The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

Chapter Twelve

Russ lay on the bench in the locker room, dressed only in his black Puck Skins, and pulled his knee up to his chest, stretching. He'd arrived at the arena half an hour earlier than he usually did, hoping to ease the coiled tension of the day out of his muscles. Hoping as well to clear out distracting thoughts of Kevin and Emma.

He changed position, wishing he could stretch on the floor like you could in the Canadian ice rink locker rooms, where they washed the floors between each game. No one in their right mind would lie down on the locker room floor of the Aurora Ice Arena: it looked as if it hadn't been washed since the Cretaceous period, and the freestanding, stall-less toilet inexplicably plumbed into the center of the room was a reminder of just how filthy a hockey locker-room floor could get.

Still, this was home. The locker room might be a sty, the ice might be soft and rutted, but this was where his surrogate family lived and he had a perverse affection for it. It was his haven. His sanctuary from the world. The place where he was not Russ Carrick, multimillionaire entrepreneur, but was simply Buffy.

One of his teammates came in and bobbed his chin in greeting. Russ grunted a reply and stood for a different stretch.

Unbidden, memories of his conversation with Kevin earlier in the day came back to mind.

"I think she's starting to like me," Kevin had said.

Russ had feigned disinterest, but his heart had thunked sickly in his chest. "How so?"

"Just a feeling I get, when I call her."

"Didn't you say she was seeing someone?"

Kevin's face had been impassive but strangely alert, as if watching for Russ's reaction. "She doesn't talk about him. It must not mean much to her if she doesn't talk about him."

Russ had shrugged, but the words had festered all day. Reason said that she was too cautious to talk about him to Kevin, even under cover of her mythical "boyfriend," but it gnawed at him that there was nothing she said to Kevin, not even a generic comment on their getting along well or liking some of the same things. It made him wonder whether she talked about him to her friends or pretended that he didn't exist.

Was he just a thrice weekly sex partner who ate the food figure-skating lesson earlier. The bleachers were outside the lobby, rising up in a bank above the boxes where the players would sit.

"How tall is he?"

"Midrange."

"That rules out stumpy over there, and those two lumberjacks. I guess that's something."

"And he's not a goalie. Wait, is that-"

"You see him? Which one?"

"Shoot. I can't tell. I thought I saw him, but…"

"C'mon. We've got to go out there." Daphne headed for the glass door to the rink area.

"Daphne, wait! I can't go out there! He'll see me!"

"Pish. He will not."

"Daphne, there's no one else in the freakin' stands! Of course he'll notice!"

Daphne sat back down, a pout on her face. "Fine. We'll wait till the game starts. Then he'U be concentrating on it and won't look up."

Emma visored her hand over her forehead, half-hiding her face. "I knew I shouldn't have agreed to this."

"Look, we'll go up in the stands, we'll spot him, we'll watch the game, and then we'll tear out of here before it ends. Even if he thinks he sees you-which he won't-he won't be sure. You can always deny it if he asks."

"Lie to him? Yeah, great, that's what I want to do."

"Oh, stop making such a big deal out of this. There's no crime in watching him play hockey. He’ll probably be flattered. No one else has a hot babe in the stands."

Emma groaned.

A few minutes later, the players collected the extra pucks, and those on the first string took their positions. A puck was dropped between two players and a quick, furious battle of slapping blades knocked it away, with skaters in hot pursuit.

"Now!" Daphne said, bounding up and grabbing Emma by the sleeve, dragging her through the glass door.

Emma stumbled after her, the cold of the rink hitting her face. Only the boards and the Plexiglas panels of the rink were between them and the players now, and as the game shifted direction the herd of skaters turned. With scraping, running glides, their bodies hunched low, sticks wagging on the ice in front of them, they chased straight toward Emma and Daphne. Emma grabbed Daphne and hurried her toward the stands.

They had almost reached the shelter of a wall that hid the steps up to the stands when, glancing back over her shoulder, Emma saw one player look up at her and freeze. And although all she could see clearly were his eyes, she knew it was Russ.

The moment of distraction cost him dearly. Another skater hit him hard, sending him into the boards and glass right in front of Emma. The glass and frames shook, the impact sounding like it must have crushed half the bones in his body. Both skaters fell to the ice.

Emma dashed to the glass, pressing her hands and forehead to it, trying to see down to the players.

"Was that him?" Daphne asked, appearing beside her.

Emma didn't answer, anxiously watching the skaters untangle themselves. One regained his feet, then put a hand out to help Russ up. Emma backed away from the glass as she saw him moving, no harm done.

He turned to her as soon as he was up, a question in his eyes. Another skater tapped him on the helmet with the handle of his stick and asked him a question Emma couldn't hear. A moment later, the skater looked at her and raised his hand.

"Hi, Emma!" he shouted, the sound barely coming through the glass.

Dumbfounded, she waved back.

The skater pointed to the stands.

Emma looked at Russ, who gave the faintest of shrugs and lifted his hand slightly, as if to say, "It's up to you." She couldn't tell if he was happy, angry, or indifferent.

Emma shrugged back, smiled in embarrassment, and headed for the stands with Daphne.

The game resumed, and when the players changed out Emma looked down at the box, picking out Russ. He was gesturing and talking to one of his teammates, and Emma had no idea what he was saying, although she guessed it related to the game rather than to her. Then two of the players farther down the line turned around and sought her out with their eyes.

"Hey, Emma! Come to see Buffy play?"

She smiled nervously and gave a little wave, not knowing how to respond.

"Buffy?" Daphne asked her softly.

Emma shrugged. "I've never heard it before."

Russ turned around and waved to her, and she wondered if it was a show for his friends. He wouldn't want to let on that he hadn't expected her, and might not want her here.

Unless they all knew of her "arrangement" with him?

The thought sent a chill down her back. He wouldn't have told them, would he? Down in the locker room, bragging about their prowess, he wouldn't have said anything about having a "kept woman," would he?

It would explain the amused friendliness of the players.

"Daphne, I think we should go."

"What? You've got to be kidding. This is great! And look, there goes Russ!"

Emma watched as he went out the gate and joined the play on the ice. Perhaps she'd stay for a minute more. She'd only seen snippets of hockey on TV and never been to a live game. They seemed to be wearing a pile of gear, and when they skated full speed she wondered at the strength and endurance it must take. Sticks slapped and the puck glided and she had no clue what was going on; she couldn't even tell where the puck was half the time. Russ was equally as hard to keep track of: the number of his jersey-12-wasn't always visible. Players changed in and out of the box, whis- ties blew for penalties she hadn't seen, and then suddenly the buzzer went off, stopping all play entirely.

"Do you have any clue what's going on?" Emma asked.

"Not a one."

"I think I've seen enough. We should go."

"Aw, come on. Stick it out. He knows you're here; he'll think it's weird if you bail on him now."

"I'm cold."

"So we'll get some hot chocolate out of the vending machines."

"Daphne-"

"What?"

"I-"

"What?"

"I don't know what Russ might have said about me. You know, locker-room talk. Everyone seemed a little too amused to see me."

Daphne frowned. "You think they know that you're fuck buddies?"

"Don't call it that! But yeah, I'm afraid they might know."

"Is Russ that kind of guy? One who would talk about it?"

Emma shrugged. "I don't really know. I don't think he would, but I don't know him beyond our nights together. I mean, people can be completely different in different situations, can't they?"

"Especially with sex as an incentive to be sweet, yeah." Daphne chewed her lip as the game restarted below. "Okay, here's what I think: your best bet is to stay here and meet those guys after they come out of the locker room."

"No! Absolutely not!" Emma's face flushed with heat, her stomach sinking.

"Hear me out. Right now, you're just a story they heard. Assuming they heard anything at all, and aren't just being friendly because they're friendly guys and are glad to have two hot babes like us watching their game."

Emma snorted.

"Hey, we're pretty good compared to the competition."

Emma raised a brow, looking pointedly around the empty stands.

"Exactly," Daphne said. "We're the only estrogen in the place. But, if Russ did tell them some sort of crap about you that he should have kept to himself, well, then that means he's not worth keeping. But it also means that if you meet the guys face-to-face and are charming and sweet, they'll like you and turn on Russ for being such a sleaze to you."

"Guys don't do that to each other."

"Sure they do. Some of them." She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe. But the point is, you can do more to save your reputation by meeting them than by slinking away."

"What do I care what my 'reputation' is with a bunch of men I've never met and will never see again?"

"If you don't care, then you shouldn't mind meeting them."

Emma scowled. "It doesn't work that way."

Daphne shrugged. "Then think of it this way: you don't know who those guys are. Russ is a rich entrepreneur. You don't know how many of those guys down there you really might meet again, as you make a name for yourself in architecture. Seattle 's not that big a city, and there could be captains of industry down on that ice-doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers. Do you really want them to remember you as someone's booty on demand? Or do you want them to remember you as that incredibly nice and smart and funny woman that their asshole friend didn't treat as well as he should have?"

Emma thought for a long minute. Daphne was right. She could do more for herself by staying than by leaving. "Dammit."

A moment later number 12 slapped the puck, sending it sailing straight past the goalie and into the net. Emma leapt up and shouted, "Woo hoo! Way to go, Russ!"

He lifted his head at the sound, his mask turning toward her. He raised his stick in acknowledgment as a teammate slapped his back.

"See? You would have missed that!" Daphne said. "Got some quarters? I'll go get us some cocoa."

Emma watched the game, but her mind was wrapped up in the ordeal ahead. She was going to have to put on an Oscar-worthy performance to get through this evening. She would need divine inspiration if she was going to charm two teams of middle-aged hockey players.

What was she doing here? Russ wondered with a mix of anger and confusion as he showered after the game. Why had she come? What did she want?

No answer came to mind.

Of course, that was the problem between them: that sense he had that she had desires she wouldn't tell him. He would never have guessed she would do a thing like this.

He didn't like this kind of surprise, where he was left confused and uncertain as to motives. Though he'd felt a certain pleasure at knowing she was watching. James had watched a couple of his games, but no one else ever had.

He dried off and dressed quickly, taking part in the conversation around him with only half his attention until one of the guys, Frank, slapped him on the shoulder.

"Buffy, you dog! Here we all thought you were gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that! But jeez, no one remembers ever seeing a girlfriend of yours."

"You think I'd bring one to this place?"

Frank clamped his hand to his heart. "You wound me! You're ashamed of us?"

"Hey, you going to take her to Harold's?" Tom asked.

"That's cruel and unusual," Russ answered. "I don't want to scare her off."

"All serious girlfriends are required to spend one evening at Harold's," Frank said. "It's tradition."

"God knows they wouldn't want to spend a second," Russ said. "I don't think Emma would enjoy it."

"Of course she won't," Greg joined in, grinning. "Since when is that the point? Nope, she's got to come. Unless you don't intend her to be around for long?"

Russ tied his shoes, trying to keep his face impassive. He obviously couldn't explain why Emma didn't quaHfy for a Harold's initiation.

"You can't give her up!" Tom said. "Christ, she's gorgeous! You'll never get your hands on someone like that again!"

"I'm shocked he got a woman like that the first time," Frank said, standing with beer in hand, a towel wrapped around his hairy, pot-bellied waist. "After all, he doesn't have my hot body going for him."

Russ laughed and picked up his gear. "Yep, you've got a great twelve-pack."

Frank patted his gut. "Any woman would be proud to call this her own."

Russ headed out to the lobby, not knowing if Emma would still be there, but wanting to get to her before his teammates if she was. He had no idea what he would say to her; all he knew was that he had to get to her and find some answers.

Emma watched the Zamboni trundle around the ice and tried not to think about what Russ was going to say when he emerged from the locker room.

"I'll bet he's happy to see you," Daphne said, interrupting her determined oblivion. "You saw the way he raised his stick to you each time he scored. He was glad you were here."

"I don't know. Maybe he was just being polite. I was yelling his name, after all. His friends would have noticed if he'd ignored me."

"You worry too much. I'll bet he was flattered, and I'll bet you'll get some amazing sex out of it."

"I thought the point of this was to move beyond that."

"Not beyond it," Daphne said. "Just in addition to it."

Emma worried that she might have lost it completely with this stunt.

She heard a noise and turned.

Russ.

He set his bag and sticks down and came toward her, and there wasn't a smile on his face. Just an unsettling look of intensity. She couldn't tell what he was feeling, except that it was focused on her. She plastered a smile of greeting on her lips and hoped he didn't see the quavering uncertainty that she felt.

"Emma. I was surprised to see you came to the game."

"Russ! Yes, hi. Er… this is my friend Daphne."

Russ put out his hand and shook Daphne's. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, too." Daphne grinned at him with a little too much knowledge in her smile.

Russ scowled and turned to Emma. "Can we have a private word?"

"Go ahead!" Daphne said, and widened her eyes at Emma with an exaggerated "Ooh, you're in trouble!" expression.

"Yeah, sure," she said, and started to follow him. As she did so, though, a couple of guys emerged from the locker room and called out, "Emma! Watcha doing with a miserable old fart like Buffy, huh?"

She remembered what Daphne had said about doing her best to charm them, and gathered her courage. After a quick glance at Russ-who had frozen in place-she moved toward the men, extending her hand to shake theirs. "He's spry for his decrepit old age, and a young heart counts for a lot, don't you think? I'm Emma Mayson. It's a pleasure to meet some of Russ's teammates."

The men stared at her in shock for a moment, as if surprised that she could tease right back, then dropped their bags and shook her hand, introducing themselves as Frank and Tom.

"This is the first hockey game I've ever seen," Emma said, and decided to lay it on thick. "You all skate so fast!"

"Nah, we're slow," Frank said.

"You should see the guys who are nineteen, twenty," Tom said.

"You looked fast to me. I kept thinking how athletic you were, to move so well under all that equipment."

"Yeah, well…" Frank mumbled, and tilted his head. He almost looked ready to kick the ground, blush and say Aw, shucks.

"Let me introduce you to my friend Daphne Elliot. Daphne?" she called.

Daphne trotted over and Russ followed, looking cross at having lost control of the situation.

By the time she was finished introducing Daphne, more of Russ's teammates had emerged from the locker room and joined the group.

Emma tried to hide her shock. These guys were not guys; they were men.

Russ, at thirty-six, could easily be taken for five years younger than his age. Many of his teammates looked like they were well past forty and running fast toward fifty. Bald and balding, graying and gray, faces with the lines of wear, and bodies with the thickened waists of middle age. None were unattractive, but they ail looked like people who would be friends with her mother, not with her. They were the guys who owned the repair shops and carpet stores; the ones who had filled your cavities since second grade and who came and fixed your refrigerator, and who tried to take a nap in the recliner while their kids wreaked havoc in the backyard.

They were adults, no matter how boyish they were acting now. She felt a floating sense of unreality, pretending that she fit in, in any way at all. She must appear a child to them.

"Hey, Russ, you played tonight like someone was watching, huh?" said a guy who introduced himself as Craig.

"Yeah, when was the last time you scored a goal?" Tom asked. "I don't even remember."

"Because I play right wing. I'm usually the one setting you up for goals."

"Two goals tonight!" Craig said, ignoring what he'd said to Tom. "You definitely knew someone was watching."

Emma turned wide-eyed to Russ, watching his reaction. There was a tensing in his jaw, and she wondered if it was embarrassment or anger. Had he really been showing off for her?

"You were a demon out there. Carrying the puck, making moves," Frank said, miming a skater on the ice. "You were on. You're never that aggressive, Buffy. Guess your balls knew Emma was in the stands and got woken up for once."

"Shut the hell up!"

Frank looked in pseudo-alarm at Emma and Daphne, his eyebrows high and mouth pursed. " 'Scuse the language!"

"Emma, Daphne, come with us to Harold's," Craig said.

"Harold's?" Emma asked.

"It's half a block away, a bar we all go to after the game to BS about how great we played."

Russ put his hand on her arm. "Emma, you'd hate it. You don't have to go."

"Don't listen to him!" Frank said. "The place is harmless.

We're harmless." He gestured at himself and at the others. "Harmless!"

Emma raised a brow, amused by the joshing of the men and trying to hide the tension between her and Russ. "I doubt you're completely harmless," she said. "But Daphne and I will come if you promise us one thing"

"Yeah?"

She glanced at Russ. "You have to tell us why you call Russ 'Buffy.'"

"Done!" Frank looked at Russ. "Don't worry, I won't make you look too big an idiot. Just moderately big."

"Hey, thanks," Russ said dryly.

"It was during his first year playing here at Aurora," Frank explained. "He wasn't used to this crap rink and got his stick jammed between the boards. The stick stopped and he kept going. Nearly impaled himself on it, like a suicidal vampire. Broke-what?-three ribs, was it, Buffy?"

"One."

"Let's call it two. So some smartass called him Buffy, like that vampire slayer chick."

" You called me it," Russ said.

Frank sighed fondly. "My kids used to love that show."

As people started heading for the exit, Russ grabbed his gear and walked with Emma and Daphne, pushing open the door into the cool night air and holding it for them. They waited while he loaded his stuff into his car; then the three of them walked through the amber-lit parking lot and over toward Harold's. Daphne drifted ahead a few steps.

"If you don't want me to go to Harold's, I won't," Emma said quietly.

"It's too late to change your mind. It would be worse if you left now."

"Do women usually come to Harold's?"

"Rarely. But don't let the guys intimidate you. They're mostly a good bunch, and the invitation is sincere. While they wouldn't want wives and girlfriends to show up all the time, they do enjoy a periodic appearance."

They were quiet for a few steps; then Emma gathered the courage to ask, "Are you angry with me?"

She saw him glance ahead at Daphne, who surely was listening with an eager ear. "Now is hardly the time to discuss it."

"I only meant to-"

"Hey, wait up!" someone called from behind them.

Damn.

She had the feeling this was going to be a very long evening.

Russ stood with his back against the bar and watched Emma and her friend at the table, surrounded by admirers. Daphne didn't seem to be having any problem with an evening at Harold's. She was three seats away from Emma, talking to the only guy as young as Russ. Bob also happened to be single, and Russ dreaded that no matter what happened between him and Emma, Daphne might worm her way into the haven of his hockey family.

Emma had been the one to insist the nature of their relationship be kept strictly confidential. Had she broken that vow with her friend? The possibility sent an angry unease through him. It would be disastrous if Daphne knew and leaked that piece of gossip to Bob, and thus to everyone in the league.

There was solidarity among the hockey players, and a general live-and-let-live philosophy, but the line was drawn at lousy treatment of women. One guy who had cheated on his wife and brought his girlfriend to an out-of-town tournament had never been invited again, and had been frankly told not to bring his piece to Harold's. He didn't get invited to barbecues and picnics; no one wanted him and his mistress at their Christmas party or housewarming.

Russ had never thought that he might set himself up for that same ostracism.

Emma sucked the last of her diet Pepsi from the big plastic cup, the gurgling suction of her straw in the dregs all but lost beneath the noise of the bar. She glanced up, meeting his eyes. She looked childlike in that moment, big-eyed over her empty soda, surrounded by men larger and older than herself. Was she feeling uncomfortable under her facade of ease?

Next to her, Greg finished sketching his master suite on a napkin and pushed it toward her, drawing her attention.

"So this is what my wife wants to do. She wants to move this wall here, bump out the outer wall, and get both a walk-in closet and a 'spa bathroom' out of it, whatever that is. I keep telling her it won't work, that the spaces will be too tight and it'll be too expensive."

Emma bit her upper lip and stared at the crude drawing. From listening to her talk about design, Russ knew that she was forming the three-dimensional space in her mind, imagining it from different angles, putting herself inside it in the artificial reality of her imagination. He knew it was a mental exercise that took a unique, complex gift of intelligence, and when she concentrated like that, her gaze turned inward to the creative visions in her head, he found himself intensely attracted to her.

She was dressed more casually tonight than he was now used to seeing her. She was in jeans and hooded sweatshirt, her dark silky hair loose, nothing about her garb deliberately provocative, although he found the sight of her ass in jeans to be plenty of provocation. It occurred to him that this visit might have been an impulse on her part. Maybe she'd been in the neighborhood with her friend, and dropped into the rink on the chance that he might be playing.

It was disconcerting to see her outside her apartment, with a friend. Of course he knew that she had a life beyond her time with him; he just hadn't seen any of it.

"Here, show your wife this," Emma said, grabbing another napkin and Greg's pen. She quickly sketched out her idea, explaining the details as she went. "It's a more efficient use of space and should be less expensive to build, yet it should give a greater feeling of openness and of that luxury she wants."

Greg raised his brows, looking over the finished product. "Damn. I didn't want you to show me a way it would be possible; I wanted you to tell me I should spend my money on a boat instead."

She shrugged. "Sorry."

Greg turned around and waved the napkin at him. "Did you see her draw this? We can't let her and Tina get together. I'll be living in a remodel for the next ten years if they do."

Emma grinned. "In ten years it will be time to start all over again."

Greg turned to Russ and said in a stage whisper, "Keep those two apart. Far, far apart!"

He intended to, for completely different reasons. "Emma, would you like another soda?" he asked.

She looked at her watch, stifling a yawn. "No, it's past midnight. We ought to get going." She pushed back from the table and stood.

He stepped closer to her. "I'll follow you back to your place."

"I have to drive Daphne to her car. I won't be home until nearly one o'clock, I'm sure."

"I don't care if you're not home until five. I'm coming over."

She looked at him wide-eyed and he knew she was expecting an ugly scene. He didn't know how to reassure her with words, not when he didn't know how he felt, and not when there were half a dozen of his fellow players within earshot. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed her hand and, out of sight of the others, squeezed it firmly. "I'll see you both to your car. It's not the type of neighborhood you should be walking around in on your own."

Emma nodded and pried Daphne away from her prey.

Greg got up at the same time. "I should have been home an hour ago," he said. "Tina will have my hide. I'll walk with you."

When Emma and Daphne were safely away in Emma's car, Greg put his arm over Russ's shoulder. "Now that, my fellow, was a sweet girl. Smart, too. You know I'm going to have to hurt you if you treat her badly."

"Does that mean I should keep seeing her, or break it off?" Russ replied.

Greg shoved the back of his head and headed for his own car. "She's a keeper, if you ask me. And I saw the way she looked at you."

"How did she look at me?"

"How do you think, you idiot?" Greg got in his car, slamming the door and leaving Russ to figure it out for himself.