Irresistible?. Stephanie Bond

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      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.”

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