Irresistible?

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Ellie snapped her fingers. “Good idea.”

THE LAW OFFICES of Ivan, Grant, Beecham and Blackwell were several blocks away, but easily accessible by bicycle. Ellie pulled on a neon green helmet that matched her bike, strapped on her backpack of supplies and jumped on to begin pedaling away her breakfast calories. No man could possibly flirt with her at this speed.

It was another beautiful day, too nice to be cooped up inside. She figured she’d be through with Mark Blackwell by noon, then she could spend the day sketching crowds at Underground Atlanta in preparation for her next portfolio painting. She stopped at a traffic light and waited for a police officer to wave her through the dense jam.

The police officer was within touching distance. And, she noticed, cute beneath his half helmet. He waved the traffic by on the side street, but his eyes stayed on Ellie the entire time, a whistle clasped between white teeth. She smiled at him and he smiled back. He waved through more traffic and studied her legs. She smiled. He waved through more traffic and winked at her. She winked back. Suddenly horns began to sound behind her from commuters impatient with the lengthy amount of attention the officer paid to the cars on the side street. Finally, he pulled his eyes away from Ellie and blew his whistle to halt the line of cars whizzing by. When she pedaled by, he lifted his hand to his helmet in a friendly gesture. Definitely the pheromones, she thought.

When she reached Mark’s building, she took the elevator to his floor. The law offices were much quieter than the previous day, but still busier than Ellie imagined they would be for a weekend. On the other hand, Mark Blackwell probably worked Saturday, Supday and holidays. To her surprise, more than one set of male eyebrows raised appreciatively when she made eye contact in the halls. Of course, she did look a little out of place wearing her cycling togs.

Monica’s station sat neat and unoccupied, so Ellie stepped to Mark’s office door and knocked.

“Come in,” he called.

He sat at his desk, pen in hand. He glanced at his watch and said, “I was getting ready to check the men’s room.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I had a flat this morning.” She patted her bike, walked it over to the side wall and lowered the kickstand.

She pulled off her gloves and realized he was staring quizzically at the bike. “No place to chain it up out front,” she said cheerfully. “I can’t afford to have it stolen.”

He pointed to the bags of dried herbs she’d picked up from a street vendor on the way. “I hope you don’t plan to smoke that stuff.”

Ellie glanced at the ingredients she’d purchased for a new perfume recipe. “Not here,” she said, grinning wryly.

“Is that your night gear?” he asked, smirking, and indicated her neon clothing.

Ellie looked down at her pink bike shorts and bright yellow tank top. She had certainly dressed down today, complete with running shoes. She pulled off her helmet and ran a hand through her short waves. “You can’t be too safe in this traffic.”

He stood, tossing the pen on a stack of documents, and tugged gently at his waistband. Ellie caught her breath. Mark Blackwell looked deadly in pleated olive slacks and an off-white shirt, open at the collar and revealing a shadow of dark hair. Easy, girl. This is just a job. His jacket hung from a light-colored wooden valet in the corner behind his desk. Several ties hung there, as well as a white shirt, still under the dry cleaner’s plastic.

“I see you brought the things I suggested,” she said, nodding her approval.

His eyes locked with hers. “I’m nothing if not obedient,” he said in a tone which indicated that wasn’t the case at all.

The undigested omelette flipped over in her stomach. “Well,” Ellie said nervously, “let’s get started, shall we?” She unstrapped her backpack and pulled out a folder. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up an employment contract.”

Mark poked his tongue in his cheek as if he was amused, but said nothing.

“Pretty simple stuffy, really,” she continued. “It mentions the materials used, the fee and the delivery time frame of the portrait.”

Mark reached for the document and read it quickly. His eyes swung up to her. “I would never have imagined painting to be so lucrative.”

Ellie set her jaw and took two deep breaths. “It isn’t. Jobs like this are few and far between. And I’m buying all the supplies, which includes framing the finished portrait.”

“Still, it’s a lot of money. You must be very good.” He sounded doubtful.

Ellie bit her tongue, tempted to mention the Piedmont Park scene hanging ten feet from her, but the thought suddenly struck her that maybe he didn’t even like the picture and had merely inherited it with the office. Instead of leaving herself open, she raised her chin, gave him a small smile and said, “I am very good.”

Mark Blackwell chewed on his tongue for a moment. Then cleared his throat. “What is a ‘kill fee’?” he said, looking back to the document.

Ellie shrugged. “My protection. I do freelance photography for magazines, and I’ve been burned on last-minute publishing cancellations. This protects me if you—” She stopped and bit her bottom lip.

“If I’m run down by a beer truck?” he finished.

“You could say that, although I doubt if the term has ever been applied quite so literally.”

“What if I don’t like the painting?” he asked, laying aside the contract and folding his arms.

Ellie opened her pack and pulled out miscellaneous supplies, including a camera. “Satisfaction guaranteed,” she said, smiling wryly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but a knock on the door stopped him. “Yes?” he called.

The door opened and a handsome, wiry, black-haired man stepped in. “Blackwell, about the Morrison deal—” He stopped when he spied Ellie, a blatant admiring look crossing his face. Glancing back to Mark, he said, “Maybe we can discuss this some other time.”

Mark’s face hardened. “After our conversation yesterday, Specklemeyer, I thought there was nothing left to discuss.”

The tension between the two men hung in the air, almost palpable. “Perhaps I should wait outside,” Ellie offered, starting for the door.

Mark stopped her, holding up his hand. “No.” He glared at the younger man. “This won’t take long.”

Specklemeyer’s shoulders went back and anger diffused his smooth skin. “Morrison is my client, and I intend to do what the man asked me to do.”

Mark’s voice hummed low and deadly. “You work for this firm, and you will do what you’re instructed to do. If not, there won’t be anyone here to cover you when the IRS comes calling for you.”

The man’s face contorted in a sneer. “Being partner has gone to your head already, hasn’t it, Blackwell? Last week you were just a flunky like the rest of us, and now you think you have veto power.”

“You’re wrong,” Mark said calmly, refolding his arms. “I know I have veto power.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed, his fists balling at his sides. Convinced they were going to fight, Ellie moved her supplies back a few feet to the perimeter of the office, but when she glanced up, the younger man was stalking toward the door. He closed it with a resounding slam.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Mark said into the ensuing silence. “Tell me how this works,” he said, waving an arm to encompass Ellie and her things.

“First I need to see the other portraits yours will be displayed with so I can maintain the corporate mood, so to speak. Your secretary mentioned it will be hung in the boardroom—is it close by?”

“Right this way.” He led her out of his office and down a wide hallway. The boardroom sat dim and deserted this weekend morning. It reeked of old books. The overhead lights did little to brighten the dark paneled room, so Ellie opened all the blinds. Then she walked around the room, perusing the five large somber portraits adorning the walls. Two partners had apparently retired—or worse.

“Pretty standard stuff,” she acknowledged, pulling a tape measure from her pocket and recording the size of the canvasses and frames. She glanced at the towering man beside her. “Wouldn’t you at least like to smile in your portrait? Remember, it’ll be your legacy.”

Mark frowned. “My legacy will not be a vanity painting on a wall.”

His vehemence surprised Ellie. “You have children?” It hurt more than a little to know he was married, after all.

The frown deepened. “No, I don’t have any children—yet.”

“But you’re married?”

“No,” he said, a bit flustered, then added, “not yet.”

“Engaged?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” she said knowingly, then turned her eyes back to the painting in front of her, immensely relieved.

“One of those what?” he said defensively.

“You’re a Peter Pan man. No wonder green suits you,” she said, indicating his slacks.

His mouth opened, then closed. Pointing with his index finger, he said, “I don’t believe this—you are psychoanalyzing me? And what is all this Peter Pan nonsense? Let me guess—Cosmo’s feature this month, right?”

“There have been volumes written on men like you,” she said, sashaying past him into the hall.

He caught up with her in a few seconds. She thought he’d be angry, but surprisingly, he seemed to concede defeat. “Do you by chance know my mother?” he asked. “Gloria Blackwell sent you here to torment me, didn’t she?”

Ellie laughed as she reentered his office. “No, I don’t know her, but I know someone just like her in Florida—Gladys Sutherland.” She shrugged. “It’s universal. It’s what mothers do.”

One corner of his mouth went up. “Is your mother a matchmaker?”

Ellie snorted. “She’s Chuck Woolery in a girdle.”

He laughed. “Mine, too. The last woman she set me up with brought a book along to read.”

Ellie threw her head back and laughed. “The last guy my mom set me up with informed me over a fast-food dinner that women were getting way out of hand and needed to be put in their place.”

“Oooh,” he said. “A real charmer.” Their laughter peaked, then petered out as they looked at each other and realized they’d just shared a friendly moment.

“Well.” Ellie cleared her throat, and moved toward her supplies. “I guess I’d better get to work.”

“Just tell me where you want me,” he said, hands on hips.

Ellie looked up and saw the implication in his eyes. He was tempting, all right. She measured her response. “How about in that straight-back chair by the table?” Which has always been a personal fantasy of mine.

“Suits me,” he drawled.

To her horror, a stab of desire knifed through her as she watched him swing his coat on, grab a tie and walk to the chair. She stood mesmerized as he efficiently tied a tiny knot at his throat, Watching his nimble fingers move was suddenly the most sensual thing she’d ever seen. Ellie moistened her lips with the tip of her shaking tongue. Few men could be this sexy putting on clothes.

The celibacy was making her behave this way. She’d gone too long without a man’s body next to hers. And now, the first time a man with the physique of an exotic dancer came along, she fell to pieces. She wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead. “Turn the chair sideways, and have a seat.” She picked up the camera and busied herself attaching the lens, willing her pulse to slow.

At this rate, she’d be jumping his bones by lunch.

Mark eased into the chair and exhaled deeply. She was doing it again, throwing him sexual crumbs—and he was gobbling them up like a starved man. He clenched a fist to steady his nerves, but his traitorous eyes sought her out. How was it possible this woman could turn screwing on a camera lens into foreplay?

He had steeled himself against her this morning, but he hadn’t counted on her wearing skintight elastic neon clothes. And little white crew socks with pom-poms on the heels. And for her hair to be so...mussed. He groaned.

“Are you okay?” Ellie asked, walking toward him, concern on her pert little face.

“Uh, sure,” he said, sitting straighter.

“First I’m going to rape you,” he heard her say matter-of-factly.

Lights burst behind his eyes. “Excuse me?” he croaked.

“Drape you,” she repeated. “I’m going to drape you.” She held several different-colored cloths over her arm and, picking up a navy one, shook it in front of him for emphasis. “See? I need to decide what color background would be the most flattering.”

Disappointment shot through him and he fingered his collar a fraction looser. “Whatever you say,” he said, laughing nervously. Get a grip, man.

Using small, capable-looking hands, she placed the navy fabric over his right shoulder. Her fingernails lightly nipped the back of his neck, and a gray swatch suddenly appeared over his left shoulder. Ellie stepped back to observe him, stepped forward to adjust the drapes, and back again, studying. She reached for her camera and snapped five or six pictures at lightning speed.

With eyes narrowed, she walked toward him and leaned forward. Suddenly her face was mere inches from his. He could see a freckle centered perfectly on the end of her nose, and for one crazy second, he thought she might kiss him. He parted his lips and waited. She grabbed his chin and adjusted his head, sharply, to the right. “Don’t move,” she ordered, then started snapping more pictures.

“I can’t,” he said testily. “I have whiplash.”

If she heard him, she didn’t acknowledge it. If fact, her next adjustment to his head was even more severe than the first. “Ow!” he yelped. But she was busy focusing and clicking. More drapes appeared, this time red and burgundy, then dark green and gold. To pass the time, he’d been halfheartedly keeping track of the number of rolls of film she’d used. But as she draped him in a deep plum color, he’d gotten a chinful of soft breast, and the blood rushed from his brain to more urgent parts of his body. She reloaded. Did that make twelve rolls? Or twenty-one?

Ellie Sutherland turned into a different person when she worked. She was a study in concentration, utterly efficient.

“Smile,” she ordered.

And she was devastatingly beautiful. He could imagine sliding those bike pants off and pulling her onto his lap, her straddling him wearing those delightful pom-pom socks.

“There’s a good smile,” she said. Click, click. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, keep thinking it.” Click, click, click.

He could reach under that ridiculous yellow tank top and push it up to expose her to him. She’d have great tan lines, her breasts outlined perfectly, surrounded by sun-kissed skin. And her nipples—

“Hey,” she said, lowering the camera. “The lurid grin suits you, but I don’t think it’s what you want for posterity, is it?”

Mark recovered with a start, and reined in his wayward thoughts. “Are you almost finished?” he asked somewhat brusquely.

“Just a few more,” she said, bending down on one knee for a different angle. When she stood up a few seconds later, Mark breathed a sigh of relief. Finished at last, he hoped. Then she would leave. Out of sight, out of mind.

Ellie, however, reloaded again. “Now, let’s try the white shirt and a different tie,” she said without looking up.