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1-900-Lover (Harlequin Blaze Series #158)
     

1-900-Lover (Harlequin Blaze Series #158)

4.2 7
by Rhonda Nelson
 

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When high school teacher Rowan Crosswhite finds herself out of a job, she comes up with an ingenious way to make ends meet—she installs her own phone sex line. Only, when Will Foster dials her number, Rowan is the one who ends up getting all worked up....

Will Foster can't believe that a woman as sexy as Rowan has to resort to giving phone sex to

Overview

When high school teacher Rowan Crosswhite finds herself out of a job, she comes up with an ingenious way to make ends meet—she installs her own phone sex line. Only, when Will Foster dials her number, Rowan is the one who ends up getting all worked up....

Will Foster can't believe that a woman as sexy as Rowan has to resort to giving phone sex to strangers...especially when he wants her to give it to him instead! And once she does, it doesn't take long to convince her that burning up the sheets is better than burning up the phone lines. Still, Rowan is fiercely independent and will give up the job only when she's ready. So what else can Will do but make sure Rowan is too "busy" to answer her phone...?

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780373791620
Publisher:
Harlequin
Publication date:
11/01/2004
Series:
Harlequin Blaze Series , #158
Pages:
256
Product dimensions:
4.32(w) x 6.72(h) x 0.72(d)

Read an Excerpt

1-900-Lover


By Rhonda Nelson

Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.

Copyright © 2004 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-373-79162-3


Chapter One

"WHAT AM I WEARING?" Rowan Crosswhite echoed into the phone, her voice artfully pitched to a breathy sultry purr. Grimacing, she used the hem of her T-shirt and her frayed denim cutoffs to clean the majority of the potting soil from her hands, then took up her watering can. "I'm wearing a black leather bustier, fishnet hose and stiletto heels."

The fabricated description lacked originality, yes, but thus far in her experience in the phone sex business, she'd learned that any imaginative effort she put into her descriptions wasn't appreciated. So why bother?

When Rowan had first considered selling phone sex, she'd worried about being appropriately creative, about fabricating a believable performance for the men who dialed her number. She'd even called a couple of 1-900 numbers for research purposes because being prepared was the keystone to any successful venture, and her near-manic obsession with doing everything to the absolute best of her ability - even something as seedy as being a phone sex operator - had prevented her from doing otherwise.

The research had been a wasted effort and she'd worried needlessly about conjuring a suitable performance. In fact, ironically, she'd learned the less said the better. Rowan rolled her eyes. Hell, all shereally had to do was gasp, wince and moan - easy to do, particularly when one was, say, cleaning the toilet or weeding a flower bed - and the guys, thank God, took care of the rest. One of the many advantages of phone sex. And, surprisingly, there were many. First of all - most importantly - it was safe. There was no risk of abuse or disease, and if a guy freaked her out, all she had to do was sever the connection and block the number. She mentally shrugged. Simple enough. Furthermore, and equally important given her recent unfortunate circumstances, it was lucrative. At $3.99 a minute, where the average call hovered around the twelve-minute mark, that was roughly $240 an hour. Her lips twitched. Considerably more than her previous job as a high-school science teacher.

Just a year shy of tenure, Rowan had been one of the unlucky souls left unemployed by deep state budget cuts. Her boss at Middleton High had promised that as soon as the funds were available, she'd be under contract again.

Regrettably, until then, more panting, moaning and wincing would be in order - and the more dramatic the better - otherwise she'd ultimately starve and, much to the detriment of her heavily padded thighs, she liked food entirely too much to go hungry.

Since she'd been paying off student loans and attending night school to get her master's degree, Rowan had been caught with a grand total of $633 in savings, even less in checking and nothing - aside from a 1962 Chevrolet Corvette that had belonged to her father, and for which she would prostitute herself in the literal sense to keep if need be - of any value to sell.

She did substitute teaching when she could, but that income hadn't been enough, or even dependable, for that matter. Then she'd read an article about a woman who, in similar circumstances, had morphed herself into a phone sex entrepreneur, and the rest had been history. She'd weighed the advantages and disadvantages, deemed it a good temporary choice, then installed her line and invested in a good mobile headset.

This freed up her hands and allowed her to do the things that she really loved - gardening, stained glass and metal-working. Tinkering, according to her father. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. Initially, she'd tried to make ends meet by selling her garden art, but unfortunately - and this thoroughly baffled her - no one seemed to get her style. Rowan cast a glance around her eclectic garden - whimsical metalwork, stained-glass whirligigs, antique roses, bulbs and vines - and swallowed a despondent sigh. Screw 'em, she thought, the tasteless traditional cads. She was an artiste. Her garden thrived and made her happy, which when one really thought about it, was all that mattered anyway.

A stuttered breath hissed across the line, cut through her musings. "Wh - what about your panties? What do they look like?"

Rowan glanced at her watch. She'd had this guy on the phone for eight minutes. Time to finish up. She had some impatiens to transplant, and her roses were looking a little droopy.

"I don't wear panties," she lied breathlessly.

"They ... constrict."

Predictably, the line worked. A garbled groan and the telltale whine of a zipper echoed into her ear.

She lowered her voice. "Can I tell you a secret, Jeff?" she asked, purposely using his name. It played into the whole say-my-name, who's-your- daddy mentality. Sheesh. Men were pathetically predictable.

"S-sure."

"Sometimes ... when I'm alone ... I like to touch myself." She barely suppressed a snigger. Rowan Crosswhite, former high-school science teacher turned kinky phone sex queen.

Another broken hiss sounded. "Are you - Are you touching yourself now?"

"Oh, I want to, Jeff. Do you want me to?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"Then I should probably lie down." Rowan affected a dramatic wince. "My sheets are cool ... especially since I'm so hot." That wasn't a complete lie. It was hot. And humid, she thought pulling her tank top away from her chest, a vain effort to circulate a little air beneath her shirt.

A harsh breath stuttered across the line. "How hot are you?"

"I'm on fire, Jeff. I'm imagining that you're touching me. Can I touch you?"

"Yes."

(Continues...)



Excerpted from 1-900-Lover by Rhonda Nelson Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Rhonda can't remember when she hasn't had her nose buried in a book, and most likely, her husband can't, either. Though she took several creative writing courses in college, she never considered a career in writing until her mother pointed out—as mothers are everlastingly wont to do—that she should give it a try. Thus, after giving up her dream of becoming an intergalactic princess or a mermaid—it was a toss-up because both are so cool—an author was born! (Thank you, Momma.)

Rhonda married her very own hero many moons ago, and she and her family make their home in a small town in northern Alabama. Between volunteering at her children's school (she's practicing a new word called "no") and the typical glamorous duties of a domestic goddess (does it ever end?), she escapes into her office where it's safe to talk to the voices in her head, to tell their stories, and hopefully to entertain her readers. If you like a little giggle amid the sizzle, then her books just might be for you.

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1-900-Lover (Harlequin Blaze Series #158) 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I've read better. Not a terribly exciting plot or anything else.
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harstan More than 1 year ago
Rowan Crosswhite loses her high school science teaching position due to funding cutbacks. To eat, she desperately tries to bring in income beyond substituting by opening up a 900 sex phone line. She finds working weeds in her garden while exciting customers helps her get through the detestable job.......................... Will Foster, owner of Foster¿s landscape Design, is outraged to find six calls adding up to $1000 on his monthly phone bill. He knows his seventeen years old nephew Scott made the call, but decides to confront the owner of 1-900-Lover for having phone sex with a minor. A friend gets Rowan¿s name and number for him. Will visits with hostile intent until he sees how cute her butt looks. When she runs the tape of her calls with Scott, he realizes she helped him with his science homework. Will likes what she has done with her garden and offers her a consulting fee with a testy customer. As they fall in love, Will wants Rowan to hang up on the phone so that she will only have sex with him on the sheets............................... This reviewer found it difficult to accept a science teacher not only needing to find work when that discipline is always in demand but also taking a phone sex position. Still the lead couple pairs nicely although the real conflict ends early once Will hears the first tape. As readers root for Rowan to have sex only with Will, fans also will wonder if Scott can figure out who is the beautiful woman his uncle is madly in love with and visa versa............................ Harriet Klausner