Irresistible?

by Stephanie Bond

  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.