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