‘Call you? How?’ I answered. I couldn’t help but feel nervous, though I was determined not to show it. I really wanted to hold my own with this guy. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ I said. ‘I don’t have your number. And anyway, why should –’ ‘Liar,’ he cut in. There was a smile in his voice. ‘You’ve got my number. You one-four-seven-oned me, Beth. Don’t tell me you didn’t.’ ‘How do you know I did?’ I heard my question, mistrustful and wary, as if I suspected him of magic. ‘Because you’re not stupid,’ he said. His voice was deep and slow, so very sexy. ‘Well? Why didn’t you call me?’ ‘But you haven’t been home for –’ Shit. Fool. Think before you speak, Beth. ‘Ahh,’ he replied, knowing and smug. So now he knew I’d been keeping an eye on his movements. I tried to rescue myself: ‘Anyway, I don’t know you. Why would I call you? You could be anybody. Some headcase who gets off on flashing. Or . . . or a curtain fetishist. Or . .
