Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells (40 page)

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.

We hope you enjoyed reading this Gallery Books eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com