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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 wi

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 ru

"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."