The Erotic Secrets of a French Maid (22 page)

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"Thank you," she whispered.

"What wouldn't I do to please you?" he asked softly, the words a question for himself as much as her.

"I wouldn't mind finding out," she said, and laughed.

Russ smiled, and felt his own cowardice. He had asked her what she wanted him to do to her body, but he hadn't had the nerve to ask her the more important question: What did she want from him when it came to her heart?

It was a question he likely would never have the chance to ask. It wouldn't be fair, when he was paying her; he wouldn't put her in the position of having to pretend to be in love with him in order to keep her

"job."

"Don't take too long," she said, patting his buttocks as she left the bathroom.

He watched her go, then looked at himself in the mirror. What had he become?

He was a permanent John, buying sex in lieu of the love that every man craved, whether he admitted it or not, whether he realized it or not.

He had become a man falling in love with the woman he had turned into a mistress. The woman he had, through his own actions, put beyond his reach for anything more than what was physical.

"Russ?" Emma called softly. "Are you coming back to bed?"

He turned away from the mirror and shut off the light, and returned to the soft comfort of Emma's body.

Emma cruised down the freeway, the stiff shocks of her Honda jouncing her with each rut and ripple in the road. She didn't care. Nor did she care about the red Porsche that seemed to find her car a direct challenge to its manhood, passing her with deliberate, finger-flipping speed.

She was lost in the memories of the night with Russ. Again she felt his hands on her inner thighs from behind, parting her, his fingertips reaching to her center to stroke her gently and then delicately parting her inner opening and laying the head of his rod against her. She felt him easing himself into her in slow, shallow thrusts, angled to hit her G-spot. She felt again his fingertip going where she'd least expected.

Her inner muscles clenched in memory of the orgasm that followed.

Even better had been the wash of relief that had flooded through her, as if she had set down an immense burden. No more holding back, no more putting her own desires secondary, no more keeping her wishes secret from him, as if asking him to touch her
here
or
there
was too big a demand. She had opened herself completely to him. She had surrendered to her own desires, confessing wishes she hadn't even known she had.

And it was glorious.

Euphoria shimmered through her body, the whole world golden and filled with possibility this morning.

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Her mind floated free, random images of Russ and the landscape around her filling her head.

As if from a source beyond herself, an image began to form in her mind, composed of the streaming sunlight and tall dark firs around her. Planes and angles appeared, mimicking where sky met water and water met the upward thrust of a rocky, fir-covered island. Graceful curves swirled through it, like the cupped sail of a boat, the beat of a bird's wing. They became ramps easy to drive upon, easy to walk upon. And at the bottom edge of this growing vision were the multiple hatched lines of sandpiper tracks on the sand, becoming train tracks cutting through the station.

Excitement coursed through her and she traced over the building that was forming shape in her mind, solidifying it in her memory, adding details to cement it into place. She captured it wall by ramp by window, ensuring that it would still be with her later.

This was it! This was finally it! A vision of pure imagination that would be the train station she would want to visit, that she would want to welcome people to her city, that would be her vision of Seattle and the region.

It would unquestionably be too expensive to build; probably impossible from a structural standpoint. It was completely impractical.

And she didn't care. It was what she wanted.
She,
Emma Mayson.

Ahead, the Porsche had zipped into the right-hand lane and been trapped behind a semitruck, a poky RV on its left locking it in fume-sucking position. Coming up behind the RV, Emma moved into the passing lane to get by. As she moved past the RV, a space opened up between the RV and the semi and the Porsche shot in front of the RV with barely a foot to spare, causing the RV to rock on its shocks as the driver overreacted in surprise.

What type of asshole was driving that penis car?

The red Porsche gave a single flash of the turn signal and pulled forward, barely enough to get ahead of Emma. The jerkwad was going to cut her off!

Before she knew it, Emma's hand found the red button to the nitrous system of the street-racing Honda and her rebellious thumb hit the button. A moment later she was on the space shuttle, rocketing forward in a roaring burst of speed that knocked her head back against the headrest. Her wild scream of glee echoed in her head, drowning out the motor.

The Porsche disappeared in her rearview mirror, and she screamed all the way to her exit, a mile later.

She drifted up the exit ramp to the light, the car now surprisingly docile in her control, as if it finally understood who was boss. A cool flush of receding adrenaline loosened her muscles.

She was still sitting in dreamy contentment at the light when something red moved up beside her. She turned her head and saw the Porsche in the lane on her left, waiting to go the opposite direction. Still buoyed by confidence, Emma rolled down her tinted window, letting the bastard who was driving see the girl who'd just whupped his ass.

As her window lowered, the driver of the penis car lowered his. With a smirk of satisfaction, Emma looked into the Porsche.

And saw a ponytailed blonde, not much older than her, who was looking at Emma with the same
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surprised embarrassment that Emma felt. They were women, behaving like asshole guys. In unison they turned away from each other, windows going back up to hide their shame.

Emma looked up at the light and willed it to turn green, fingers clenched on the steering wheel. When it finally did, the Honda and Porsche made their turns with ladylike decorum and headed off in opposite directions, well under the speed limit.

How many cloves of garlic?" Russ asked. "Three."

"They're worse to peel than onions. The skins keep sticking to my fingers." He held up hands covered in white shreds.

Emma laughed and took the clove from him. "I'll show you a trick." They'd started cooking together a month ago, after her creative breakthrough about the train station. She'd had only two weeks to put her idea on a foam poster board before the deadline. When Russ had seen how frantically she was working to get it done, he'd volunteered to do the cooking.

One awful meal was enough to persuade Emma that a better solution was to e-mail him a grocery list; then, when he arrived at the apartment with the food, to prepare the meal with him as her sous-chef. It would have been simpler to buy takeout, but she enjoyed working side by side with him.

Over the past month an easy familiarity had grown between them; a comfort that hadn't been there before that night at the hockey rink. It felt as if a few of the walls between them had been removed. They cuddled up on the futon couch to watch
The Daily Show
or
Letterman
together some nights, and on Fridays he stayed until dawn, his arm over her as they slept spooned together.

But they hadn't again gone out together in public.

Emma set the clove of garlic on the cutting board, put the flat of her chef's knife over it, and gave the blade a solid whack with the heel of her hand.

"Careful!" Russ warned.

"Look." She held up the clove, now fissured and easily rid of its skin.

Her cell phone started ringing before Russ could respond to her culinary feat. She looked over at the phone, her heart tripping.

Russ raised a brow, understanding in his eyes. "Are you going to answer?"

Emma wiped her hands on a dish towel and went to the phone. It was now two weeks since she'd turned in her design, and today was the day that the finalists in the train station contest were to be notified. She'd been waiting for a call all day, pacing her apartment and staring out the window.

She picked up the phone with a shaking hand and looked at the display.

"Is it them?" Russ asked.

"I don't know. I don't recognize the name or number." She flipped open the phone and put it to her ear.

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"Hello?" she croaked.

"Hello! This is Mavis Hunter from the City of Seattle's Planning and Development Office. I'm trying to reach Emma Mayson."

"This is she." Emma met Russ's eyes and nodded, her own eyes wide and her heart kerthumping in her chest.

"Ms. Mayson, I'm pleased to tell you that you are one of the ten finalists in the King Street Station design competition. Congratulations!"

An
"eep"
escaped Emma's throat and the phone slid out of her hand, landing on the floor. Emma followed it down, sinking gracelessly into a sprawled sitting position.

"Ms. Mayson? Ms. Mayson?" the voice called tinnily from the phone.

Emma looked up at Russ and blinked.
"Meeep!"

"Emma?" Russ said.

"Ms. Mayson?" the phone queried.

She managed a tight, fractional nod of her head.

"You got it?" Russ asked.

She nodded.

Russ scooped up the phone as he sat beside Emma and pulled her close. "Hi. Emma is too happy to speak at the moment, I'm afraid."

Emma heard the woman laugh and start talking again.

She reached for the phone and Russ gave it back. "I'm here!" she squeaked out. "I'm okay, I'm here!"

Mavis explained what would happen next and what Emma would need to do. Afraid that she wouldn't remember a word of it the moment she hung up the phone, Emma walked on her knees to her desk, reaching for a notepad and pen.

"Okay, so that was what time again?" Emma asked, writing down the information. When the call ended she closed the phone and looked up at Russ.

"You're a finalist?"

She smiled with her lips closed, the expression of happiness tentative, as if she couldn't quite believe it.

She was still too stunned to take it in and react with the joy she had expected.

Russ did it for her. "Emma, that's wonderful! Congratulations!" He pulled her up off the floor and embraced her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet and spinning in a circle.

She laughed, his enthusiasm taking her by surprise.

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He planted a big kiss on her cheek. "I'm so proud of you, honey."

The "honey" took her by surprise, too. He'd never used a pet name with her before. She met his eyes, wondering what it meant, but he didn't seem to know he'd said anything of significance. If it was significant.

"You're on your way, Emma! Someone has finally noticed your brilliance!"

"Hardly! I'm just a finalist," she said, self-doubt snaking into her nascent joy. "There were probably only ten entries."

"Don't discount your achievement. This means something, Emma. Be proud of it! We need to celebrate: I should go get a bottle of champagne."

"Sure. That would be nice," Emma said with little enthusiasm. When he'd said they should celebrate, she'd gotten a sudden image of them going out to dinner, maybe someplace elegant and celebratory like the ultraposh restaurant Canlis. "You wouldn't want to go out?" she asked tentatively.

"After peeling all that garlic? Dinner's already half-made! The fish won't keep, will it?"

She couldn't tell if he was genuinely concerned, or if it was a way to get out of going out in public with her. She had no right to expect him to take her out; that had never been part of their arrangement. She had to remember that they weren't in a real relationship. Which made it difficult to ask the favor she wanted to request now.

"The fish would keep, but you're right, dinner is half-made. I'll finish up if you want to run out for the champagne."

"Great!" He reached for his coat and then paused, watching her as she went into the kitchen and focused on chopping garlic, not looking his way. "This is okay with you, isn't it?"

She looked up at him and gave him a big smile. "Yes! Of course!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" She smiled too brightly, the corners of her mouth aching.

He frowned. "I want this to be special for you. Would you rather I stayed and helped with dinner? Or finished it myself? Why don't I do that, and you can sit and have a glass of wine."

He obviously had no idea of what she was thinking, and she wasn't going to enlighten him. But perhaps this would be as good a time as any to make another request. "There is a favor I wanted to ask you," she began tentatively.

He put down his coat and came toward her. He put his hands on her upper arms. "What is it, Emma?

You can ask me anything."

"Next Friday, there's a public event where all the finalists present their designs to the press and to the committee. It's semiformal—cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, that kind of thing. I'm allowed to bring a guest."

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He raised his brows.

"Would you ... I mean, can you ... ?"

"You want me to be your date?"

"Not date!" she said, although that was exactly what she had been hoping. If he wouldn't even take her out to dinner, though, he'd never appear with her at a big to-do like this. "Just as, I don't know, moral support. You must be comfortable with this type of event. You know how they go, whereas I have no clue, and I'm going to be a nervous wreck."