No one is home today in the big, fancy house—no one but me.

And I hardly count.

I’m just the maid.

There’s a lot to clean and I’ve been pouring sweat as I scrub the patio tiles out back in hundred degree heat.

My back is aching, so I stand up and stretch, looking around at the gorgeous view. God, I wish I belonged here. I wish I had a designer bikini on instead of my grubby old cut-off jeans and clogs.

For just one lovely, sinful moment with the gorgeous view of Lake Las Vegas below me, the splash from the pool’s rock waterfall soothing me. I close my eyes under the early morning sun, imagining what life would be like living here—every day a holiday, beautiful clothes, a carefree existence without any worries.

But my life is far from that fantasy.

And I know that I’m destined for a life of hard work and unpaid bills, stress, and striving desperately to get even a rung or two further up the ladder of success. I just need to accept it and stop daydreaming.

If I somehow lost this client, my mother and father would be beside themselves and our financial hole would get a heck of a lot deeper. So I kneel down again and get back to scrub scrub scrubbing like a demon.

I get about five more strokes of the brush on the tile in when I hear a noise behind me. I peer over my shoulder to see that I’m not alone anymore, I suck in a breath.

A man is carelessly leaning against the frame of the open French door, his thumbs hitched into the front pockets of his faded jeans. Muscles bulge beneath a white T-shirt that doesn’t hide his rock-hard physique, and part of a bladed tattoo edges out from a sleeve onto one tanned arm. He’s got the whiskered yet privileged look of someone who aimlessly wanders in and out of fancy houses every day of his life. His longish hair isn’t brown or blond, more like the two shades can’t decide where they belong, and even from here, I can see the piercing pale blue of his eyes.

I swallow when I see that he’s grinning like the devil as he lavishes a hot gaze over my ass, which is currently sticking up in the air because I’m still on my hands and knees.

I slowly sit up and face him, my belly in pulsing knots.

But this isn’t the king of the castle—he’s more like a knight of the royal guard. Eli Brennan, star wide receiver of the Las Vegas Rustlers and bad boy of the tabloids, looks as if he’s imagining things about me that make my skin flush.

I only recognize him because he’s basically football royalty. And it makes sense that he would show up here. After all, the homeowner, Randal Preston The Third, owns the Rustlers (on top of being a mega real estate developer).

I try not to freeze up. But it’s hard to get back to work when I know that Eli Brennan was just staring at me.

Me, the maid. The one whose derriere was wiggling away in jeans shorts as she obliviously scrubbed the tiles. The one whose dishwater blond hair is half in her face because her springy curls won’t stay in their clip.

I push back my hair, pull my shirt down more, and wish that my shorts weren’t so ratty—and that they were a little longer. Then I manage to speak.

“I thought nobody was home while the Prestons are out of town,” I say, trying not to sound accusatory.

“I decided to get here before Randal,” Eli says, his voice scratchy and low.

I feel his voice trail down my skin like a rough caress. Of course I’ve heard his voice before, on commercials, interviews, even during sound bites when he’s trying to explain away his latest scandal.

He’s been in bar fights, tested positive for pot, and supposedly slept his way through half the women in the country, but he’s always slid by on all that ridiculous talent that earned him a Heisman, a top draft spot, and a crap-load of money. Hell, he’s got a record number of fines, even as a rookie, for all kinds of minor infractions. But in the off-season, during the summer after his first year in the league ended, he went too far, even for most of the fans who worship him.

His name appeared in the “black book” of an infamous Vegas madam, so is that the reason he’s come here to skulk around the house of his team’s owner? Is he in some kind of hiding?

I shouldn’t have even started a conversation with him, so I haven’t responded to his comment. My job is to be invisible, Randal Preston has made that much clear.

And my parents, who normally work this important gig, have pounded it home even more.

Never speak unless spoken to. Don’t make judgments. Don’t stare. You don’t do anything but clean the house and leave it spotless and gleaming.

As I’m reminding myself to become invisible again, I hear the sound of boots on tile. Mortified, I glance at his feet, frowning at the dirt Eli’s tracking over the tiles I so very lovingly cleaned.

He notices my dismay then holds up his hands. “Didn’t mean to dirty things up.”

But he doesn’t look very apologetic. In fact, I doubt Eli Brennan is ever sorry about anything.

I turn to pick up my pail and drop the brush into it. “No worries.” Then, with a mock cheery attitude, I nod toward the dirt. “Obviously I exist to clean up your messes.”

I shouldn’t have said that, but it was hard not to be annoyed at his lack of concern over messing up all my hard work.

“Wait a sec,” he says before I can haul my pail over to his dirt.

Within the next heartbeat, he strips his T-shirt over his head, revealing the glorious sight of a cut waist, ridged abs, and a smooth, firm chest. His tat rides every muscle in a network of sword blades, dark and edgy, making him look like a gridiron warrior.

The knots in me are getting tighter, pulling and making the lining of my belly quiver.

He gets down to one knee then smiles up at me while wiping the tiles. Not only is he being a smartass, but he clearly knows I’ve been checking him out.

It must be nice to have enough money and talent to buy that kind of ego.

“Thanks for the help,” I say, trying to sound as unimpressed as possible. But how can I not be impressed by all that muscle and heat? And those pale eyes that keep watching me with a glint of amusement…

Is he flirting with the maid? I mean, I know he’s got a dirty reputation, but please. There’s no way.

As I start to head to another spot on the patio far, far away from him, he speaks again.

“Hey, now—I just did you a solid. Why don’t you do one for me in return? Tell me your name.”

I stop in my tracks. What’s the harm? Any minute now I’ll fade into the woodwork, just as I’ve been taught. “Jenna Collins.”

“Jenna.” The way he says it gives me chills.

“Yup, that’s me.”

“You know, I didn’t mean to make a bad first impression,” he says, his expression slightly amused.

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Is there any other kind of impression with you?”

Now he laughs, then leans his forearms on his thigh, running his gaze over me again. He starts at my legs, sweeping higher over my curves until he gets to my chest. He lingers there, almost as if I don’t have anything on at all and he can see right through the thin cotton of my shirt and bra.

I should feel uncomfortable. I’m just a regular girl, cute at best, and Eli Brennan dates top shelf models and actresses and dancers.

My body certainly can’t compare to theirs, even if I do have a nice butt from all the hard work I do. But the way Eli is watching me, I don’t feel less than.

I feel…sexy.

My nipples go hard, and my clit pounds in an achy rhythm. But I don’t have time for this. I never have. There’s too much work to do, too many problems to deal with, and romantic relationships have always been a casualty of my efforts to make a better life for my parents, little sister, and myself.

Maybe I should just stop this player short by telling him that although I’ve mildly fooled around with a few guys, I’ve never really been with one. He’s got to know that he doesn’t have any kind of one-and-done shot with this particular peasant girl.

“That was cute,” he says, still checking me out.

“What?”

“Your comment. You’ve got some sass.”

It’s as if he doesn’t get my reason for being here: I clean toilets and scrub tiles because my family is desperate, making barely enough money with the business to survive. I’m not here because I like to explore the wonders of dirty porcelain. Does he see my edgy impatience as some kind of turn on or something?

As he keeps watching me, I realize that Eli Brennan has built a reputation on loving a challenge, whether it’s on or off the field. And the fleeting thought that I could be his latest challenge has my pulse racing, my breath coming shorter and quicker.

He stands—so fluidly and gracefully that it makes me go even hotter—then takes a few steps toward me. I cross my arms over my chest so he can’t see that my body finds his body irresistible.

He’s so close that his voice seems to vibrate into me. “I was thinking about getting in the pool before Randal gets home. Besides, football’s hell on my muscles, and I could use a soak.”

Somewhere in the fog of my mind, I realize that Randal Preston the Third probably cut short his family vacation because of this latest scandal of Eli’s.

But the thought dissipates because Eli is right here, his shirt off, his muscles making my heart flutter.

I swallow and manage to sound sassy again. “None of my business if you take a swim.”

“I was thinking you could get in the water with me.”

Now my pulse is kicking at every part of my body—my chest, my belly, my sex. And I’m pretty sure he can hear it, because he’s grinning again as if he knows that no woman can help herself around him.

God. I just wish I could be any woman right now, especially someone like Randal Preston’s daughter Lulu, who makes the messes that I’m here to clean up. I want to sip daiquiris just like she does out by the pool, but even more painfully, I want to be in the water with this tempting, breathtaking man who doesn’t seem to acknowledge that I’m a drab, frumpy girl in threadbare clothing.

“You really think I can just hop in the pool with you,” I say, frustration burning my belly.

“Why not?” He jerks his chin toward the water. “You know how to swim, right? Or do you need me to teach you?”

Somehow he makes the word swim sound wicked. But how damned clueless can he be? I’m obviously not the kind of girl who’d be a groupie. I’m sure he’s screwed many a maid for a house or hotel. And then some.

I heft the pail to my other hand, and water sloshes out, nearly dousing his boots. “Watch it, Romeo. You’re going to get me fired.”

“For taking a swim?”

“For distracting me. If Mr. Preston or Lulu came home and saw me slacking off…”

“Don’t you worry about either of them.”

Could he be cockier? “I don’t think you know how much I need this job.”

“What you need,” he says in that low, persuasive voice, “is to get wet with me.”

Oh my God. His eyes are saying everything impolite and naughty that he’s actually not saying. His gaze heats me, making my clit throb even harder. I hate that he makes it do that more than any fantasy I’ve ever had.

And he does it so well. When he reaches down to tug on the bottom of my shirt, I can’t move, even though I should be running as fast as I can away from him.

“Come on, Jenna,” he says. “Get wet with me.”