Rhonda Nelson - 1-900-Lover

“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.

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