The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

'The sin of knowledge? A bit old school, don't you think?'

'I don't want you to be ashamed, afterwards.'

'Will you think badly of me, if I become your mistress?'

Would he think less of her if she went through with it? If she were his age or looking for marriage, then he might. But Emma had other things on her mind than relationships. From what little he knew of her, she wouldn't be doing this unless it made practical and moral sense to her.

He laughed as he realized what his answer to her question was. 'If you go through with it, tomorrow I'll wonder if it's all been real.'

She raised a brow. 'Will I be a toy to you? A sex toy in a very large toy box?' She gestured to the apartment.

'Not a toy. A toy implies mastery by another. I think pagan goddess' would be the better description. A goddess bestowing gifts upon the incredibly fortunate.'

She smiled and came close enough for her lips to brush his. 'I can live with that.'

He was suddenly sure that he could, too. Oh God, yes, he could. He put his hand on her hip and began to close the scant distance.

The buzz of the oven timer cut between them. 'Oh good, there's the lamb!' she said, hopping away from him and grabbing her oven mitts.

'Hurrah,' he muttered. Walking was becoming difficult for him now, as well. He moved to the other side of the breakfast bar, where his lower half would be out of sight.

He watched her lift the pan out of the oven. She glanced up at him and smiled, and for the first time in his life he seriously wondered if he should start looking for a wife. There was something deeply appealing about a woman cooking for you. Though this was only a business arrangement, it was easy to forget that fact when Emma smiled at him, when she seemed to take such care and delight in the meal she had made.

'Do you want to help?' she asked.

'Sure. What do you need me to do?'

'You could finish setting the table. I took out dishes for two settings, if that's okay.'

He looked at her in puzzlement.

'I wasn't sure that you'd want me to eat with you, or if this was supposed to be more like a restaurant experience.'

'Two places is what I expected,' he said, although he hadn't given it a thought before this moment. He couldn't swallow a bite if she was hovering in the background, watching.

'Good! I'm starving.'

He went to work on the table. As he was finishing up she hobbled up to join him, carrying two plates of salad. He went back and got the wine, returning to find her lighting candles. It was a much more romantic setting than he had anticipated, and he was glad for it. It gave the illusion that they were both here because they wanted to be.

And wasn't that true anyway?

Emma stood in her awkward bird pose beside the table, gesturing toward a chair. 'Sit. Please.'

He moved past her and pulled out the other chair for her. 'Please,' he said. She might soon be his mistress, but that didn't mean he couldn't be a gentleman about it.

She ducked her head shyly and sat as he pushed in the chair.

'Your leg is still bothering you,' he said.

'It'll go away, don't worry.'

'Are you sure?'

'Oh, yes.'

He took his own seat, still doubtful. 'Do you need me to massage it?'

The suggestion made her eyes go wide. 'No! No, really, there's no need to bother.'

'I have strong hands: I could take care of it in a flash. It'll be gone before you know it.'

She grimaced. 'I doubt that. Trust me, it's going to be fine. Let's have our salads, shall we?'

He let it go, turning his attention to his plate. It was mixed baby greens with thin slices of pear, crumbled gorgon-zola, and candied pecans. He'd had something similar in a restaurant, and Emma's version was just as good. 'This is delicious.'

'Thanks.'

After this scintillating start, conversation lagged. Russ racked his brain to come up with something that might be of interest to a twenty-six-year-old woman.

Twenty-six-year-old? He couldn't come up with anything to say to a woman, period. His life revolved around work, hockey, a bit of charity fund-raising, and sitting in his re-cliner reading the paper. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything significantly different. He used to have hobbies: he used to play classical guitar; used to play a mean game of backgammon; used to camp and hike and had backpacked around Europe and southeast Asia for six months; he even used to dink around in his wood shop, making bad furniture.

Emma made a little noise in her throat, and he realized that the silence had gone for much longer than it should have. 'Shall I put on some music?' she asked.

'Sure.' Anything to fill up the silence. It would probably be teeny bopper music that he'd never heard. Just as long as it wasn't rap or hip-hop.

When she'd chosen a few disks and pressed play, though, Dean Martin's 'Sway' came out of the small speakers.

He laughed. 'This is way before my generation. I hope you don't think I'm that old!'

'Stop with the 'old' stuff, will you?' she said, sitting down again. 'You're in your freakin' thirties. Big deal.'

'I stand corrected.'

'Good.' She smiled. 'And I happen to like old standards, and this song in particular.'

'It's a great song.'

'My mother used to play it and dance 'round the living room with our pomeranian in her arms. I'm not sure the dog thought much of the experience. It was a terrible dog; peed on everything.'

'So your mother loves Dean Martin?'

'She says it was 'their' song, hers and my dad's. He died when I was nine.'

'I'm so sorry.' He imagined her mother dancing around the living room with the lapdog in her arms, swaying to the voice of Dean Martin as she longed for her husband. The image cut to that part of him that still grieved for James, and he felt his throat tighten. 'So sorry.'

Emma shrugged, her smile sad. 'Life's full of surprises.'

'How's your mother now?'

'She remarried a few years ago and lives in the Midwest now. She's happy.'

'It must have been hard for you, losing him at such a young age.'

'It was bewildering. Frightening. Mostly I remember the feeling of chaos; that all normality had been destroyed. I was afraid we'd have to move.'

'Did you?'

'No. Grandma came to live with us. She somehow made us all feel safe; that things were going to be okay. And we were, mostly. My brother got into a lot of trouble at school and had a few wild years, but he turned out okay. He lives in Kirkland now, with his wife and baby daughter.'

'Is your grandmother still around?'

She shook her head. 'She died a couple years ago.'

'That's a lot of death to have experienced, for someone as young as you.'

'I think it helps me to appreciate the present. At least I tell myself it does. What about you? Have you lost anyone you cared about?'

'My brother. Six months ago.' He somehow managed to get the words out.

'What was his name?'

'James.' To his horror he felt tears start in his eyes. He cleared his throat. 'But this isn't pleasant dinner conversation. I think the lamb must be ready.'

She looked at him for a long moment with wordless understanding, got up and lightly touched the back of his