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"Is that by the hour?"

"Either that, or we could work out a flat weekly rate," she improvised. She didn't shop or cook for anyone else; hadn't even suggested it. But suddenly, looking at Russ and his empty house and empty kitchen, she wanted to be there for longer than it took to scrub out a shower and vacuum.,

Besides, she'd rather grocery shop and cook than clean. If he went for it, she might be able to drop one or two of her other houses.

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?"