The room was stunning. Magazine-worthy. And except for one oversize chair with a rumpled throw blanket wedged into a corner and a stack of newspapers and several coffee mugs on the floor beside it, the room looked completely unused.

"I hope you don't expect me to do windows! Jeez, I'd never want to leave the house if I lived here; I'd just sit in front of the windows watching the water all day. Do you get tempted to do that?"

"I'm rarely here during the day. The kitchen is this way." He headed off to the right, down a flight of open stone stairs and through a door into a stainless steel and polished wood kitchen.

Again only one small area showed evidence of human life: the corner of the counter where a small bag of coffee sat before a built-in espresso maker. A cutting board with a knife and hints of pink grapefruit pulp was between it and the sink, which held three days' worth of cereal bowls and spoons.

"You're okay with emptying the dishwasher, aren't you?" he asked.

"Of course. Funny how no one likes putting away clean dishes, don't you think? Just like no one likes changing the toilet paper roll."

"I don't have time for it."

Okay, so he wasn't one for idle chatter. Emma mentally shrugged her shoulders.

. She followed him through the house, listening with only half an ear, her eyes taking in the details both of his ass, and of the house. She was so tempted to lay her palm over one rounded cheek and give it a squeeze. When not evaluating his butt, she evaluated the feel and flow of the rooms, guessing at where the constraints of construction had forced the architect to make less artistic choices, and admiring the places where form and function existed in elegant symbiosis.

Neither man nor house resembled his sister, Pamela, and her home, she with her frosted blond hair and her house with its warm-albeit faux-Mediterranean style and the scattered detritus of three small children.

"This is my room," Russ said, entering a bedroom with French doors leading onto a small deck.

It was obviously the master suite, and Emma wondered why he hadn't called it "my bedroom" or "the master bedroom," but "my room." Like a child who only has one room to call his own, instead of the entire house.

The only pieces of furniture were a queen-size mahogany canopy bed with green velvet curtains tied back at the posts a bench at the end of the bed, covered with discarded clothing; and a white iron bedside table that looked like it had been pirated from a set of patio furniture. The articulated metal lamp clamped to it would have fit better on a college student's desk than in a multimillion dollar house like this.

"I didn't have time for the decorator to finish this room," Russ explained, apparently realizing that the bedroom demanded an excuse for its condition. "She kept asking me to make choices. Showing me pieces of fabric and photos of chairs. Doorknobs. Area rugs. I didn't have time for it."

"Ah." Emma was beginning to get an idea of just how important time was to this man, although he didn't seem in a hurry to finish their tour. Instead, he stood frowning at the unsatisfactory space before him.

"Do you want the sheets changed once or twice a week?"

"Once, I suppose. I don't know. How often do people change them?" he asked, turning to her.

She shrugged. "Depends on your personal taste and your…"

"My…?"

"Activities."

He stared at her, and for a long moment she was afraid she'd crossed a line. Then his gaze brushed quickly down her body before he turned his attention back to the half-furnished room. "No time for that, either."

He was either one heck of a busy man, or he had some serious problems with his priorities.

Not that she was one to talk, Emma thought. It had been a year and a half since she'd had sex, and there were times she thought she'd happily tackle any passing young male and put him to the good use that evolution intended. But evolution had also made her too picky and cautious to act on the urge; her health and welfare demanded more care than one-night stands with strangers, however tempting the notion.

Still, there were many nights when she yearned for an anonymous man to take her six ways from Sunday and not stop until she was too exhausted to even sigh.

Despite her ravening urges, though, Emma had set the pursuit of serious romance aside while she hunted for a position with an architecture firm. She wanted to be actively moving forward on her career path before she got involved with a man, since she wanted that man to be someone who wanted to be involved with an ambitious professional woman-not a man who wanted to be involved with a housekeeper. An educated housekeeper, a housekeeper with dreams, but a housekeeper nonetheless.

In her vision of herself there was Present Emma: the woman she was now; and there was Super Emma: the woman she intended to become. Super Emma had her hair professionally trimmed once a month, her makeup subtly and flawlessly applied, her clothes chosen with conservatively arty taste, and she was involved with a cultured, intelligent, sophisticated man who treated her like the precious flower she occasionally wanted to pretend to be.

"I'm sorry about the smell," Russ said, jostling Emma out of her reverie. They were in the master bath. "It's bad, I know." He was swiftly tossing soggy clothes off the top of the hamper into a laundry basket.

Emma wrinkled her nose as the odor of old sweat hit her nostrils, reminding her of high school gym. "I assume you'll want me to wash those."

"These? Hell, no." His intimidating air was replaced by embarrassment. "I don't expect you to touch these."

Emma moved closer, curious. "What happened to them?"

"Nothing. They're my Puck Skins."

"What?"

"Long underwear for ice hockey. And my towels and stuff. I know they're horrible; don't touch them."

"You play hockey?"

He pulled a towel off a bar and spread it over the top of the laundry basket. "In an adult amateur league. It's a good workout."

Emma looked again at his nicely rounded ass. "I'll bet it is."

Maybe Russ Carrick's life wasn't so unbalanced after all, if he made time for sports. But she wouldn't have guessed that someone like him would play ice hockey; wasn't that for jocks?

And what was with the embarrassment over his sweaty gear?

Emma followed him through the rest of the house, growing intrigued with her new employer. She didn't see any signs of a woman, or of a male lover either, if that was where his interests lay-although she doubted it. There was no extra toothbrush, no signs of cooking meals for someone, no photo of the happy couple, no special effort to make the home inviting for a romantic visitor. No package of condoms on the patio furniture nightstand, and only one pillow on the bed, the others thrown into a pile on the floor. That, more than anything, confirmed that Russell Carrick was alone in this romantic world.

Maybe he didn't want to add the distraction of a woman into his busy life. A few minutes in the shower every morning and his needs could be met by Mr. Hand.

Or maybe his standards were too high. From his comments to his friend Kevin, it didn't sound like he had an overwhelmingly positive view of women.

Maybe he had loved and lost. Or loved and been royally screwed over. Divorced, and still not over the pain?

"Any questions?" he asked abruptly as they returned to their starting point in the foyer.

Dozens, but none she could ask.

Maybe he was single because women found him unapproachable. If it hadn't been for his reaction to his dirty Puck Skins, Emma would have wondered if the guy was capable of emotion.

"I can also pick up groceries for you or cook meals to be reheated later, if that's a service you're interested in," she offered on the spur of the moment, inspired by his barren kitchen.