Irresistible?

Opening her pocket sketchbook, Ellie flipped through to find a clean page, always ready to draw the face of the person nearest her for a few minutes’ practice. Her hands stilled at the page where she had sketched a caricature last night. Mr. Italian Suit with the gooey dark eyebrows smirked back at her, a cellular phone clutched in his cartoon hand. His athletic body strained at the savvy suit, miniature in comparison to his big, good-looking head. Ellie studied the rendition of his eyebrows and nose and wondered how close she’d come to capturing his true expression. If she remembered when she got home, she’d add a smudge of green to highlight those brooding eyes.

At that moment, a bespectacled, lab-coated woman walked to the front of the room and raised her arms to hush the chatter.

“My name is Dr. Cheryl Larkin. I’m a medical doctor, and a professor of human behavior, and it is my privilege to oversee this clinical study. Each of you has been prescreened to a certain extent to qualify for a four-week experiment using pheromones, chemicals produced in animals which attract other animals of the same species.”

Ellie sat up. Her own experiments in perfume making had overlapped into the area of aromatherapy. She had become intrigued with the idea that certain scents could be aphrodisiacs. Supposedly, pheromones went even further.

The doctor continued. “Pheromones are subtle but powerful secretions. Some people say they explain the elusive chemistry that attracts a specific man to a specific woman, and vice versa. The objective of this study is to see what effect, if any, oral pheromones have on your ability to attract and meet a romantic interest.”

Ellie glanced around and saw that Dr. Larkin had the undivided attention of every woman in the room. Hope shimmered in the eyes of the shy, the overweight, the very short and the very tall. She swallowed because she knew her own baby blues reflected the same emotion.

“It will be necessary for participants to answer a lengthy and somewhat personal questionnaire, and to keep a daily journal detailing encounters, or absence of encounters, for each day.” A spirited buzz broke out in the room as applicants whispered excitedly to strangers next to them. Ellie ignored the gleeful exclamation of the middle-aged woman beside her.

“The dosage is two pills first thing in the morning, around midday, and again at bedtime. Besides the aforementioned hypothesis,” the doctor said, finally smiling, “there are no proven side effects with this particular formula. We will ask, however, that participants be especially aware of and record any changes in your energy level or in your eating and sleeping patterns.”

An arm shot up near the front. “Let’s say I take these pills and meet a great guy. You’re telling me after four weeks the rug gets jerked out from under me?” Everyone laughed and the doctor joined in, then raised her hands defensively.

“Wait a minute—we can’t guarantee you’ll meet even one eligible man during the course of this study. If that were true, we wouldn’t need the experiment at all.”

Intrigued, Ellie nodded. This could be fun. After the doctor had finished her talk, Ellie stayed to fill out the necessary paperwork and wait for a counselor to administer the dreaded questionnaire. Three hours later, she emerged with a week’s worth of pills and a small blank journal in her purse, feeling as if she’d just been to confession. But she noticed a new spring in her step. She believed in the powers of aroma. Pulling off the hat and dark glasses, she tossed her short blond locks.

Unsuspecting men of Atlanta, beware!

“WELL, Marcus, if you’re not going to get married, you’re going to have to learn to cook,” Gloria admonished her son as she held a dripping whisk.

Mark Blackwell plucked a green olive from the tray on the kitchen counter and popped it into his mouth, smiling. Il like to eat out.”

The plump woman turned back to her bubbling red sauce. “It’s beyond me how, out of all those women you’ve dated, not one of them could find her way around a kitchen.”

“I don’t—” he walked over and took the whisk from her hand “—date women for their culinary skills.” He flashed a grin in his mother’s direction.

“Oh, you,” she snorted, rapping him playfully on the arm. Then her tone grew more threatening. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to grow old all by yourself.”

“I’ll hire a comely young nurse,” he teased. “Besides, you’d be bored if you couldn’t fret over my state of bachelorhood all day.”

“Not if I had grandchildren,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

Mark didn’t miss a beat in the familiar exchange. “You’re much too young to be a grandmother.”

“And you’re much too young to be working yourself to death in that law firm,” she chided.

Mark grabbed two plates and settled them onto his arm, waiter-style. “That’s what I came to talk to you about,” he said, smiling. He dished up a hearty helping of lasagne for each of them, and spooned on the rich homemade sauce. When he set the laden plates on the table, he struck a cocky pose and said, “Say hello to the newest partner of Ivan, Grant, Beecham, and...Blackwell.” He bowed slightly, rewarded with enthusiastic applause from his seated mother.

“How wonderful, Marcus!” She beamed and brought his hand to her mouth for a long kiss. “I’m so proud of you, son. I wish your father were here.” Tears sprang to her eyes immediately, but she blinked them away.

Mark swallowed the lump of emotion that lodged in his throat. He knew his father would be proud of him at this moment, even if Mark had “caved to the corporate philosophy,” as his flighty father was fond of saying. Ever the softheart, his dad had been struck by a car three years ago when he’d stopped to help a stranded motorist. Mark patted his mother’s hand. “I wish he were here, too,” he said simply, then smiled. “Now, let’s eat.”

During dinner, they chatted about his long-awaited promotion, but Mark had a feeling he wouldn’t escape without at least one more lecture on the importance of finding a good woman. Especially now that he’d made partner. He was right. As he helped his mother clean the dishes, she said in an innocent voice, “You know, the family reunion is this weekend. Are you coming?”

“Yes,” he said patiently. “Don’t I always?”

“Hmm,” she agreed, then asked, “Are you bringing a date? Your cousin Albert will be there with his new bride and baby. And Claire with her newborn—this is her third, you know. Her husband is such a dear man.”

“I can’t wait,” Mark said, inwardly wincing. He considered these get-togethers his penance for bucking the long family tradition of having a houseful of kids before having a house. He would endure one whole day of shaking hands and exchanging cheek kisses with new family members. And dutifully praising and holding everyone else’s kids while his mother drank wine in a corner and her sisters tsk-tsked over her woeful lack of grandchildren.

“So, are you bringing a date?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m definitely bringing a change of clothes in case Mickey’s little one has the runs again.”

Gloria covered her mouth and shook with laughter. “The video he took of you two is just precious.”

Mark rolled his eyes heavenward. “I’m awaiting my debut on one of those home-video shows.”

“Stop changing the subject. Are you bringing a date or not?”

His thoughts shifted to Shelia, the woman who’d last graced his bed. She hadn’t struck him as a woman who’d appreciate the rural pleasures of pitching horseshoes and doing the hokey-pokey. Neither did Vicki, Connie or Valerie, come to think of it. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. It was as close to a promise as he could make. Suddenly, a vision of short blond hair and flashing blue eyes came to mind, and he frowned. “I’m not really seeing anyone right now.”

Gloria clasped her hands together gleefully. “Stella’s niece is in town for the Sunday-school teachers’ convention—shall I give her a call?”

“No,” Mark said quickly, then recovered. “I have a lot to do at work this week, you know, rearranging my office and all that. I’ll be working late every night.”

His mother shrugged, clearly disappointed. “Suit yourself.”

Later, Mark squashed down guilty feelings which threatened to surface as he drove home. He knew his mother wanted to see him properly settled with a nice, quiet girl, but he truly liked being single. He’d sacrificed his social life during law school and the first few years after joining his firm in order to get a foothold. Now at thirty-six and established in his career, he was enjoying his unattached status. Life was good.

He almost managed to drive by the interstate exit to his office, but he merged onto the ramp at the last second. Just a few minutes to go over some paperwork, he told himself.

After he unlocked the office suite, he walked across the glossy inlaid wood floor not without a measure of pride. He considered the law office tastefully furnished, with just the right amount of opulence. His new office space had been achieved by removing a supply room adjacent to his existing office. He had been asked to select additional furniture, and he was pleased with his pecan wood and cream marble choices.

The Piedmont Park painting had been hung, and he approved of the location. One of his favorite pieces of art in the law office, he’d requested it for his own work area when the move began. He flipped on a floor lamp near his desk, and settled into his familiar tan leather chair to shuffle through the stack of papers on his desk.

Congratulatory memos comprised the top layer of paper. A box of cigars and an expensive leather-covered pen set were gifts from thoughtful colleagues. He smiled in satisfaction. Everything he’d worked for had finally been realized. He would never have to struggle like his father just to make ends meet. Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back in the swivel chair to prop his feet on the corner of his desk, basking for a moment in the recognition of his hard-won achievement.

Partner.

At a sound from the doorway, Mark turned his head. Patrick Beecham stood there, holding the hand of Patrick, Junior. “Hi, Mark,” Patrick said, his voice full of surprise. “Pretty late to be working.”

Mark rearranged himself into a position more appropriate for talking. “I could say the same,” he said to his partner with a smile.

“I just stopped by to get a fax,” Patrick said. The small boy pulled on his father’s pant leg. “This is Pat, Junior,” he added.

“I remember,” Mark said. “He’s growing like a weed. How’re you doing, buddy?” he asked the boy.

“Okay,” the child ventured, half hiding behind his father.

“Say, Mark,” Patrick said, “Lucy and I would love to have you over for dinner sometime. Do you have a lady friend?”

“You sound like my mother,” Mark said. “Are you two in on a conspiracy to get me settled down?”

Patrick laughed. “No, but I must admit it helps to have someone presentable when socializing with the other partners and clients. I’ll warn you—Ivan kind of expects it.”

Mark felt a sudden swell of anger that anything would be expected of him other than top-notch work. “I like being unattached,” he said evenly.

“So did I,” Patrick admitted. “But there comes a time when we all have to grow up. Luckily for me, Lucy was there when I came to my senses.” He swung the little boy into his arms. “Just food for thought, friend,” he said absently, tickling the little boy until he squealed. “Don’t work all night, and let me know about dinner, okay?”

“Sure,” Mark said. “Sounds great.”

Mark listened to the footsteps fading down the hall, and pounded his fist lightly on his desk in frustration. What idiot had said behind every successful man was a good woman? He’d made it this far on his own, and he wasn’t about to share the fruits of his labor with some money-hungry man-eater. He’d seen the way women’s eyes lit up when they discovered he practiced law. He’d seen them peruse every stick of furniture in his home as if assessing its worth. He bought nice things because it made him happy, not to impress women. And he resented the females who thought he’d be all too eager to turn over his possessions to their care. Demanding, all of them. Take that little chiseler in the deli the other day—seventy-five bucks for a scrap of fabric!

Where could he find a woman who’d settle for a no-strings-attached arrangement to be his escort, in return for a few nights on the town and an occasional romp? Oh, sure, they all said they weren’t looking for a commitment, but after a few dates, whammo! Feminine toiletries and articles of clothing started to appear in his house, and every jewelry commercial seemed too clever for her to let pass without a remark. Where was it written every man was supposed to settle down with one woman and be content for the remainder of his days?

He resumed his propped position and nodded his head in silent determination. Bully for the poor schmucks who fall for it, but count me out.

2

“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Ellie asked, peering at the two shell-pink tablets in her palm.

Manny leaned forward, sniffed at the pills, then said, “I think if these little pills can make you irresistible to men, then I want in on the action.”

Ellie scoffed. Manny was tall and slim, with a handsome face. On more than one occasion, female acquaintances of Ellie’s had offered to try to “convert” him. “Manny, you’ve got more dates now than you know what to do with.”

“But none of them are keepers,” he said, sighing dramatically.

“What do you consider a keeper?”

“Anything below eight inches gets thrown back,” he declared, making an over-the-shoulder motion.

Ellie shook her head, grinning, and pulled a clean glass from the dishwasher.

Manny’s forehead knitted. “This is what—the fourth day you’ve been taking those things?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, tossing the pills into her mouth and downing them with a swallow of fruit juice.

“Shouldn’t something be happening by now?” he asked, watching her face carefully. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he covered his mouth to muffle a scream.

“What?” Ellie yelled, shoving past him to run to the hall mirror.

“Gotcha,” he called, doubled over laughing.

“Oh, very funny,” she said after a reassuring glance in the mirror. “You’re a regular comedian, Manny.”

“Gotta run,” he said, heading for the door. “Good luck on your last day at the Smithsonian,” he joked.

Ellie pantomimed a drumroll. “Ba-dump-bum.”

Friday at last. When she walked to her overflowing closet, she toyed with the thought of wearing something ratty—what did it matter? Then she spotted her pink-and-black-checked mini. Why not go out with a bang instead?

With renewed vigor, she pulled on black hose, clunkyheeled pumps and a long, white knit cardigan. She buttoned up the lightweight sweater so she could omit a blouse, then added large earrings, funky bangles and a handful of gold chains around her neck. She slicked back her pale hair with gel, then traded her regular beat-up canvas bag for a soft shoulder-strap briefcase and a small silver purse. At the last second, she remembered to skip perfume, lest it interfere with the pheromones. When she stopped in front of the mirror on the way out, she nodded. Not bad for a gal down on her luck.

She held her head higher than usual when she stepped onto the sidewalk. Not quite seven o’clock on a beautiful May morning, and suited pedestrians already clogged the walkways. A few well-trained individuals even read the morning paper while their feet moved and stopped automatically at crosswalks. Ellie shook her head in determination. She would never get caught up in a seven-to-seven job like a lot of people she knew, like her father.

It had taken two bypasses to convince him to change his workaholic ways. He’d wasted so much of his life cranking out numbers for a big-eight accounting firm. If not for her mother’s patience and virtue, their marriage would never have survived. And less than a year of the bureaucracy at the hole-in-the-wall arts center where Ellie worked convinced her she wanted no part of a rigid office setting on a long-term basis. Still, the regular, if small, paycheck had paid her rent.

An oncoming dark-suited banker type lowered his stock quotes long enough to admire Ellie’s legs and whistle. Her spirits rose and she shrugged guiltily. Okay, it didn’t hurt her feelings to be appreciated by the well-heeled.

With the money from the study to tie her over for a few weeks, she planned to spend her free time updating her portfolio, and pestering gallery managers to take a peek. Being fired might turn out to be the best career move she’d ever made.

The aroma of bagels and cream cheese reached her, prompting her to dig in her bag for loose change. “Ellie!” old Mr. Pompano exclaimed. “You look good enough to have for breakfast, yourself. Did you get a promotion?”

“No,” she said smugly to the popular street vendor, pointing to a chocolate bagel. “I got fired.”

“Well, it suits you.” He smiled, handing her the dark bread. “You are especially—” he made a corkscrew gesture in the air “—appealing today.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir who wants my money.” She curtsied.

He grinned and bowed slightly, then patted his right knee. “Something good will happen to you today—I can feel it in my gimp leg.”

Ellie winked. “Can your bursitis tell me if he’ll be a blond, a brunette or a redhead?”

“The way you look today, Cara, you might get all three.”

Ellie flipped him a quarter tip, and munched her bagel the rest of the walk to the musty office building where she worked. Several men’s heads turned, eyes lingering, and she felt her body unconsciously adjust to the attention. Her short stride lengthened to show off her legs. She thrust her shoulders back and her small breasts out, and clenched her buttocks with each step to add a powerful sway to her back view. It worked She’d heard two wolf whistles by the time she reached her office, where a handsome co-worker. Steve Willis, who’d never even glanced her way before, held the door open.

“Ellie, isn’t it?” he asked, his pale eyebrows arching attractively over his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses.

“Yes, but I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” she lied.

“Steve,” he said, straightening the knot of his tie. “Steve Willis. I was thinking, maybe I could call you sometime?”

“Sure,” she said nonchalantly over her shoulder.

“What’s your number?” he called behind her.

Ellie turned to eye the man who’d gone out of his way to ignore her when she’d delivered his mail every day for the past year. She almost felt sorry for him—he didn’t stand a chance against the pheromones. “I’m in the book,” she said simply, and left him standing. Once she got around the corner, she brought her fist to her chest in a triumphant gesture. “Yes!” There was something to these pills, after all.

The flowers on her desk were a nice surprise. She knew they were from Joan even before she opened the card. But before she had a chance to thank her boss, the phones started ringing, and the day began.

Later, a few co-workers took her to lunch, and Steve Willis appeared out of nowhere to sit beside her. He even managed to knee her a couple of times under the table. Feeling generous, Ellie humored him with a smile. He really wasn’t bad. Maybe Mr. Pompano’s gimpy prediction had been right.

Joan stopped by Ellie’s desk an hour before closing. Ellie smiled, gesturing to the flowers. “I meant to swing by to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I wanted to talk to you before you left.”

Ellie turned her swivel chair toward Joan. “What’s up?”

“A commission, if you’re interested.” Joan leaned against the cubicle wall.

Ellie nodded enthusiastically. “Sure.”

“It’s a corporate portrait for a law firm—pretty boring stuff, but good money.”

“Suit-and-tie picture?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“I know the wife of one of the partners. I’ve acquired a few paintings and a couple of sculptures for their office. It’s the same company that bought your Piedmont Park scene, by the way.”

Landscapes were Ellie’s forte. Although she enjoyed painting portraits, as well, she preferred a little creativity with the subject’s presentation. Still, it was a job. She smiled and nodded to Joan. “Sounds great.”

Joan handed her a card. “Here’s the name of the firm and the address. I’ve written the agreed fee on the back.”

Ellie turned over the card and her eyes bulged. “I get to keep this?”

“Less the ten percent cut for the center, yeah,” Joan said. “Consider it a severance bonus.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Joan glanced at her watch. “If you leave now, you can get over there before they close.”

The women said their goodbyes and Ellie promised to let Joan know how the commissioned painting progressed. Stopping by the apartment, she dropped off a box of accumulated desk junk and her briefcase. After taking a few minutes to freshen up, she walked to the street to hail a taxi.

“Where to?” the heavyset man yelled, looking her up and down with appreciation.

Ellie told him the address and climbed into the back seat. During the ride, the talkative driver hinted at his single status. Ellie, enjoying the attention but not wanting to encourage the man, simply smiled and said, “That’s nice.”

He screeched to a halt in front of the building, and she got out. He leaned out the window and said, “Miss, do you mind telling me what kind of perfume you’re wearing?”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Let me guess—it gives you a migraine?”

The man looked confused. “No, I’m serious.”

Ellie opened her mouth to tell him about her own special blend, then stopped short. “I’m not wearing any,” she said, suddenly remembering.

“Yeah, sure, lady,” he said. “Whatever it is, I hope my date is wearing it tonight when I pick her up.” The man tipped his hat, waved away her fare and drove off.

Ellie stood on the sidewalk, perplexed. She raised her wrist to her nose and sniffed. Nothing, just skin. She shrugged, glanced up at the towering building, then walked in.

When she exited the elevator onto the appropriate floor, Marcus Blackwell’s name was being gilded onto the double glass doors. The graphic artist seemed to be having a heck of a time repositioning the firm’s name on the door to work in all the letters. If they added another partner in the future, they’d have to install a third door, she thought wryly.

Ellie sighed, wondering how much money would be squandered by the firm to herald the addition of Mr. Blackwell. A new sign, new company stationery, an expensive portrait. Must be nice.

His secretary was beautiful. More like gorgeous, really. The woman’s nameplate said Monica Reems.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Ellie frowned. Nice, too—how despicable. “I’m Ellie Sutherland. I’m here to see Marcus Blackwell about painting his business portrait.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, I’m sorry, he isn’t. I received the assignment only a half hour ago and I was hoping to catch him before he left for the day.”

The woman smiled, displaying—what else?—model teeth. “He’s in a meeting, but he should be out any minute. Have a seat and I’ll make sure he knows you’re here as soon as he gets back.”

Ellie sat down and studied her surroundings. Ivan, Grant and Beecham were doing very well for themselves. And of course, Mr. Blackwell, the latest rising star of the firm. She tried to picture him—early fifties, salt-and-pepper hair. Eyeglasses, probably, which were always a pain to paint because of the glare and because they made the eyes seem flat. Dark suit, no doubt. Small gray teeth. Or bright white dentures. And one or two prestigious rings—Harvard perhaps, or Michigan. Very ho-hum, but relatively easy.

Begrudgingly, she conceded the office decor was impeccable. A little stodgy, but first-class leather furniture and textured wallpaper. And honest-to-goodness artwork. Ellie wondered where they’d hung her Piedmont Park painting, and prayed it wasn’t in the men’s room. She’d heard those things happened. From her position, she could see the door to the men’s room at the end of the hall. As minutes clicked by and boredom threatened to settle in, she became convinced her painting adorned the wall. Over the urinals.