Contents

Cover “What is it about you?” Dear Reader Title Page About the Author Acknowledgments Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Copyright

“What is it about you?”

Uneasiness crept over Ellie as she fished for her shoes under the car seat “What do you mean?”

Mark looked over at her with an exasperated expression. “I mean you drive me to do crazy things like making out in the front seat of my car at a business dinner!” He turned back to stare ahead. “After all these years of keeping my nose dean, my boss suddenly thinks I’m Mr. Happy Pants.”

Ellie sat up angrily and snapped open her purse to retrieve her comb. The pheromone pills fell into her lap, and she froze. Beside her, Mark still muttered to himself. She coughed nervously. “Are we still going in?” She looked at him hesitantly. “I’m game if you are.”

“Yeah,” he said, straightening his tie. “It’ll look worse if we don’t.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Thanks for being a sport.”

At the door, Mark rang the bell, then smiled at her as they waited. “I’ll have to admit, the garter belt was a nice surprise.” He rocked back on his heels, the picture of confidence again.

Ellie couldn’t resist knocking him off balance. “Then I can’t imagine what you would have thought of my tattoo.”

Dear Reader,

Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope you are enjoying a happy and romantic month.

Harlequin is romance, so February 14 is an extraspecial day for us. Some people say it with flowers, others with chocolates, others with expensive jewelry, but those three little words, I love you, are perhaps the best words in our vocabulary. And at Harlequin, we get to be part of this experience all year long!

As a treat for this special day, what better way to recall the joy of falling in love, than with our Love & laughter selection this month. RITA Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella spins a delightfully comic tale of identical cousins (they walk alike, they talk alike...) and the man who doesn’t know which woman he’s In love with! Talented newcomer Stephanie Bond hits a hilarious note in Irresistible? Single and dateless Ellie Sutherland, who considers Valentine’s Day Black Friday (I know those of you who are single on Valentine’s Day can relate!), takes scientific action to land a man.

Wishing you much love—and laughter,

Malle Vallik

Associate Senior Editor

Irresistible?

Stephanie Bond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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STEPHANIE BOND’S friends, family and fellow computer programmers are usually surprised when they discover she writes comedy. After all, computer nerd and comedienne aren’t typical hand in glove occupations. “Actually, I’m sometimes amused by the whole idea myself,” she says, laughing. “I’m not an especially funny person—I’m just one of those people that funny things happen to.”

When Stephanie isn’t in front of her computer working or writing, (she admits there’s so much food in her keyboard that it crunches when she types), she’s usually boating with her husband, Chris, or at home near Atlanta, contemplating the grime on her windows.

Stephanie would love to hear from her readers. Write to her at 6225 Song Breeze Trace, Duluth, GA 30155

Many thanks to Natalie Patrick and Beth Harbison for giving me a leg up;

To Rita Herron, Hillary Bergeron and Mary Barfield for the weekly cheerleading;

And to Chris Hauck, for providing a constant source of comedic inspiration—our marriage.

1

ELLIE SUTHERLAND opened her mouth to speak, but the sound that emerged was more like a croak. “I’m fired?”

Her supervisor, Joan Wright, coughed lightly, then leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk. “Not fired. With the new budget cuts, I’m afraid we have no choice but to let you go. In one week,” she added sorrowfully. “Please don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t believe this,” Ellie mumbled, shaking her head. How am I going to make the rent?

“Ellie, yours is not exactly a dream job.”

“Oh, great,” Ellie said. “I’m fired from a job that sucks, and that’s supposed to make me feel better.” Credit cards. Food.

“You know what I mean, Ellie. You’re overqualified to be a gofer in a dumpy little federally funded arts center. You’re too talented.”

“Yeah, that’s why gallery owners are beating down my apartment door.” Utilities. Painting supplies.

“You’ll get your break. Just hang in there. You know as well as I do it takes talent, luck and perseverance to make it in the art industry. And since you have incredible talent, you only need one of the other two qualities.”

Tears pricked the back of Ellie’s eyelids. “I had a feeling when I woke up this morning I should just stay in bed.” She sighed. “I’d hoped to make some contacts at this job.”

Joan brightened. “You did—me. I’ll see what I can do about throwing some commissions your way.”

Ellie raised her head to look over at the woman who’d become a friend in the short time they’d worked together. She could tell Joan felt bad about the turn of events. Ellie summoned her best what-the-hell smile, rose to her feet and said, “I’d appreciate it.”

“Let me buy you lunch,” Joan offered, glancing at her watch.

Ellie shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll be poring over the want ads.” She trudged toward her tiny cubicle and grabbed her purse. She couldn’t afford it, but she’d go out for lunch today and save the bagged egg-salad sandwich for dinner. Right now she needed the time to think.

She walked half a block to her favorite gourmet deli, then admired the handsome order taker as she waited her turn. The hunky guy in the apron was no small part of the reason this was her preferred lunch stop. When she stepped up to the counter, she took her time ordering a salad. The guy scribbled her order on a pad, then studied her intently. Ellie smiled demurely, enjoying the unexpected attention.

“You’ve been in here before,” he stated simply.

“Several times,” Ellie confirmed, sucking in her stomach and turning at a more flattering angle. She saw his nostrils flare as he leaned toward her slightly and inhaled.

“May I ask what kind of perfume you’re wearing?”

Ellie fought to suppress the smirk that teased the corners of her mouth. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss, after all. “It’s my own special blend. I worked on it for months to get it just right.”

The attractive man smiled wryly and scratched his temple. “I just realized I get a migraine every time you come in here. I figure it must be the perfume.”

She stood stock-still, her eyes darting sideways to see how many people were privy to the remark. Several customers snorted to cover their laughter and the buxom, vacant-eyed blonde behind her looked downright triumphant.

Ellie paid for the salad as quickly as possible and slunk to a table by the door. Will this day ever end?

She sighed as she sipped her diet cola and skimmed the wedding announcements. Starting with the life-style section had seemed like a good way to cushion her journey to the classifieds. But rather than enjoy the snippets about impending weddings, Ellie miserably counted off the handsome men with straight teeth who were now officially out of circulation in the city of Atlanta. She conceded the pictures also proved a little less female competition existed, but a new crop of coeds graduated every spring to catch the eyes of marriageable men. And spring commencements were upon the city.

She winced. Twenty-nine and dating wasn’t so bad. But twenty-nine without a prospect in sight was downright depressing.

The bell on the door tinkled, announcing another customer. A stiff gust of unusually warm May air rushed over Ellie’s table, lifted the page she’d been reading and wrapped it around her head. She clawed at the sheet with her hands, battling the breeze. After a few seconds of flailing, she tore her way clear, sneaking a glimpse at the person who’d just entered.

Her pulse jumped in appreciation of his profile. His dark head was down, alternately consulting his watch and a day calendar spread on his palm as he joined the long line snaking toward the counter. Ellie frowned at the expensive drape of the olive-colored Italian suit and turned back to her mangled paper.

Why do the cute ones always look as if they were just stamped out with a Donald Trump cookie cutter? Give me a great-looking guy who doesn’t own a beeper and I’ll give him lots of imperfect little kids. Where are all the good men, anyway?

A sudden jolt to Ellie’s elbow sent her cola flying, dousing the paper, her salad and her lap. The icy liquid sluiced down her legs, stealing her breath. Ellie raised her arms, helplessly watching bubbly pools gather and run over the sides of the tiny cafe table to plip-plop onto the white tile floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and mourned the short life of the white linen skirt she’d scrimped for two months to buy. Then she stood and furiously spun to face the klutz who had ruined her lunch and her outfit.

Mr. Italian Suit had wedged himself between her table and another one, presumably to take a cellular phone call in peace, away from the din at the counter. He held one finger to his ear and stood with his back to Ellie. The big palooka hadn’t even noticed his errant rump had wreaked so much havoc. Or worse, he didn’t care.

“Hey!” Ellie yelled, reaching up to poke the man none too gently on his shoulder blade.

The man was just ending the call and turned toward her, his chocolate-colored eyebrows lifted in question. Ellie caught her breath. Mamma mia. He was gorgeous. Light brown hair, with green eyes framed by those wonderful dark, dark eyebrows and lashes.

“Yes?” he asked, apparently still unaware of the soda puddling around Ellie’s shoes.

Ellie opened her mouth to speak, and the phone started ringing again. The man muttered, “Excuse me,” then flipped down the mouthpiece and said, “Hello? Yeah, Ray, what’s up?” He glanced at Ellie and shrugged apologetically. Ellie stood, arms akimbo, and glared.

Of all the nerve! A few diners around her tittered and shook their heads. The hunky guy in the apron cast worried glances toward the spill. Well, Armani-man had picked the wrong day to mess with Ellie Sutherland.

She marched around to face him and jerked the phone from his unsuspecting hand. “Ray,” Ellie spoke into the phone, “he’ll have to call you back, sweetie.” She snapped the mouthpiece closed, but held the phone out of reach when the red-faced man lunged for it.

“What are you, some kind of lunatic?” he thundered. “That was my boss—give me my phone!”

“No,” Ellie said sweetly. “Not until you pay me for damages.”

“Damages?” Confusion cluttered his handsome face. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Ellie swept her arm down dramatically to indicate her skirt.

The man stared blankly. “You’re saying I did that?”

“That’s right.” Ellie smiled tightly. “And I have witnesses,” she added, gesturing to the diners close by.

The man looked flustered, then sighed, withdrew a gold business-card holder, flicked out a card and extended it to her. “Send me the cleaning bill.”

Ellie pushed his hand away. “No cleaning bill, mister. A new skirt. You can’t get cola out of white linen.”

The man looked briefly at her skirt and made a sound as if he didn’t deem the garment worth saving. He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously out of his element dealing with a pint-size irate woman. “How much?” he asked finally, taking out his money clip.

Ellie couldn’t help doing a double take at the wad of bills stacked there. “Geez, mister, what are you doing carrying that much cash around? You got a mugging fantasy?”

Every eye in the diner turned to the money in his hand. The man looked around, then shook his head and leaned forward. “Great,” he whispered angrily in Ellie’s face. “That’s just great! Why don’t you go out and tell everyone on the sidewalk, too?”

Ellie balked and swallowed. “Sorry.”

“How much?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Let’s see...” Ellie frowned. “The skirt was brand-new. This is the first time I’ve worn it.”

“How much?” he demanded, counting off bills. “Fifty?”

“Well, then there’s my salad and drink.”

“Sixty?”

“And my panty hose are sticky.”

The man inhaled a mighty breath and expelled it noisily. “Here’s seventy-five, and we’re even, okay?”

“Okay.” She took the money, grinning. “Thanks.”

“Do you think I could possibly have my phone back now?”

“Oh, sure,” she conceded with a generous smile, handing him the unit.

He snatched the phone out of her hand and gave her a final glare, then strode out of the deli without ordering. Immediately, he began punching numbers as he walked by the window and out of sight.

“Yuppie scum,” Ellie murmured, counting the bills. “What a waste of good looks,” she continued to herself, stuffing the bills into her wallet. She mopped up the table and herself as much as possible, ordered another soda, then begrudgingly turned to the want ads.

Jobs were plentiful on the north side of town, in Alpharetta. But Ellie didn’t own a car and public transportation hadn’t yet caught up with the economic explosion in that area. She narrowed her job search to the few-mile radius surrounding her Little Five Points apartment. She could ride her bike if necessary, or take the train. The pickings were slim, and the artistic opportunities were nil. She had resigned herself to the waitressing section, when a blocked ad caught her eye.

Wanted: Single women of any age with no current romantic attachments to take part in a four-week clinical study. Minimal time commitment. Above-average compensation. Must be willing to keep daily journal.

Ellie frowned. No current romantic attachment. She scanned the bottom of the ad to see if she was mentioned specifically by name. No, but it looked, sounded and smelled like her. She wondered briefly if it could be a scam to target unsuspecting women, but she recognized the address as a reputable clinic. Shrugging, she circled the ad with a red felt-tip pen. It was worth a phone call. A glance at her watch told her she’d be better off to make the call from her desk.

The rest of the afternoon passed mercifully fast. Everyone had heard Ellie would be leaving, so in between expressing their heartfelt regret, co-workers piled last-minute remedial tasks on her desk. Somehow between photocopying, filing, and delivering mail, she managed to call the clinic to obtain a few vague details about the study.

The woman who answered prescreened her with several lengthy general questions. Ellie had to interrupt the interviewer twice to answer other calls. After paging Joan over the intercom, Ellie feverishly punched a button to retrieve the woman she’d been talking to.

“Sorry—I’m back. Now, where were we?”

“Are you heterosexual, bisexual or homosexual?”

“Hetero.”

“And are you currently romantically involved with anyone?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had sexual relations with a man?”

Ellie coughed. “Um. about a year.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Ellie sighed. “Fourteen months, five days, and—” she checked her watch “—two hours.”

“Very good.”

Indignation flashed through her. “If you must know, no, it wasn’t very good.”

“That wasn’t a question, ma’am,” the bored screener replied.

Her cheeks burned. “Oh.”

“There will be an information meeting tomorrow evening.” The woman gave her the time and place, and the compensation rate.

Impressed, Ellie counted the days on her fingers until her rent was due, then asked, “When will the study begin?”

“As soon as enough participants register,” the woman told her. “And you’re the most ideally suited caller we’ve had today,” she added cheerfully.

Ellie’s eyes rolled. “I’m thrilled for us both,” she said, then slammed down the phone just as Joan walked around the corner.

“We’re thrilled for you too, Ellie,” she said, fighting a grin.

“How much of that did you hear?” she asked, embarrassed.

Joan started to respond, but was interrupted by a yell from John, the accountant who sat two cubicles over from Ellie. “No more than anyone else, Miss Fourteen Months, Five Days and Two Hours.” Choruses of hoots and cheers all over the department backed up his belly laugh.

Her eyes darted to Joan. “The intercom?” she whispered.

Joan bit her lower lip and nodded sympathetically.

DESPITE THE frightful DAY, Ellie’s spirits rose on the walk home. Yes, it was incredibly expensive to live in downtown Atlanta. Yes, traffic was a nightmare. And yes, in summer the humidity was unbearable. But it was worth every inconvenience to be part of the supercharged atmosphere. Ellie loved the outdoor cafés, the street musicians, the colorful murals, the unique shops. People-watching was one of her favorite pastimes, and the eclectic mix of residents that made up the artistic and somewhat affluent area of Little Five Points always provided a treat for the eyes. Atlanta was a wonderful place to live. Now if she could just find a decent job.

Ellie pulled her keys from her purse as she walked down the hall to her apartment. When a motion in front of the door caught her eye, she gasped. “Esmerelda, what are you doing outside?”

The tabby meowed an indignant reply, and Ellie scooped her up, hurriedly glancing down the hall. Her landlord would probably evict her if he discovered she was breaking the no-pet rule.

“It’s me,” Ellie yelled as she walked in. She could hear Manny in the kitchen. Dumping the cat on the couch, she said, “Esmerelda must have gotten out when I left this morning.” She headed in the direction of enticing aromas, her pet pouncing off the sofa to follow her.

“Naughty puss,” Manny chided, shaking a long finger at the cat. “Bad day?” he asked when Ellie flung her purse on the table.

Ellie suddenly felt close to tears. “Would being fired and having my new skirt ruined qualify?”

Her roommate clucked and came over to give her a hug. “You’ll find another job,” he said soothingly. “And that skirt—” he examined it with a thoughtful eye “—we’ll dye it black and no one will ever know.”

Ellie laughed. “You’re an incurable optimist. Can’t you let me be depressed for even a little while?”

He shook his blond head. “No. Now go change. I’m trying something new for dinner.”

Ellie stopped long enough to unwrap her uneaten egg-salad sandwich for Esmerelda, then walked the few steps through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom. Manny Oliver was a gem. They’d been friends for three years—in fact, his friendship with Joan Wright had landed Ellie the job at the arts center in the first place.

He made his living doing cabaret shows in drag. Ellie had seen him perform many times, and stood in awe of his singing, dancing and his killer legs. Her male roommate looked better in stockings and heels than she did. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the man could cook, too.

After Ellie had changed, and joined Manny in the kitchen, she recounted her day over a scrumptious meal of Italian potato dumplings.

“Men are dogs,” he supplied when she described the deli disaster.

“He gave me seventy-five bucks,” she said, grinning.

“But rich dogs can be housebroken,” he amended, and they both laughed. “Was he divine?”

She nodded, the image of the man’s face forming in her mind. “Definite model material.”

“Nice dresser?”

“Immaculate.”

“Straight?”

Ellie shrugged. “I think so, but who knows these days?”

“Tell me you got his name,” Manny pleaded.

“No, he offered me his card, but I smacked it away.”

He shook his head. “Ellie, how many times do I have to remind you, the game is hard to get, not impossible.”

She laughed. “He wasn’t my type at all, Manny. A real stuffed shirt. I’ll bet you couldn’t get a toothpick up his—”

“Ellie!”

“Well, you know what I mean. Except for his obviously better taste in suits, he reminded me of the way my dad used to be—a corporate robot.”

“People change, Ellie. Look at your dad. The man sees more naked people than a doctor.”

“Yeah,” she said with a short laugh. “Imagine my mom and dad retiring next to a nudist colony. It was by accident, you know.”

“Oh, sure, Ellie, what would you expect them to tell their daughter? If they didn’t know about the nudist colony when they moved there, why haven’t they posted a For Sale sign in the two years since?”

“I don’t want to think about it. The whole situation brings to mind pictures I’d rather not see.”

“The point is, your dad finally mellowed out.”

Ellie snorted. “After thirty years of missing family dinners and undergoing two bypass surgeries.” She stabbed another dumpling. “My mom should have left him decades ago.”

“He’s a good man, Ellie, you said so yourself.”

“He neglected his family.”

“But your mom was always there for you.”

Angry tears welled in her eyes. “But who was there for her?”

Manny reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her a light shake. “They’re happy now, Ellie. Save it for your therapist.” He took a sip of wine, then asked, “So what are you going to do about rent money?”

Leave it to Manny not to mince words. “I called about an ad for participants in a clinical study. The money sounds good—I’m going to find out more about it tomorrow night.” She told him about her conversation with the screener. Manny laughed and agreed it sounded promising.

“You’ve got a guardian angel on your shoulder, Ellie. How else can you explain losing a job, then finding a want ad for desperate women on the same day? A toast!” He lifted his wineglass to hers.

Ellie stuck out her tongue at him, then good-naturedly clinked her glass to his.

THE MEETING ROOM WAS more crowded than Ellie had expected. Based on the cramped accommodations, the crowd had apparently surpassed the clinic’s expectations, as well. The room resembled a college classroom: no windows except the tiny one in the door, fairly new, dense low-grade carpet in a speckled gray, and filled with more folding chairs than the fire marshal would probably care to know about. A large blackboard covered the entire front wall. The side walls were adorned with various-size corkboards bearing dozens of multicolored sheets on topics ranging from sleep disorders to impotence.

Ellie lowered her dark glasses and, as inconspicuously as possible, peered at the other women in the room. She judged her appearance to be somewhat better than the room’s average, and the observation depressed her even more. She pulled down her floppy hat and slumped in the hard metal chair.

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.

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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