1-900-Lover. Rhonda Nelson
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then finally hitting pay dirt, he wheeled the vehicle into the appropriate drive. Anticipation spiked. Finally, Will thought. He purposely stoked his ire on the way to the door by alternately imagining writing the check to the phone company, and telling his sister about Scott’s foray into the seedy world of phone sex—Reach out and touch someone, indeed, Will thought darkly. So, by the time he plied the knocker every last particle of irritation he’d had that morning set ready on his tongue. He’d pulled back the hammer, so to speak, and was ready to unload.
It was to his vast disappointment then, when an elderly woman with pink foam curlers in her hair answered the door and he was forced to put on the safety.
Again.
He stifled the burgeoning urge to scream.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Baffled, Will frowned. He knew he had the right address. But this… He inwardly shuddered. This couldn’t possibly be the right woman. “Er…Ms. Crosswhite?”
“Nope. Ida Holcomb. You’re looking for Rowan,” she said matter-of-factly. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “She lives in the guest house in the back.” The woman gasped, laid a hand over her belly, and shot him a pained look. “Gotta go,” she said abruptly, then slammed the door in his face.
Startled, Will drew back, then, shaking his head, made his way off the porch and toward the rear of the property where the older woman had indicated. He had a bead on her now, Will thought, purposefully striding alongside the house. As he rounded the corner, however, the sight that greeted him caused him to slow and every bit of the anger he’d nursed faded into insignificance.
A vintage Vette—a ’62 if he wasn’t mistaken—in pristine condition sat in the drive next to the house. He whistled low and, had his attention not been instantly drawn elsewhere, he would have been tempted to inspect the car from bumper to bumper. As it was, his gaze had landed on the house and surrounding property, and any notion of the car, while it was admittedly a fine piece of machinery, drifted right out of his head.
The house, a miniature version of the primary residence sat at the very back of the property. White frame, double verandah, utterly charming. But it hadn’t been what made him pause, either—it was the garden around the house that had made such an impact. He blinked, pulling it all into focus, and for some wholly unknown reason, an excited tingle started in the heels of his feet and swiftly moved upward.
Will had been in landscape design for years, had been to countless shows in practically every part of the country, and yet nothing in his experience could compare to this.
Though he recognized every flower, vine, shrub and bush—all of them typical to the average bee-and-butterfly garden—the whimsical layout, the use of color and texture combined with what he could only deduce was the owner’s original metalwork and stained glass made it the most unique garden he’d ever seen. There was no discernable plan, no clear-cut layout, and yet everything grew together in a seamless form of ordered pandemonium.
It was gorgeous.
Butterfly bushes, creeping flox, flowering peach and crabapple trees, clematis vines, various lilies, and bedding plants, a variety of ground covers, and perhaps the most interesting of all—antique roses. The swamp rose, in particular, was one that he coveted.
Feeling like he’d been clubbed over the head again, Will slowly resumed his pace. Inexplicably drawn to the roses, the grand dames of antique bushes, he reverently fingered one delicate petal while quietly inspecting the plant. No spots or aphids, and what minimal pruning had been done had been accomplished with a precisely loving hand. Whoever tended this garden had a passion for the process and clearly designed it for their own personal enjoyment.
Not a single detail had been left untended and, despite the fact that he knew this was the work of the skanky phone sex operator, of all people, Will found himself grudgingly impressed. More than impressed. Floored, really. After all, it took a helluva lot of imagination, not to mention a great deal of time and effort to—
The tinkle of feminine laughter drifted to him, snagging his attention back to the task at hand. He scanned the yard and, after a moment, his gaze landed upon a generously rounded, denim-clad rump peeking out from a small raised bed in the far corner of the garden. A pair of tanned, equally shapely legs were attached to the rump. He could see little else save the back of her head, and while he got the impression of long sable-colored hair, in all truthfulness as far as he was concerned she could have been bald and he’d never have noticed—he was too busy admiring her ass.
And oh, what an ass it was.
Full, curvy and heart-shaped, it gently tested the strength of the seams of her roomy cutoffs and accentuated what he could tell even from this distance was a small waist.
She flicked a weed off to her side where a growing pile accumulated on the lawn. “Oh, you naughty boy,” she said, her voice the perfect mixture of flirtatious and intimate. She laughed again, a long wanton giggle that too effectively conjured pImages** of twisted sheets and bare limbs, made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end and a hum of attraction vibrate his spine.
Who the hell was she talking to? Will wondered, trying to peer around her. He frowned, intrigued. Who was a naughty boy? He didn’t see any boy. She leaned back on her haunches, seemingly admiring her handiwork and he saw it then—the headset. In a moment of blind, dawning comprehension he realized what she was doing.
Or having, rather—phone sex.
Right here in 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