Irresistible?

She sneaked a peek at Monica, who had her back turned and the phone crooked between her shoulder and ear. It would take only a few seconds to check, and she hadn’t seen anyone go in the entire time she’d been seated. After one last glance at the busy secretary, Ellie sidled down the hall, then pushed open the heavy door, straining to hear voices or other sounds of activity. Silence. She stepped inside.

The outer room was a lounge of sorts with inappropriately elegant furniture. Ellie began a hurried search of the walls. There were several framed prints, most of them architectural, but she didn’t see her painting. She sighed in satisfaction. An arched doorway led into a tiled room of more predictable sterile-looking gray Formica stalls. Three individual urinals lined an adjacent wall, and Ellie eyed them curiously. “I’ve always wondered,” she muttered. Her voice echoed, and she jumped. Then another sound reached her, approaching footsteps from the outside hall. Sweat immediately broke out on her upper lip.

Searching frantically for cover, Ellie dived into a stall and slammed the door behind her. Then she realized her pumpclad feet would be a dead giveaway because the door didn’t extend all the way to the floor. She jumped up and straddled the black seat of the commode, crouching so her head couldn’t be seen.

The man who entered whistled tunelessly, probably celebrating the forthcoming weekend. When he stopped in front of her stall, Ellie held her breath. She could see the shadows of his feet and legs. At last, he walked away from her hiding place and stopped near the urinals, she deduced. Sure enough, she heard the slide of a zipper and the sound of urine splashing against porcelain. Ellie grimaced and prayed he had a small bladder.

What if someone else came in? What if a whole crowd came in at once? She’d be trapped listening to a herd of men relieving themselves!

The man peed. And peed. Ellie rolled her eyes. This guy belonged in the record books. And just when she thought he’d stopped, he started again with the same gusto. Her arms began to ache from balancing herself between the slick walls. She repositioned herself slightly forward to relieve her shoulder pain, and caught a glimpse of the marathoner’s back through a tiny slit in the closed door. Her hand slipped and she caught herself, thumping lightly against the stall. She jerked back and held her breath, then relaxed. He seemed to be conjuring up a grand finale, too occupied to hear her.

Finally, the man zipped his pants and flushed the urinal. Ellie listened as he washed his hands slowly and seemed to dry them just as slowly. He walked by her stall on the way out, and she grew weak with relief.

Then she dropped her purse.

Most of the contents were emptied on the first bounce, then the silver bag rolled out of sight. Makeup, coupons, pens and miscellaneous items scattered everywhere. She watched a tampon slide until it stopped by a leg of the stall. She closed her eyes and waited.

At first there was no sound at all. Then the man took three slow steps back to stand in front of her door. And he knocked.

Ellie swallowed. “Y-yes?” she managed to get out.

“The ladies’ room is down the hall.” His voice vibrated deep, distorted with echoes.

“I, uh, I didn’t know this was the men’s room,” she improvised.

“Are you standing on the toilet?” he asked, incredulous.

She carefully stepped down and straightened her shoulders, then addressed the man through the closed door. “No,” she said, and bent to retrieve the strewn articles within her reach.

He’d bent to pick up the purse and the items laying outside the stall. He wore nice shoes, soft black leather loafers with perfect tight little tassels. On feet big enough to make Manny salivate.

After a few seconds, he asked, “Are you coming out?”

“I’d rather not,” she confessed.

“Okay,” he said, his voice booming. He sounded close to laughter. “I’ll put your purse on the counter and leave.”

Ellie waited several seconds after the outer door closed before she moved. She opened the door and scooped up her purse, quickly checking the floor for wayward keys or coins. Then, praying fervently the man wasn’t waiting outside, she swung the door open and stuck her head out.

No one in sight. Uttering her thanks, she trotted down the hall and reclaimed her seat near the still-distracted Monica. When the secretary ended her phone call, Ellie stood and asked, “Has Mr. Blackwell returned?”

Monica shook her head. “Any minute now, I’m positive.” The phone rang again and she answered it quickly.

Ellie sighed. Then, hearing someone approach, she turned, and inhaled sharply. Mr. Italian Suit. The yuppie who’d ruined her skirt! What was he doing here?

Still several feet away, the man slowed, his head tilted in question. Suddenly, his eyes widened in recognition, and he strode toward her, his forehead knitted. “Look,” he said, making chopping gestures in the air, “I don’t know how you found me, but I’m not giving you another red cent for that overpriced skirt you said I damaged.”

Fury gripped her. Ellie drew herself up to her full height of five foot two inches and leaned toward the fool, ready to...to...muss his hair. “For your information, you big klutz, I have no idea who you are and I haven’t been looking for you.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “I’m here to see a client and I hope you scram before he gets here because I’d like to make a good impression.”

Blue eyes blazed into green ones as the silence mounted. Behind them, Monica hung up the phone and coughed politely. “Excuse me, Mr. Blackwell.”

Ellie heard the name and the pieces fell into place. She felt the blood drain from her face. “You?” she whispered.

“Me, what?” he asked impatiently.

“You’re Marcus Blackwell?”

“Mark Blackwell,” he corrected. Turning to Monica, he asked, “What’s going on here?”

“This is Ellie Sutherland, sir. She’s here about your portrait.”

He frowned and threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “I’m lost.”

“Didn’t Mr. Ivan tell you? Your portrait will go up in the boardroom beside the other partners’.”

Mark Blackwell glanced from Ellie to his secretary. Ellie relaxed her stance and offered him an exaggerated shrug, smiling wryly.

“I’m not prepared for this,” he said finally, in a guarded tone.

Ellie gave him a shaky smile. “This isn’t litigation—there’s nothing to prepare for.”

He looked at her, chewing his lip. Obviously Mark Blackwell stood in unfamiliar territory, and didn’t like it one bit. His eyes narrowed. “And how, may I ask, did you get involved?”

Ellie smiled brightly. “I’m an artist.”

Mark rolled his eyes and sighed mightily. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

She glared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He waved dismissively. “Forget it, um—what did you say your name was?”

“Ellie,” she said with growing impatience. “Ellie Sutherland.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture she recognized from the deli incident. “Well, Ms. Sutherland, perhaps we can discuss this, er, project in my office.” He swept his arm toward a door a few steps away and motioned for Ellie to precede him.

She stood her ground. “After you.”

He pursed his lips, then turned and walked toward the door.

Ellie noticed the painting as soon as she entered the huge masculine room. She walked over to it, soaking up the familiar shapes and colors. An afternoon in the park. A cliché, really, but her first truly good piece. There had been others since, additional impressionistic renditions of city landmarks, but she had been especially proud of Piedmont Park and the price it had brought. She lifted a finger, and almost touched the canvas. “Nice picture,” she murmured.

“Nice purse,” he said sarcastically.

Ellie’s hand flew to her bag as her eyes swung across the room to his feet. They were big feet, wearing nice black leather loafers with tight little tassels.

“Do you make a practice of skulking in men’s washrooms, Ms. Sutherland?”

She felt a blush start at her knees and work its way up. She raised her scorching chin indignantly. “Certainly not. I told you, I didn’t know it was the men’s room.”

“Sure.” He smiled a disbelieving smile, then leaned on the front of his desk. “Now then, what do you need from me?”

Ellie turned and took a step toward him. Their eyes locked. And just like that, something passed between them. At least she felt it.

A shiver ran up her back, and a low hum sounded in her ears. Looking at him, she realized she’d done a shamefully good job of capturing his features for the caricature. His eyes reminded her of a length of dark green velvet she’d once bought just because she liked it. She’d hesitated to cut it, to tamper with the natural drape of the lush fabric. She’d ended up folding it across the footboard of her bed, unhemmed. Now every night when she went to bed, she’d be thinking about Mark Blackwell’s eyes.

“Hmm?” she asked, completely oblivious to the reason she’d come here.

Mark shook his head, as if to clear it. “Um, I asked, what do you need from me?”

This time, his words were slow and coated with fresh meaning. Need from him? A hundred images galloped through Ellie’s mind, and Mark Blackwell loomed naked in all of them. She could see the surprise in his eyes, the slight confusion lurking there. Then she remembered. Of course, the pheromones.

For an instant, disappointment fluttered in her chest. Then she recovered and walked closer to his desk, conjuring up a natural smile. “Just a few hours of your time, really.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Do you have a favorite suit?”

“I never thought about it,” he answered slowly.

“One you reach for when you have a very important meeting?” she coaxed.

He pondered for a few seconds, seeming embarrassed. “My olive one, I suppose.”

“I’ve seen it,” Ellie said, nodding her approval. “It’s a good choice.”

“Is this a new look?” he asked, eyeing her avant-garde hair and outfit.

Ellie recognized a diversionary tactic when she saw it. She looked down at her trendy, chic clothes. “Don’t get out much, do you?”

His left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch.

She blinked purposely and continued. “Wear the olive suit to the first sitting. Bring both a solid white shirt and an off-white shirt. And a handful of ties.”

“First sitting? I’m afraid this is all new to me.”

“I’ll need you to sit for me for a total of about fifteen hours.”

His eyes widened. “Fifteen hours?”

Ellie laughed and raised her hands in defense. “Not all at once. One or two hours at a time—whatever you feel up to. I’ll take photographs to work from at home.”

He scowled and folded his arms. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

The toothpick remark she’d made to Manny came to her lips, but she bit it back. Instead, she said, “Just relax—I’m not painting you in your mallard-print boxers.”

Mark studied her for a minute, the tiniest hint of a smile lifting the comers of his mouth. “I don’t wear mallard-print boxers, but then I thought you’d know from your earlier vantage point in the men’s room.”

Ellie swallowed. Maybe he wasn’t as uptight as she’d thought. “Briefs, then.”

He shook his head. “Wrong again.”

“Bikinis?” she squeaked.

Mark extended a finger and beckoned her to come closer. Ellie did, and leaned forward for him to whisper in her ear. “Bare-assed.”

Ellie jerked up and took a step back before she realized he was laughing at her:

“That wasn’t very nice,” she retorted.

“You fished for it,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Where were we?” she asked, trying to reassume a professional stance.

“I was sitting for you.”

“Shall we do it here in your office?”

His eyes raked over her body. “It would be a first, but sure.”

Her pulse leaped. The image of them vibrating his desk across the room came to mind, but she stifled it. The chemicals she emitted triggered his reaction and she’d do well to remember that. She forced a serious face, refusing to verbally acknowledge his innuendo. “Fine. When?”

He still smiled, his eyes dancing. “Tomorrow morning at nine?”

“I’ll be here with my camera,” she said, already walking toward the door.

“You bring your equipment,” he called to her. “And I’ll bring mine.”

Mark caught the flash of her silver purse being slung over her shoulder as she closed the door. Where had that idiotic comment come from? He jumped up and clutched his head with both hands, pacing. He’d never made suggestive comments to women he’d worked with. Willing women were plentiful, he’d never had to worry about mixing business with pleasure and risking a ruinous outcome. He cursed, rubbed his eyes, and walked the length of his office to his liquor cabinet. Appraising the newly stocked shelves, he selected a fine Kentucky bourbon, and poured himself a shot.

Tomorrow he’d conduct himself like the professional he was. He’d refuse to rise to her bait, no matter how enticing. The last thing he needed was for a nut like Ellie Sutherland to complicate his life.

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