The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

'Yes. If you wouldn't mind? And if, you know, you wouldn't mind being out in public with me.'

'Why should going out in public be a problem for me?' he asked, emphasizing the last word.

What did he mean by that? 'I know this is going beyond the bounds of our agreement,' she said, 'and I don't mean to impose. If anyone asks, you can just say you're my friend. That's true enough, isn't it?'

His expression was unreadable. 'True enough. I'm surprised you wouldn't rather take one of your friends. There wouldn't be any hidden undertones with them.'

Was he upset? He certainly wasn't delighted by her invitation. 'I'll feel less like an outsider with you there,' she said, smiling, trying to make it sound like a compliment. 'With Daphne, I'd feel like we were teenagers at a dance, afraid to leave each other's side.'

A muscle in his jaw worked. She waited, afraid to say anything more, and then he said, 'All right. I'll go.'

'Thank you.'

He didn't seem excited by it, whereas she couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have at her side. He was so supportive of her, and seemed genuinely proud of her accomplishment. However nervous she got when it was time to present her design, she wouldn't be alone. It wouldn't matter if she did well or flubbed up, because either way, he would be there to put his arm around her shoulders when she was finished, to kiss her and tell her 'Well done.'

At least, that's what she'd thought. Judging from his reaction, it seemed he thought he'd been drafted for a distasteful tour of social duty.

He went to buy the champagne and she finished preparing the meal, but an hour later when they popped the cork and filled their glasses for a toast, Emma felt that the mood had been lost. She felt as if a small distance had opened between them, and she didn't know how to bring them back to where they had been.

They were nibbling at their dessert of seasonal berries in Moscato when she said, 'Maybe I shouldn't have asked you to come with me.'

He looked at her, his brows raised slightly in question, and waited for her to continue.

'I mean, that type of thing, that's not what we're about.'

'No,' he said after a long moment. 'It's not.'

'So I'm sorry I imposed on you like that. It's like the hockey thing-I sometimes forget the limits.'

'You'd rather I didn't go, then?'

'I'd love for you to come. But only if you're comfortable.'

'If it will help you, then I'd love to come.'

Where had all this awkwardness come from? They were talking to each other like strangers, and a small sadness opened up inside Emma. She sensed that she was now on the cusp of a change in her Hfe, and she didn't know if her relationship with Russ would survive it. Their being together had only been to meet present needs, nothing more.

Now her needs were about to change.

They were both subdued the rest of the evening, although Emma tried to talk with enthusiasm about the upcoming event. Every word she said, though, seemed to drain their energy further. The sex was perfunctory, though physically satisfying. Russ left earlier than usual, claiming an early morning meeting, and then Emma was alone again in her apartment.

His apartment, she corrected herself as she tidied up the kitchen. Would she want to stay here if she no longer had Russ in her life? No, it would be too painful, not to mention awkward.

She looked at the room, with her make-do college furniture and cheaply done efforts at comfort and hominess. She'd made the best of what she had, and had begun to think of it as home, as her own space. With the phone call tonight, though, she felt the first hint of disengagement.

Realistically, her chances of winning the contest were slim to none. But being a finalist meant her chances of getting a job had just gone up. And perhaps even more important, she'd found confidence in her own talents and had that confidence validated by others. The Emma who went to interviews now would be a far different creature from the one who'd gone in a month ago. She would be Super Emma, the Emma of her own dreams for herself.

Super Emma wouldn't need or want to be a man's paid mistress, however much she was coming to adore that man. Super Emma would pay her own rent.

A tingle at the end of her nose and a stinging in her eyes warned of the loss that was soon to come. She couldn't ever tell anyone the agreement she and Russ had had; they'd never understand. And she'd also have to keep secret how much she had enjoyed her role, until it became too small for her dreams.

She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand and finished cleaning up.

Chapter Sixteen

Are you sure I look okay?' Emma asked for the fifth time.

'I promise, you look great.' Russ took his eyes off the traffic long enough to glance over at her, his gaze running over her face and neckline. 'More than great.'

'It's not too sexy, is it? I don't want to look unprofessional.'

'Relax, Emma. You look beautiful.'

Emma nibbled at the inside of her lip and looked out the car window, trying to ignore the roiling of her gut. Her dress was a dark green satin underslip covered by a transparent black cheongsam; her shoes had three-and- a-half-inch heels meant to make her feel powerful and tall, although all she could think now was that they didn't fit perfectly and might cause her to stumble and embarrass herself.

The presentation of the finalists' plans for the train station was to take place at a convention center on the waterfront. It wasn't far from her apartment, but Russ had insisted that they drive so that she could arrive fresh. She wished they had walked so that her nervous energy had someplace to go, even though a hike down steep streets in high heels on a windy evening would have left her sweaty and disheveled.

'Oh God, I'm going to be sick,' she moaned.

Russ hit the brakes. 'Truly?'

She shook her head. 'Keep going. I'll save it for the ladies' room.'

'Are you really this nervous?'

'Yes! Don't you have any words of advice for me? Imagining people in their underwear, being myself, blah blah blah?'

'Would that help?'

'No. And I shouldn't have worn satin. My sweat is going to show. Big dark green patches of sweat.'

He chuckled. 'You're going to be fine.'

'I don't know how to talk in front of people. I nearly passed out each time I had to present something in school.'

'Do you like your design?'

Emma reviewed the plan in her head, trying to see it objectively but feeling instead a reburgeoning of the excitement that had consumed her when the concept first came to her. 'It's the best thing I've ever done.' Doubt stuck its finger into her joy: 'But my best is light-years behind what the others will have done.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. But so what? You're a finalist. You've already proven yourself. It doesn't matter what other people did: all that matters is that you communicate to the audience your own belief in your design, and your excitement about it. Explain it to them so they can see it through your own eyes. That's all you have to do, and the only thing worth worrying about.'

Emma gnawed a hangnail. 'That'll work?'

'If it doesn't, who cares? You've proven yourself, Emma. You don't need to try to impress anyone; you've done that already.'

'Have I impressed you?'

He took his eyes off the road long enough to meet hers. 'You know you have. I envy your talent. Looking at your design makes me wish I had that type of creative talent. For anything.'

The compliment rested uncomfortably on Emma. 'But you're creative. You built a whole company, for heaven's