by Lisa Cach
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.
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.”
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.
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