes, I knew he was underage—”
His lips curled without humor and he rocked back on his heels. “Then you just didn’t care. But you will care, Ms. Crosswhite, when his parents prosecute you.”
Rowan felt her eyes widen. “You’re probably right. However, being as I’ve done nothing to be prosecuted for, then I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?”
“Phone sex with a minor—”
Her patience snapped and she barely stifled the urge to scream. “I didn’t have phone sex with your nephew, Mr. Foster,” Rowan all but growled. “I helped him with his science homework.”
For a split second his face went comically blank, then a smug disbelieving smile drifted over his too-gorgeous lips. “And what were you doing with Roy, I wonder?” he drawled lazily. “Teaching him the difference between a consonant and a vowel?”
Renewed embarrassment flooded her cheeks and while she had appreciated the fact that he owned a sense of humor, she didn’t appreciate it being at her expense. Rowan pulled in a deep calming breath and called upon her past experience with irate parents to see her through this provoking scene. She’d dealt with enough of them over the years to handle this, she told herself. One of them had to remain professional, and clearly it wasn’t him.
“Have you spoken to Scott?” she asked, striving for a calm she didn’t feel. “Have you asked him what happened?”
“No, I haven’t.” A muscle jumped in his tense jaw. “Since I’ll have to tell his mother first, it’s not a conversation that I’m looking forward to.”
“Well, you can handle that however you want to,” she retorted, “but as for my part, I have proof that I didn’t have phone sex with Scott, Mr. Foster.” And she did, thank God, Rowan thought, immensely relieved.
A perplexed line emerged between his brows. “Proof?”
“I have a record feature on my phone. For safety reasons,” she clarified at his astounded look. Honestly. “Kooks, weirdoes, harassment—”
Comprehension dawned and he nodded abruptly.
“Anyway, when I realized that Scott was underage—which was almost immediately—I hit record.” She pulled a shrug. “In fact, I’ve recorded every conversation with Scott and will have to insist that you listen to them, just so there’s no misunderstanding. I thought I might hear from an outraged parent—or an uncle, as it’s turned out—though, frankly, I thought that I’d receive a phone call.” She pinned him with a weighty stare. “Which brings me back to my first question—how did you get my name and address?” she persisted. “How did you find me? Because to be quite honest with you, Mr. Foster, it, uh… It kind of freaks me out.”
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.”
