Asking For Trouble by Kristina Lloyd Read Free Book Online

rang.
    I flew to it, then paused, hand hovering above the receiver. It had to be him – anyone else was too much of a coincidence. Had to be. What would I say? Should I encourage him? Be offended? Insult him?
    Three and a half rings and the answerphone was about to kick in. I lifted the receiver, my throat dry, my heart going thud, thud, thud.
    ‘Hello?’ I sounded worried, like an old woman on the end of a 2 a.m. wrong number.
    ‘Beth. At last.’
    Gentle, husky, deep; as real as the voice on the tape. Except, this time, I didn’t know what came next; and I had to respond.
    I suppressed a ‘Who are you?/What do you want?’ because it was too Hollywood. But no other words came to mind and I was silent.
    He spoke: ‘Did you come? This afternoon, did you come?’
    My blood rushed. What was I getting into? I felt the buzz of fear, like watching
The Exorcist
or surging along the biggest big-dipper: seeking the pleasure of being scared stupid. Except with films and fairgrounds, you know you’re safe. You can see the borders, the end. I couldn’t.
    ‘Well?’ he urged. ‘Did you?’
    We’d made contact. It was sexual. This was the point where I backed down and told him to mind his own business, or I took the plunge.
    My voice was slightly hoarse when I spoke.
    ‘Yes, thanks,’ I said. Then, to make myself seem sexier and full of appetite, I added a lie: ‘Twice.’

Chapter Three
    ‘ WHY DIDN’T YOU call me?’ he asked.
    ‘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 . . . Who are you? What do you want?’
    Damn. I’d done the Hollywood cliché. Keep a cool head, Beth. Don’t let him frighten you.
    ‘Ilya,’ he replied. ‘Ilya Travis, if you think surnames matter.’
    I felt compelled to repeat his name. I liked it. So I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece and moved the receiver away. ‘Ilya,’ I said, very quietly. ‘Ilya.’ I liked the way my tongue undulated and pressed, then withdrew on the final ‘ya’, like I was licking his name into my mouth.
    ‘Is that foreign?’ I asked. Of course it is, shouted a voice inside my head.
    ‘Travis?’ he said. ‘No, it’s an ordinary Eng–’
    ‘You know what I mean,’ I replied, a little put out at his sarcasm.
    ‘Yeah, I do.’ There was a pause. I moved on to the sofa and lay back. The phone wire snaked across the floor. He obviously wasn’t keen to answer. His silence, his refusal to expand, unnerved me.
    ‘How do you know who I am?’ I asked.
    ‘Body Language,’ he said, his voice smiling again.
    Did he say that with capitals? Did he mean he knew me from my club? Or was he referring to me, to my body language? Perhaps I’d met him once, flirted a little but never got around to asking his name. Was he some kind of body-reading expert? Had he seen into my soul because I’d angled my head a certain way, crossed my legs just so? Jesus. Is that the kind of ‘knowing’ he was referring to – deep stuff rather than passport stuff?
    ‘There aren’t many B Bradshaws in the phone book,’ he said, breaking my