The Erotic Secrets of a French Maid (19 page)

By the time she was finished introducing Daphne, more of Russ's teammates had emerged from the locker room and joined the group.

Emma tried to hide her shock. These guys were not guys; they were
men.

Russ, at thirty-six, could easily be taken for five years younger than his age. Many of his teammates looked like they were well past forty and running fast toward fifty. Bald and balding, graying and gray, faces with the lines of wear, and bodies with the thickened waists of middle age. None were unattractive, but they ail looked like people who would be friends with her mother, not with her. They were the guys who owned the repair shops and carpet stores; the ones who had filled your cavities since second grade and who came and fixed your refrigerator, and who tried to take a nap in the recliner while their kids wreaked havoc in the backyard.

They were adults, no matter how boyish they were acting now. She felt a floating sense of unreality, pretending that she fit in, in any way at all. She must appear a child to them.

"Hey, Russ, you played tonight like someone was watching, huh?" said a guy who introduced himself as Craig.

"Yeah, when was the last time you scored a goal?" Tom asked. "I don't even remember."

"Because I play right wing. I'm usually the one setting
you
up for goals."

"Two goals tonight!" Craig said, ignoring what he'd said to Tom. "You
definitely
knew someone was watching."

Emma turned wide-eyed to Russ, watching his reaction. There was a tensing in his jaw, and she wondered if it was embarrassment or anger. Had he really been showing off for her?

"You were a demon out there. Carrying the puck, making moves," Frank said, miming a skater on the ice. "You were
on.
You're never that aggressive, Buffy. Guess your balls knew Emma was in the stands and got woken up for once."

"Shut the hell up!"

Frank looked in pseudo-alarm at Emma and Daphne, his eyebrows high and mouth pursed. " 'Scuse the language!"

"Emma, Daphne, come with us to Harold's," Craig said.

"Harold's?" Emma asked.

"It's half a block away, a bar we all go to after the game to BS about how great we played."

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Russ put his hand on her arm. "Emma, you'd hate it. You don't have to go."

"Don't listen to him!" Frank said. "The place is harmless.

We're harmless." He gestured at himself and at the others. "Harmless!"

Emma raised a brow, amused by the joshing of the men and trying to hide the tension between her and Russ. "I doubt you're completely harmless," she said. "But Daphne and I will come if you promise us one thing"

"Yeah?"

She glanced at Russ. "You have to tell us why you call Russ 'Buffy.'"

"Done!" Frank looked at Russ. "Don't worry, I won't make you look too big an idiot. Just moderately big."

"Hey, thanks," Russ said dryly.

"It was during his first year playing here at Aurora," Frank explained. "He wasn't used to this crap rink and got his stick jammed between the boards. The stick stopped and he kept going. Nearly impaled himself on it, like a suicidal vampire. Broke—what?—three ribs, was it, Buffy?"

"One."

"Let's call it two. So some smartass called him Buffy, like that vampire slayer chick."

"
You
called me it," Russ said.

Frank sighed fondly. "My kids used to love that show."

As people started heading for the exit, Russ grabbed his gear and walked with Emma and Daphne, pushing open the door into the cool night air and holding it for them. They waited while he loaded his stuff into his car; then the three of them walked through the amber-lit parking lot and over toward Harold's.

Daphne drifted ahead a few steps.

"If you don't want me to go to Harold's, I won't," Emma said quietly.

"It's too late to change your mind. It would be worse if you left now."

"Do women usually come to Harold's?"

"Rarely. But don't let the guys intimidate you. They're mostly a good bunch, and the invitation is sincere.

While they wouldn't want wives and girlfriends to show up all the time, they do enjoy a periodic appearance."

They were quiet for a few steps; then Emma gathered the courage to ask, "Are you angry with me?"

She saw him glance ahead at Daphne, who surely was listening with an eager ear. "Now is hardly the time to discuss it."

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"I only meant to—"

"Hey, wait up!" someone called from behind them.

Damn.

She had the feeling this was going to be a very long evening.

Russ stood with his back against the bar and watched Emma and her friend at the table, surrounded by admirers. Daphne didn't seem to be having any problem with an evening at Harold's. She was three seats away from Emma, talking to the only guy as young as Russ. Bob also happened to be single, and Russ dreaded that no matter what happened between him and Emma, Daphne might worm her way into the haven of his hockey family.

Emma had been the one to insist the nature of their relationship be kept strictly confidential. Had she broken that vow with her friend? The possibility sent an angry unease through him. It would be disastrous if Daphne knew and leaked that piece of gossip to Bob, and thus to everyone in the league.

There was solidarity among the hockey players, and a general live-and-let-live philosophy, but the line was drawn at lousy treatment of women. One guy who had cheated on his wife and brought his girlfriend to an out-of-town tournament had never been invited again, and had been frankly told not to bring his piece to Harold's. He didn't get invited to barbecues and picnics; no one wanted him and his mistress at their Christmas party or housewarming.

Russ had never thought that he might set himself up for that same ostracism.

Emma sucked the last of her diet Pepsi from the big plastic cup, the gurgling suction of her straw in the dregs all but lost beneath the noise of the bar. She glanced up, meeting his eyes. She looked childlike in that moment, big-eyed over her empty soda, surrounded by men larger and older than herself. Was she feeling uncomfortable under her facade of ease?

Next to her, Greg finished sketching his master suite on a napkin and pushed it toward her, drawing her attention.

"So this is what my wife wants to do. She wants to move this wall here, bump out the outer wall, and get both a walk-in closet and a 'spa bathroom' out of it, whatever that is. I keep telling her it won't work, that the spaces will be too tight and it'll be too expensive."

Emma bit her upper lip and stared at the crude drawing. From listening to her talk about design, Russ knew that she was forming the three-dimensional space in her mind, imagining it from different angles, putting herself inside it in the artificial reality of her imagination. He knew it was a mental exercise that took a unique, complex gift of intelligence, and when she concentrated like that, her gaze turned inward to the creative visions in her head, he found himself intensely attracted to her.

She was dressed more casually tonight than he was now used to seeing her. She was in jeans and hooded sweatshirt, her dark silky hair loose, nothing about her garb deliberately provocative, although he found the sight of her ass in jeans to be plenty of provocation. It occurred to him that this visit might have been an impulse on her part. Maybe she'd been in the neighborhood with her friend, and dropped into the rink on the chance that he might be playing.

It was disconcerting to see her outside her apartment, with a friend. Of course he knew that she had a
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life beyond her time with him; he just hadn't seen any of it.

"Here, show your wife this," Emma said, grabbing another napkin and Greg's pen. She quickly sketched out her idea, explaining the details as she went. "It's a more efficient use of space and should be less expensive to build, yet it should give a greater feeling of openness and of that luxury she wants."

Greg raised his brows, looking over the finished product. "Damn. I didn't want you to show me a way it would be possible; I wanted you to tell me I should spend my money on a boat instead."

She shrugged. "Sorry."

Greg turned around and waved the napkin at him. "Did you see her draw this? We can't let her and Tina get together. I'll be living in a remodel for the next ten years if they do."

Emma grinned. "In ten years it will be time to start all over again."

Greg turned to Russ and said in a stage whisper, "Keep those two apart. Far, far apart!"

He intended to, for completely different reasons. "Emma, would you like another soda?" he asked.

She looked at her watch, stifling a yawn. "No, it's past midnight. We ought to get going." She pushed back from the table and stood.

He stepped closer to her. "I'll follow you back to your place."

"I have to drive Daphne to her car. I won't be home until nearly one o'clock, I'm sure."

"I don't care if you're not home until five. I'm coming over."

She looked at him wide-eyed and he knew she was expecting an ugly scene. He didn't know how to reassure her with words, not when he didn't know how he felt, and not when there were half a dozen of his fellow players within earshot. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed her hand and, out of sight of the others, squeezed it firmly. "I'll see you both to your car. It's not the type of neighborhood you should be walking around in on your own."

Emma nodded and pried Daphne away from her prey.

Greg got up at the same time. "I should have been home an hour ago," he said. "Tina will have my hide.

I'll walk with you."

When Emma and Daphne were safely away in Emma's car, Greg put his arm over Russ's shoulder.

"Now that, my fellow, was a sweet girl. Smart, too. You know I'm going to have to hurt you if you treat her badly."

"Does that mean I should keep seeing her, or break it off?" Russ replied.

Greg shoved the back of his head and headed for his own car. "She's a keeper, if you ask me. And I saw the way she looked at you."

"How did she look at me?"

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"How do you think, you idiot?" Greg got in his car, slamming the door and leaving Russ to figure it out for himself.

What were you thinking?" The words greeted her as she walked through the door to her apartment.

Russ was already inside, which didn't surprise her since she had dawdled on her return here, dreading facing him.

"I wanted to see you play," she said, setting her purse down on the end of the breakfast bar. He was standing in the center of her living area, hands on hips.

"Why?"

She shrugged, trying to think of an excuse. The last thing she would tell him that her interest in him was growing well beyond the sexual. "Curiosity. I don't know anything about hockey except what you've told me."

"You could have looked it up online or bought a book. Why did you come to my game? I didn't even mention it to you."

"But you play the same place every week. Your team's schedule is on the Internet."

His eyes widened slightly. "You looked it up?"

"I was curious, that's all! I wanted to see you play, and I didn't think you'd want me to watch. My intention was that you not see me at all. How was I to know that no one else watches the games, and Daphne and I would stick out like palm trees on the polar ice cap?"

"So you planned to conceal it from me."

Her apprehensions of the evening slipped over into anger and she raised her voice. "I didn't
plan
to do anything! And what's the big deal, anyway? Huh? You sleep with me three times a week; it doesn't seem such a crime that I want to learn a little bit more about you!"

"Is

that what you want? To know more about me?"

"It feels like you know all there is to know about me, but you give me precious little insight into your own life."

"I've shared more with you than I have with anyone in the past five years."

She tucked in her chin, taken aback. She hadn't expected that. "Are you serious?"

"It's not something I'd lie about."

She frowned, trying to figure him out. "Why me? Why tell me so much?"

"Maybe because you tell me so little."

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"What are you talking about?" she asked, stunned. "You know everything."

"I don't know how to please you in bed."

The statement took the breath from her, guilt sweeping over her. "I'm happy with how you treat me in bed."

He shook his head. "You know what I'm talking about, Emma. You won't let me give to you the same pleasure that you give to me. Why?"

"Because this isn't about me. This whole relationship is about pleasing you. That's my job."

"Maybe I don't want to feel like you're doing me as your job."

"You seemed happy enough!"

"Even a kid will get sick of candy eventually and want something real to eat."

She felt stricken. "You're sick of me?"

He came forward and held her by the shoulders. "I'm not sick of you. Nor am I some stereotyped horndog who cares only about himself. I want to make love to the real Emma, not a French servant girl or a harem wench. Not even to someone whose mind is elsewhere, and whose only goal is to get me off.

There is pleasure in giving pleasure: pleasure in knowing that you've touched a place deep inside a person; that she's trusted you with her secret desires, and felt safe enough to lose control in your arms.

You've deprived me of that—whether by design or ignorance or fear, I don't know. But without it, we can't go on."