Irresistible?. Stephanie Bond
“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