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"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 i
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 pe
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.
Chapter Two
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."
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. I
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.