Sorry, Wrong Number
Paranormal Romance, Empress LaBlaque
Tonight, I had a matchless measure of PMS and that blasted phone was now the enemy. When I opened the bathroom door, steam rushed toward the bedroom. Once I discovered the phone was not on its base, I searched through scattered clothing and tossed back my bedding. Cursing loudly, I tracked the maddening sound. Water trickled down my legs, trailed behind me, and soaked into the plush carpet.
The phone continued to ring and there was no doubt--I was totally pissed. As I tossed debris I gritted my teeth and searched for the source of the dreadful ringing phone. Couldn’t he at least give me one night off? This idiot had called for a solid week, and this time, Jorey was not going to be so polite.
Finally, I located the phone beneath the bed. I snatched up the phone and plopped down on the comforter. Without giving the guy a chance to speak I spoke first. “Look, Mister. You have called me every damn night this week. You are disturbing my rest! I told you--you had the wrong number.”
From the phone, a calm male’s voice said, “Believe me, I am sorry, but I simply must talk with you. Your name is Jorey, right? Jorey Jeffers.”
I gnashed my teeth. “Yes! My name is Jorey, Jeffers. I don’t know who you are and at this hour, I don’t care to know!”
“Ah, what a shame. I’m sorry to hear that.” The voice remained calm. “You do own the little café down on Compton and Third, right?”
Seething, I held the phone to my ear, stood up and impatiently paced beside the bed. “Of course I do.” As if poking the man in the chest, I pointed my finger and stabbed at the air. “I know your kind. You came in, saw me on the menu and now you’re stalking me, right?”
Although, I was angry enough to chew nails, I did notice that the voice seemed refined and well bred. His foreign accent was amazingly sexy. “Well, not really,” he haggled. “However, you can relax. I’m not a stalker. . . ”
I was not going to be swayed by a sensual male voice. After all, I was supposed to be pissed, right? “Look. I’m a very busy woman.” As if the guy was standing in my bedroom I pulled my robe together. “I don’t even know you and you’ve gotten off to a bad start, got that.”
The voice chuckled. “I’m sorry. I guess my methods for meeting you were a bit childish.” He paused briefly. “May I start all over and introduce myself properly?”
My hair was sopping wet. Droplets of water ran down the side of my face and moistened the phone. I blotted my ear with the damp towel. “Mister. You could try, but I’m a little annoyed with you right about now.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry,” he admitted sorrowfully.
I threw my hand into the air. “Well, you did.” Water started to stream down my neck and chest. “I was just about to lather my hair when you interrupted my personal ritual.”
The voice was crisp, rich and refreshing. “I’m sorry, Jorey. God forbid I interfere with the maintenance of that gorgeous red hair. Would you at least talk with me over the phone? That’s pretty safe, don’t you think?”
“That depends.” I walked toward the window, pulled the curtains apart and peered out the blinds. For all I knew this guy could be on a cell phone directly beneath my window. “I don’t know what you could possibly want. This is not 1 800-PhoneSex.” I tried to calm my nerves and rationalize with the man. “Look, this is none of your business, but I’m coming out of a really nasty relationship. I’m trying to mend—I need my space. You do understand, right?”
After I didn’t see a car parked near the curb, I closed the curtains and sat down on the side of the bed.
The voice took on an enduring tone. “You’re coming out of a dreadful relationship? I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. I’m too selfish.”
Replies