Irresistible?. Stephanie Bond

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