1-900-Lover. Rhonda Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ her yard. While weeding her garden.

      It literally blew what was left of his mind.

      “Oh, Roy,” she sighed convincingly. “I’m hot, too. Maybe I should get undressed, slip out of this teddy. There’s not much to it, but I like being naked. It makes me feel…wicked. Would you like that, Roy?”

      Apparently Roy did like the idea, Will thought with a wry twist of his lips, because she chuckled softly again. To his astonishment, he felt that sound hiss through his own blood. Felt a curious sense of excitement—one that was almost foreign to him since it had been so long—fizz through his abdomen.

      “Okay, I’m ready,” she murmured. “What do you want to do to me first?” Another wanton chuckle, then, “You’re right. Foreplay is highly overrated. And there’s no need, because I’m ready for you right now.”

      What happened next, Will would have never believed if he hadn’t seen—and heard—it with his own eyes and ears.

      The woman cooed, winced, groaned and moaned into the phone as though Roy weren’t God-knows-where, but instead rooted right there between her delectable thighs. Her breath came in short little puffs—while she enthusiastically attacked the weeds, no less—and she threw in the occasional “Oh, God! Oh, please! Oh, yes, Roy, God yes!” and then rounded out her performance with the most convincing sounding orgasm he’d ever heard.

      When her breathing finally slowed, Will felt like he’d been through the wringer. Impossibly, his heart rate had jumped into overdrive, every milligram of moisture had evaporated from his mouth and he’d come within a hairsbreadth of an immaculate orgasm himself, a phenomenon that hadn’t happened to him since he’d first hit puberty. At some point, he’d reached down and held on to her fence, undoubtedly to remain upright because his knees had grown decidedly weak.

      “Oh, I enjoyed it, too, Roy,” she murmured, her voice laced with feigned pleasant exhaustion. “You’re the best,” she told him, blatantly catering to the man’s ego. “Call me again sometime, okay?”

      To his continued astonishment, she blithely ended the call and went back to weeding, as though nothing remarkable had happened.

      Slack-jawed, Will could only stare at her. He blinked. Then blinked again. Though he’d come here with the intention of blasting her into oblivion, curiously his anger had been replaced with a combination of brooding fascination, compelling intrigue and an unwanted smidge of reluctant admiration.

      He’d also found the whole thing hilariously funny.

      He smothered a chuckle, lifted his hands and began to clap.

      His prey gasped, then turned and bright green—true green—eyes tangled with his.

      Will almost staggered from the impact. The bottom dropped out of his stomach and, though he knew it was impossible, he felt the ground quake beneath his feet. An electric current zinged up his spine, then back-tracked and settled hotly behind his zipper.

      With effort, Will managed to recover. “Very good, Ms. Crosswhite.” He summoned a weak chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy…w-weeding quite as m-much as you.”

      3

      ROWAN WAS ACCUSTOMED to being humiliated. Frankly, she’d long ago resigned herself to the fact that she would stay in a chronic state of humiliation. The level would simply vary, but being humiliated, she knew, was a foregone conclusion.

      For instance, buying the enemas today had been humiliating—almost as humiliating as the time she’d had to buy Ida’s wart remover.

      Or the time she’d inadvertently pulled a tampon out of her purse and tried to write a check with it.

      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. СКАЧАТЬ