Irresistible?

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?”