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Authors: Stephanie Bond

BOOK: Irresistible?
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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.
Mark gritted his teeth. How much longer was he going to have to put up with her incessant teasing? He stood and walked past her to the valet, loosening his tie along the way. With his back to her, he unbuttoned his cuffs, then the front, and slid the shirt off his shoulders. As he lifted the plastic from the white shirt, he distinctly heard the camera go off. He swung his head, but Ellie was wrestling with the camera, pointing it at the floor. Her head was down.
Mark turned back to his new shirt, and heard two more clicks. Again he swung around and her face looked downward, contorted from her strenuous efforts with the suddenly temperamental camera. This time, when he resumed his task of removing the shirt from the hanger, he kept her in his vision in a mirror to his right. While he appeared to be absorbed in undoing buttons, she glanced at him over her shoulder, then turned, focused on his naked back and snapped two quick pictures.
Why the little voyeur! Then a thought occurred to him, and he grinned to himself. “Don't turn around,” he said over his shoulder, rehanging the new shirt. “I must have sat down in talcum powder before I left this morning. Give me a minute to remove my pants and dust them off.” In the mirror, he saw the back of her head jerk up He unzipped his pants and made other noises of undressing, but left his slacks buttoned. Her head moved slightly side to side as if she was contemplating her next move. Just as she raised the camera and turned, so did he.
He heard two clicks before Ellie realized she'd been had. She straightened, her face flushing to a most becoming shade of deep rose.
“Are these for your personal collection?” he asked, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
Busted taking pictures of the man changing clothes! Ellie's mind raced faster than the heat growing in her cheeks.
Mark Blackwell stood completely still, except for a muscle that twitched beneath his left pec. God, the man was gorgeous. His shoulders were broad, his arms athletically defined, but not overly so. A tangle of dark hair covered his chest, his dark nipples slanted on firmly uplifted muscle. His waist was sectioned in flat planes of taut skin, which narrowed into his waistband. Ellie felt a single drop of sweat trickle between her breasts as she moistened her dry lips.
With an effort, she shrugged into a relaxed posture, then threw one arm up in what she hoped resembled a casual gesture. “It's not what you're thinking. Some people are more relaxed when they don't know their picture's being taken,” she said in her most authoritative voice, bobbing her head for emphasis.
Seconds passed. Then a full minute. She willed her head to stop bobbing, but it jerked up and down of its own volition.
“If you'd gotten the picture you wanted,” he said quietly,
“you'd know just how unrelaxed I am at the moment.”
“I don't know what you mean. Can we get on with this, please? I do have other plans for today.”
He eyed her for a few seconds longer, then a strange look came over his face. Reaching to tug on the white shirt, he said, “Sure.” His face once again melded into a serious, professional mask.
Ellie frowned while he concentrated on his buttons. No wonder this guy was still single. Who wants a moody man? Up then down, hot then cold in a matter of a few seconds.
Then it hit her and she almost slapped her forehead in revelation. She kept forgetting about the pheromones. The poor guy didn't know what was going on. It all made sense now—his early teasing, and now suddenly pulling back, as if he'd just regained his senses.
She busied her hands with the camera, but kept one eye on him. His hands were slow on his buttons, and he seemed almost thoughtful. So intent was she on analyzing his silence, his voice startled her.
“Do you mind telling me what kind of perfume you're wearing?”
Bingo! “I'm not wearing perfume,” she said.
Mark looked up and frowned slightly. “Scented lotion? Shampoo?”
Ellie shook her head.
“Are you sure, because I could swear...” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head in uncertainty.
“What does it smell like?” she asked. She could record his observations in her journal. The counselor stressed the importance of noting details.
“I don't know,” he said. “It's hard to explain. Like...fresh air.” He glanced at her, seeming embarrassed.
Ellie grinned nervously. “In downtown Atlanta? Your schnoz must be playing tricks on you.”
“Right,” he said, sliding on a tie and stepping to the mirror to complete the knot.
His phone trilled, causing Ellie to jump. Mark strode to his desk, glanced at the tiny number-display screen, then groaned.
“What?” Ellie asked.
“It's my mother,” he explained, picking up the receiver. “Hi, Mom...yes, I saw your number come up on the screen.” He looked at Ellie and smiled. “Yes, it's an expensive feature, but all the office phones have it...no, I don't know how much it costs, but it's worth it...yes, if I think of it, I'll ask Monica... yes, I promise.”
Ellie giggled and motioned she was leaving to give him privacy. Mark shook his head and waved her toward a chair, holding up a finger to indicate he'd wind up the call in a minute or so.
“No, the name of the person calling doesn't appear, just the number...uh-huh...no, it wouldn't be possible for you to know if Stella was calling from Gert's house, Gert's number would still appear.” He rubbed his eyes with index finger and thumb, clearly trying to remain patient.
Ellie enjoyed eavesdropping on his conversation. Even a senior partner could be reduced to childlike politeness around his mother.
“Mom, did you call just to talk about my telephone?” He frowned. “Oh. Sure you can ride with me and my date.” He turned slightly away from Ellie and she couldn't see his face.
Ellie felt a tiny pang of jealousy. Which was ridiculous, she thought. It was only reasonable to assume a man like Mark Blackwell dated, whenever his hectic schedule allowed, that is.
“No, you don't know her...uh, a couple of weeks now... yes, she's nice...no, no children...no, I don't think she's ever been married, but the subject hasn't really come up...yes, I agree that's very important, but it just hasn't come up...you'll meet her tomorrow, okay? Look, I've got someone in my office, so I'll call you later, okay? I love you, too, Mom. Bye.”
He hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, then turned a wry grin toward Ellie. “That was the infamous Gloria Blackwell.”
“She sounds persistent.”
“The IRS should hire her,” Mark agreed. Suddenly his face brightened. “Hey, are you busy tomorrow?”
Ellie's heart skipped a beat. A date? In an instant she remembered the woman in the clinic who had asked about the chances of meeting a great guy and then having the rug pulled out from under her when the pills wore off. It would be too easy to lose her heart to Mark Blackwell. Plus, she wasn't about to get involved with a man whose arteries were probably already clogged with stress. And he'd only made the offer because he was under the influence of the pheromones. Self-preservation kicked in. “I'm busy every Sunday,” she said.
“Working or playing?” he asked in a teasing voice.
“A little of both,” she admitted. “I usually go to Underground and set up an easel to draw caricatures.” Gathering courage, she stood and attempted to clarify the situation. “Look,” she said earnestly, “you're not exactly my type and I'm probably not yours, either, so—”

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