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The phone number is in his address book, with a name that isn't Neal Caffrey, and isn't even one of Neal's (known) aliases, except for how it apparently is.
"Hey. Miss me already?" There's a smile in the voice. Peter kind of wants to punch it, now that he knows.
"Hello, *Neal*," he says instead.
There's a very long silence at the other end of the line. Then: "How long have you known." It isn't even a question.
"Long enough." Not long enough, goddammit. He should have caught on sooner. "Tell me, was it fun seducing your FBI officer?" Not that it had taken much seducing; the man was charming in ways that somehow hadn't set off alarms in Peter's head, and really he'd been rather complicit.
"...*my* FBI officer? I like the sound of that."
Peter huffs. "You knew I was assigned to your case."
"I guessed. But that wasn't the only reason."
"Oh, it wasn't?" Peter glares at nothing in particular, since Neal isn't actually there to be glared at.
"You underestimate yourself," Neal says -- quite sincerely, even though Peter knows guys like him pull sincerity out of thin air. "The sex was great. And I really have come to care for you quite a bit."
"Oh, so you did this out of love." Peter can't resist the sarcasm, because damn it all to *hell* he shouldn't be believing a word of this. "Why don't you come over to my hotel room and turn yourself in? It'd be a nice gesture."
"Peter--"
"Yes?"
"I meant it," he says softly, and hangs up, and Peter knows the phone number won't ever reach him again.
"Yeah," Peter says just as softly, and glares at his phone.