The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

doubt that she was given flowers. Jewels, likely. Clothes, even land. Aristocrats used to give their mistresses houses and land, didn't they?

His cellophane-wrapped Dutch irises from Pike Place Market suddenly looked inadequate.

But wait, the flowers were an apology for asking her to be his mistress, then recanting.

Weren't they?

He wished he had a beer.

He reached up and rang the bell.

Nothing happened. No footsteps, no replying voice. He knocked.

'I'm coming! One second!' she called, and then he heard a shrieking curse and a big thump.

'Emma?' he called in alarm.

She squeaked something he couldn't make out, then said, 'I'll be right there.'

More silence. More muffled cursing. Silence again.

'Emma?' he called carefully, imagining all sorts of mishaps. Maybe she'd hit her head and was disoriented. Maybe she'd cut herself. Maybe-

He heard her approach the door and then stop. A quiet fell in which he imagined he could hear her taking a breath. He stared at the wall of door, knowing she was there.

Then she opened the door.

She was gorgeous. Her fair skin was flushed pink, her rosy lips parted in a welcoming smile. Her brown eyes sparkled and her dark hair fell like mink around her shoulders. His gaze skimmed down her body, taking in the vee of her blouse and the barest hint of lacy bra showing at one edge. Her short, emerald green pleated skirt looked like something a naughty Irish schoolgirl might wear. Her legs and feet were bare, one leg cocked enticingly, the lack of shoes making her seem more accessible.

His mouth went dry. This beautiful young woman was going to take him to her bed tonight. He imagined those soft pink lips on his arousal, those bright dark eyes looking up at him as she took him into her mouth. Lust stirred within him, his sex hardening.

'This was a mistake,' he said, and thrust the flowers toward her.

'Nonsense! They're beautiful,' she said, taking the bouquet. She sniffed them. 'Thank you. Although I can't smell them over the roasting lamb.' She lowered the flowers to chest height and smiled at him. 'Come in, please. Dinner is almost ready.'

He followed her reluctantly, wanting to correct her about what the mistake had been, but he was distracted by both the delicious scent of roasting meat and Emma's odd hopping gait. 'Did you hurt yourself?'

'Just a temporary muscle tightness. Nothing to worry about!' She lurched into the kitchen.

He was going to ask again about her leg-it seemed a severe muscle issue-but was distracted by what she had done with his old place. The kitchen and living area were one room, divided only by a high breakfast bar. She had created a third space in the bay window at the front of the apartment by hanging panels of salvaged wood-framed windows from floor to ceiling, dividing the bay from the living area. She'd set up a dining area in that small glass- enclosed space, a tablecloth covering what looked like a card table. Two of the bay windows were open, bringing in the rustling of the leaves just outside them. It was surprisingly charming.

The living area had a futon couch, a desk with an elaborate array of computer equipment, a drafting table, and a bookshelf sagging with the weight of tomes. The only art on the walls was a series of black-and-white architectural photographs in lucite frames.

'These are fantastic pictures,' he said, pausing to admire the light and shadow in an arched gallery.

'Thanks. I took them.'

He turned, surprised. 'You're a photographer, too?'

She shrugged and took the cellophane off the irises and started trimming their stems. 'Not really. I only take them for myself, and they're only of things that I find beautiful. Patterns, mostly. Repetition. Symmetry. Angles and curves.'

'The mathematics of beauty.'

She looked up from filling a vase and smiled. 'Yes. Exactly. Most people don't get that; that there is math in both the visual arts and music.'

'You're talking to an engineer.'

She laughed. 'I guess that could explain it, but I've met plenty of math and science guys who lack an aesthetic sense. Look at the great flowers you chose: structural, and all one kind. I think it's the best way to display flowers.'

Flattered, he made a faint noise that might be construed as thanks.

'So!' she said brightly. 'Would you like to open the wine?' She put a bottle of red up on the breakfast bar, then bumped it when she reached up again to put down the corkscrew. She fumbled and just managed to catch it before it fell over, and before his own mad dash got him there. 'Oops! Sometimes I think I'm all thumbs,' she said, a quaver in her voice. She giggled, but not a happy giggle. More a verge-of-hysteria giggle.

He reached for the wine bottle and corkscrew and examined her surreptitiously as he went to work on the bottle.

Emma hopped about the small kitchen, prattling something about micro salad greens and vinegars, her hands moving as fast as birds' wings.

He pulled the cork and moved to her side of the breakfast bar, where the wineglasses were. He poured out two glasses, glad to see no cork bits, and paused to look at the wine label. It was a nice pi not noir from Oregon.

She bumped into him and bounced away, his closeness seeming to make her hummingbird nervousness go up a notch.

He reached out and touched her arm, to calm her, to tell her that she didn't have to do this. 'It's okay,' he said.

Her eyes went past him to the wine. 'Is it? I was hoping so. I'm afraid I don't know as much as I'd like to about wine. The woman at the wine shop down the block chose it for me.'

She snatched a glass and held it up. 'Here's to new adventures!'

He took a glass as well, but when she clinked her glass with his he didn't drink. 'Emma.'

She lowered her glass. He saw faint tremors in the surface of her wine, revealing the shaking of her hand. 'Yes?'

'You don't have to do this. We can stop right here. Forget the whole arrangement.'

Her eyebrows went up in concern. 'Stop? You've changed your mind? You don't want any of this?'

'It's not right.'

'But I made a stuffed leg of lamb. And dessert.' She looked helplessly around the kitchen, the signs of her efforts clear in the dirty bowls, pans, and utensils.

'We can still eat the dinner you made. Maybe even make a deal for you to cook at my house a couple times a week. But I don't want you to feel like you have to follow through on the rest.'

Some of the light left her eyes. She looked hurt. 'You don't want to sleep with me.'

'Yes! I do! But you're so nervous, I wanted to give you a chance to reconsider.' He was calling her nervous. Ha! What a joke! He was the one who was ready to die of nerves.

She set down her wineglass and played with its base, watching her own fingertips sliding around the circle of glass. Then she suddenly looked up, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. 'It's been a year and a half since I've had sex. They say it's like riding a bicycle and you never forget how, right? But that doesn't mean there isn't a part of me that's still a little nervous, no matter how much I'm looking forward to it.'

He was surprised and pleased by her admissions of having been celibate for so long and of wanting to sleep with him. 'It's been a while for me, too,' he said quietly.

'I've never done it with someone I wasn't in a long-term relationship with.' She stepped closer to him, bringing her mouth within inches of his own. 'And I've never been creative with it, before tonight. But it's good to try new things. To learn. Don't you think?'

He could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. 'Education is important.' He tried to give nobility one last chance. 'I don't want to corrupt you.'