The Erotic Secrets of a French Maid (2 page)

In her vision of herself there was Present Emma: the woman she was now; and there was Super Emma: the woman she intended to become. Super Emma had her hair professionally trimmed once a month, her makeup subtly and flawlessly applied, her clothes chosen with conservatively arty taste, and she was involved with a cultured, intelligent, sophisticated man who treated her like the precious flower she occasionally wanted to pretend to be.

"I'm sorry about the smell," Russ said, jostling Emma out of her reverie. They were in the master bath.

"It's bad, I know." He was swiftly tossing soggy clothes off the top of the hamper into a laundry basket.

Emma wrinkled her nose as the odor of old sweat hit her nostrils, reminding her of high school gym. "I assume you'll want me to wash those."

"These?

Hell, no." His intimidating air was replaced by embarrassment. "I don't expect you to touch these."

Emma moved closer, curious. "What happened to them?"

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"Nothing. They're my Puck Skins."

"What?"

"Long underwear for ice hockey. And my towels and stuff. I know they're horrible; don't touch them."

"You play hockey?"

He pulled a towel off a bar and spread it over the top of the laundry basket. "In an adult amateur league.

It's a good workout."

Emma looked again at his nicely rounded ass. "I'll bet it is."

Maybe Russ Carrick's life wasn't so unbalanced after all, if he made time for sports. But she wouldn't have guessed that someone like him would play
ice hockey;
wasn't that for jocks?

And what was with the embarrassment over his sweaty gear?

Emma followed him through the rest of the house, growing intrigued with her new employer. She didn't see any signs of a woman, or of a male lover either, if that was where his interests lay—although she doubted it. There was no extra toothbrush, no signs of cooking meals for someone, no photo of the happy couple, no special effort to make the home inviting for a romantic visitor. No package of condoms on the patio furniture nightstand, and only one pillow on the bed, the others thrown into a pile on the floor. That, more than anything, confirmed that Russell Carrick was alone in this romantic world.

Maybe he didn't want to add the distraction of a woman into his busy life. A few minutes in the shower every morning and his needs could be met by Mr. Hand.

Or maybe his standards were too high. From his comments to his friend Kevin, it didn't sound like he had an overwhelmingly positive view of women.

Maybe he had loved and lost. Or loved and been royally screwed over. Divorced, and still not over the pain?

"Any questions?" he asked abruptly as they returned to their starting point in the foyer.

Dozens, but none she could ask.

Maybe he was single because women found him unapproachable. If it hadn't been for his reaction to his dirty Puck Skins, Emma would have wondered if the guy was capable of emotion.

"I can also pick up groceries for you or cook meals to be reheated later, if that's a service you're interested in," she offered on the spur of the moment, inspired by his barren kitchen.

"Is that by the hour?"

"Either that, or we could work out a flat weekly rate," she improvised. She didn't shop or cook for anyone else; hadn't even suggested it. But suddenly, looking at Russ and his empty house and empty kitchen, she wanted to be there for longer than it took to scrub out a shower and vacuum. ,
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Besides, she'd rather grocery shop and cook than clean. If he went for it, she might be able to drop one or two of her other houses.

He stared out the windows on the other side of the house, contemplating the offer. Doubtless he was doing an in-depth cost-benefits analysis.

It must be his intensity that she found attractive— besides that skater's butt and the hazel eyes. He didn't seem angry or bad tempered so much as extremely focused. He was probably difficult to work for, demanding perfection yet unwilling to repeat or expand upon directions.

He badly needed a woman in his life. Someone to draw out his softer side, his emotional side, and nurture it.

"You're a decent cook?" he asked.

"My mother trained me from the time I was old enough to hold a spoon. Do you have any favorite foods?"

"Anything hot."

"Temperature, or spiciness?"

"Both," he said with laconic precision. "I'll think about your offer and leave you a note on the kitchen counter with my answer, the next time you come."

"Okay. No pressure, I was just offering."

"Of course there's no pressure. I never do things I don't want to."

"Well, all right, then." Emma was suddenly anxious for him to leave, her offer to cook hanging in the air like an unwelcome sexual advance. "I think I can take it from here, if you want to get going."

He flicked a look at his watch. "Not want to, but need to." He took his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it, taking out three fifties and handing them to her. "This is your rate, isn't it?"

Emma found taking the money the hardest part of the job, and fought to keep a professional smile on her face. She wanted the money. She needed the money. She didn't know what it was inside her that didn't want to take cash directly from someone's hand.

Undoubtedly it was more of that pride that her grandmother had scolded her for.

"Thanks," she said stiffly, stuffing the bills in her back pocket. "You can leave it on the kitchen counter for me in the future. Here's my contact info," she said, handing him a business card printed off her computer. "I can send you a weekly or monthly invoice if you'd prefer."

He raised a brow. "Invoices are paper trails. You report all your income to the IRS?"

"Yes." She shrugged. "My friends say I shouldn't, that it would make financial sense to cheat a little, and I'd never be caught, but..."

He cocked his head slightly, looking at her. "But you aren't going to sell your soul for a couple bucks."

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She smiled. "I'd prefer it to go for a much higher price."

"Like what?"

Like a toehold at a top architecture firm, if someone dangled such a temptation before her. "I haven't yet heard an offer that would tempt me." Her gaze unexpectedly locked with his. Silence pulled between them, and Emma felt a sudden panic thumping at her heart.

"Well, I—" He stepped back.

"You've got—" she said at the same time, the both of them speaking over each other,"—to get going,"

Emma finished.

"Yes." He pulled a card out of his own wallet and gave it to her. "My cell number is on here. Call me if you have any questions."

"Okay. Thanks."

"It was good to meet you," he said, holding out his hand. "I hope this works out well for us both."

"Yes, me too," Emma said, gingerly taking his hand. She felt the slight roughness of his palm slide along her own. His hand closed around hers and an image came to mind of him cupping his hand someplace much lower and more intimate. Liquid warmth ran through her thighs and her inner muscles clenched, her eyes slowly closing.

Oh, Lord.

He'd better leave before she pushed down her jeans and demanded that he
take her, now!

Then his hand released hers and he moved away, heading toward the kitchen and the door to the garage.

Emma went back out the front door to fetch her things and to watch as the garage door rose and his black car silently pulled out, no sound of a motor detectable.

A hybrid. He drove an electric hybrid. Not just any hybrid, though: it was a Lexus GS 450h, and a pretty penny it must have cost. It was a fitting, eco-chic choice for a software millionaire in the Pacific Northwest, this most environmentally aware of regions.

Russ Carrick must want to attract women who knew which plastics could be put in the recycling bin. Or maybe he didn't give a soybean curd for what other people thought. She'd bet on the latter.

Emma waved good-bye, and a shadowy movement suggested he might be waving back. Then he was gone and she was alone with his empty, unlived-in house and her cleaning supplies.

They've moved the conference call to two o'clock this afternoon," Kevin said as Russ came in.

"Did they give a reason?"

Kevin shrugged. "They said they weren't ready, and one of the VPs had a family emergency and wasn't in yet."

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Russ sighed and headed for his glass-walled office. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the ship canal that joined Elliot Bay to Lake Union and Lake Washington. Programmers on the other side of the building had views of the side streets of the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle, a once-funky area that was quickly becoming trendy. The yearly solstice parade with its naked bicyclists still pedaled on, but the neighborhood didn't have the comfortable eccentricity it had before the overpriced clothing boutiques and upscale coffee shops and bistros had moved in.

He often felt like the same thing was happening to himself and the company he and his brother, James, had started together. Once freewheeling and creative, they had struggled to stay in the software race and build a company of their own, where they would be no one's employee. They'd started an online used bookstore and developed software to inventory and link used bookstores across the country. The bookstore had failed, but the software they created for it had been the genesis of TrackingTech, the company that now specialized in software for inventory tracking and distribution.

Their struggle had brought them to where Russ was now: primary shareholder and chief executive officer of a profitable company that was set to make an exponential leap in growth. Innovative programming was left to others, while Russ evolved into a businessman courting the favor of pharmaceutical companies, discount retailers, and grocery stores.

He and his brother had been as successful as they'd ever wished—and then nine months ago James had been killed at the age of thirty-eight. A drunk driver crossing the center line of traffic had hit James's car head-on. Russ, his sister, Pamela, their parents and their extended family, and James's legions of friends had had their hearts ripped out.

Pamela had reacted by becoming overprotective of her one remaining sibling. Thus her hiring of Emma for him, even though he didn't need a housekeeper. He'd only agreed because he understood how badly Pam needed to take care of him—as if having a spotless kitchen and ironed sheets could keep him from meeting an untimely end.

For Russ, the zest had gone out of life. He pursued business with automated determination, knowing that it couldn't fill the space left by James and yet not knowing what else to do. There were long afternoons when he stared out the office window at the boats passing through the canal and felt a longing for the early days with James, when he and his brother had both been naked solstice bike riders, if only metaphorically. The days when there had been nothing between them and a crash to the asphalt, but they knew they could rely on each other. There had been the sweet rush of cool freedom against their skin and a sense of endless possibility in the road ahead.

Now the future was blank, its shapes and possibilities lost or unknown. It was the undrawn portion of the map where the monsters lurked, and he had lost his navigator.

Kevin popped his head in the open doorway. "Hey, can I have your housekeeper's phone number?"

"You want someone to clean your house?"

"I want to ask her out." Kevin entered the office. "Do you think she'd say yes? She implied I'm not a bad catch."

"I don't want you dating my housekeeper." It was a knee-jerk reaction, something inside him rejecting the notion of Kevin laying his hands on Emma Mayson.

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"Why not?"

Russ tried to think of a rational reason. "She's going to be going through my private stuff," he said, making it up as he went along. "It's not as if she signed a confidentiality agreement."

"You're afraid she'll spill secrets about you? Like what, that you leave towels on the bathroom floor?

You don't have any secrets. Come on, give me her number."

"I'd rather you didn't get involved with her."

Kevin stared at him, and then his
eyes
widened. "Oh ho ho! You want her yourself1."

Russ scowled. "No, I don't."

"I don't blame you: she's hot. And bubbly. Who'd pass up hot and bubbly?"

"She's not a meat pie. And / would pass her up. Did you see that car of hers?" Russ said, trying to scare Kevin off. "Are you sure you could handle a woman who drove a car built for street racing? She's probably got bigger balls than either of us. Not exactly the take-home-to-Mama type."

A flicker of doubt passed over Kevin's face. "She seemed nice."

"She probably has a boyfriend in prison and three kids at home."

Kevin stared at him; then his natural ebullience resurfaced. "Yeah, right! Just give me her number and I'll ask her."

"Kevin. She's my employee, and she must be ten years younger than either of us. Leave her alone."

"I wouldn't mind playing sugar daddy."

Russ laughed. "I can't quite see you in that role."

"I can be a jerk if I try hard enough. And I'm sick of losing women to assholes."

Well, hell, Kevin would have better luck if he stopped getting involved with women recovering from breakups with assholes. They used his kind-hearted friend for sympathy and confidence-building; then when they felt strong again they went back to the jerks.

Maybe someone as seemingly normal as Emma would be good for Kevin, despite Russ's gut rejection of the idea. "I wouldn't feel right giving out Emma's number without her permission. I'll ask her if I can give it to you. How's that?"