Read Irresistible? Online

Authors: Stephanie Bond

Irresistible?

“What is it about you?”
Uneasiness crept over Ellie as she fished for her shoes under the car seat “What do you mean?”
 
Mark looked over at her with an exasperated expression. “I mean you drive me to do crazy things like making out in the front seat of my car at a business dinner!” He turned back to stare ahead. “After all these years of keeping my nose dean, my boss suddenly thinks I'm Mr. Happy Pants.”
 
Ellie sat up angrily and snapped open her purse to retrieve her comb. The pheromone pills fell into her lap, and she froze. Beside her, Mark still muttered to himself. She coughed nervously. “Are we still going in?” She looked at him hesitantly. “I'm game if you are.”
 
“Yeah,” he said, straightening his tie. “It'll look worse if we don't.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Thanks for being a sport.”
 
At the door, Mark rang the bell, then smiled at her as they waited. “I'll have to admit, the garter belt was a nice surprise.” He rocked back on his heels, the picture of confidence again.
 
Ellie couldn't resist knocking him off balance. “Then I can't imagine what you would have thought of my tattoo.”
Dear Reader,
 
Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you are enjoying a happy and romantic month.
 
Harlequin is romance, so February 14 is an extraspecial day for us. Some people say it with flowers, others with chocolates, others with expensive jewelry, but those three little words,
I love you,
are perhaps the best words in our vocabulary. And at Harlequin, we get to be part of this experience all year long!
 
As a treat for this special day, what better way to recall the joy of falling in love, than with our Love & laughter selection this month. RITA Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella spins a delightfully comic tale of identical cousins (they walk alike, they talk alike...) and the man who doesn't know which woman he's In love with! Talented newcomer Stephanie Bond hits a hilarious note in
Irresistible?
Single and dateless Ellie Sutherland, who considers Valentine's Day
Black Friday
(I know those of you who are single on Valentine's Day can relate!), takes
scientific
action to land a man.
 
Wishing you much love—and laughter,
Malle Vallik
Associate Senior Editor
IRRESISTIBLE?
Stephanie Bond
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO •·MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST AUCKLAND
Stephanie Bond's
friends, family and fellow computer programmers are usually surprised when they discover she writes comedy. After all, computer nerd and comedienne aren't typical hand in glove occupations. “Actually, I'm sometimes amused by the whole idea myself,” she says, laughing. “I'm not an especially funny person—I'm just one of those people that funny things happen
to.
”
When Stephanie isn't in front of her computer working or writing, (she admits there's so much food in her keyboard that it crunches when she types), she's usually boating with her husband, Chris, or at home near Atlanta, contemplating the grime on her windows.
Stephanie would love to hear from her readers. Write to her at 6225 Song Breeze Trace, Duluth, GA 30155
Many thanks to Natalie Patrick and Beth Harbison for giving me a leg up;
To Rita Herron, Hillary Bergeron and Mary Barfield for the weekly cheerleading;
And to Chris Hauck, for providing a constant source of comedic inspiration—our marriage.
1
E
LLIE SUTHERLAND opened her mouth to speak, but the sound that emerged was more like a croak. “I'm fired?”
Her supervisor, Joan Wright, coughed lightly, then leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk. “Not fired. With the new budget cuts, I'm afraid we have no choice but to let you go. In one week,” she added sorrowfully. “Please don't take it personally.”
“I don't believe this,” Ellie mumbled, shaking her head.
How am I going to make the rent?
“Ellie, yours is not exactly a dream job.”
“Oh, great,” Ellie said. “I'm fired from a job that sucks, and that's supposed to make me feel better.”
Credit cards. Food.
“You know what I mean, Ellie. You're overqualified to be a gofer in a dumpy little federally funded arts center. You're too talented.”
“Yeah, that's why gallery owners are beating down my apartment door.”
Utilities. Painting supplies.
“You'll get your break. Just hang in there. You know as well as I do it takes talent, luck and perseverance to make it in the art industry. And since you have incredible talent, you only need one of the other two qualities.”
Tears pricked the back of Ellie's eyelids. “I had a feeling when I woke up this morning I should just stay in bed.” She sighed. “I'd hoped to make some contacts at this job.”
Joan brightened. “You did—me. I'll see what I can do about throwing some commissions your way.”
Ellie raised her head to look over at the woman who'd become a friend in the short time they'd worked together. She could tell Joan felt bad about the turn of events. Ellie summoned her best what-the-hell smile, rose to her feet and said, “I'd appreciate it.”
“Let me buy you lunch,” Joan offered, glancing at her watch.
Ellie shook her head. “Thanks, but I'll be poring over the want ads.” She trudged toward her tiny cubicle and grabbed her purse. She couldn't afford it, but she'd go out for lunch today and save the bagged egg-salad sandwich for dinner. Right now she needed the time to think.
She walked half a block to her favorite gourmet deli, then admired the handsome order taker as she waited her turn. The hunky guy in the apron was no small part of the reason this was her preferred lunch stop. When she stepped up to the counter, she took her time ordering a salad. The guy scribbled her order on a pad, then studied her intently. Ellie smiled demurely, enjoying the unexpected attention.
“You've been in here before,” he stated simply.
“Several times,” Ellie confirmed, sucking in her stomach and turning at a more flattering angle. She saw his nostrils flare as he leaned toward her slightly and inhaled.
“May I ask what kind of perfume you're wearing?”
Ellie fought to suppress the smirk that teased the corners of her mouth. Maybe this day wouldn't be a total loss, after all. “It's my own special blend. I worked on it for months to get it just right.”
The attractive man smiled wryly and scratched his temple. “I just realized I get a migraine every time you come in here. I figure it must be the perfume.”
She stood stock-still, her eyes darting sideways to see how many people were privy to the remark. Several customers snorted to cover their laughter and the buxom, vacant-eyed blonde behind her looked downright triumphant.
Ellie paid for the salad as quickly as possible and slunk to a table by the door.
Will this day ever end?
She sighed as she sipped her diet cola and skimmed the wedding announcements. Starting with the life-style section had seemed like a good way to cushion her journey to the classifieds. But rather than enjoy the snippets about impending weddings, Ellie miserably counted off the handsome men with straight teeth who were now officially out of circulation in the city of Atlanta. She conceded the pictures also proved a little less female competition existed, but a new crop of coeds graduated every spring to catch the eyes of marriageable men. And spring commencements were upon the city.
She winced. Twenty-nine and dating wasn't so bad. But twenty-nine without a prospect in sight was downright depressing.
The bell on the door tinkled, announcing another customer. A stiff gust of unusually warm May air rushed over Ellie's table, lifted the page she'd been reading and wrapped it around her head. She clawed at the sheet with her hands, battling the breeze. After a few seconds of flailing, she tore her way clear, sneaking a glimpse at the person who'd just entered.
Her pulse jumped in appreciation of his profile. His dark head was down, alternately consulting his watch and a day calendar spread on his palm as he joined the long line snaking toward the counter. Ellie frowned at the expensive drape of the olive-colored Italian suit and turned back to her mangled paper.
Why do the cute ones always look as if they were just stamped out with a Donald Trump cookie cutter? Give me a great-looking guy who doesn't own a beeper and I'll give him lots of imperfect little kids. Where are all the good men, anyway?
A sudden jolt to Ellie's elbow sent her cola flying, dousing the paper, her salad and her lap. The icy liquid sluiced down her legs, stealing her breath. Ellie raised her arms, helplessly watching bubbly pools gather and run over the sides of the tiny cafe table to plip-plop onto the white tile floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and mourned the short life of the white linen skirt she'd scrimped for two months to buy. Then she stood and furiously spun to face the klutz who had ruined her lunch and her outfit.
Mr. Italian Suit had wedged himself between her table and another one, presumably to take a cellular phone call in peace, away from the din at the counter. He held one finger to his ear and stood with his back to Ellie. The big palooka hadn't even noticed his errant rump had wreaked so much havoc. Or worse, he didn't care.
“Hey!” Ellie yelled, reaching up to poke the man none too gently on his shoulder blade.
The man was just ending the call and turned toward her, his chocolate-colored eyebrows lifted in question. Ellie caught her breath.
Mamma mia.
He was gorgeous. Light brown hair, with green eyes framed by those wonderful dark, dark eyebrows and lashes.
“Yes?” he asked, apparently still unaware of the soda puddling around Ellie's shoes.
Ellie opened her mouth to speak, and the phone started ringing again. The man muttered, “Excuse me,” then flipped down the mouthpiece and said, “Hello? Yeah, Ray, what's up?” He glanced at Ellie and shrugged apologetically. Ellie stood, arms akimbo, and glared.
Of all the nerve! A few diners around her tittered and shook their heads. The hunky guy in the apron cast worried glances toward the spill. Well, Armani-man had picked the wrong day to mess with Ellie Sutherland.
She marched around to face him and jerked the phone from his unsuspecting hand. “Ray,” Ellie spoke into the phone, “he'll have to call you back, sweetie.” She snapped the mouthpiece closed, but held the phone out of reach when the red-faced man lunged for it.
“What are you, some kind of lunatic?” he thundered. “That was my boss—give me my phone!”
“No,” Ellie said sweetly. “Not until you pay me for damages.”
“Damages?” Confusion cluttered his handsome face. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Ellie swept her arm down dramatically to indicate her skirt.
The man stared blankly. “You're saying I did that?”
“That's right.” Ellie smiled tightly. “And I have witnesses,” she added, gesturing to the diners close by.
The man looked flustered, then sighed, withdrew a gold business-card holder, flicked out a card and extended it to her. “Send me the cleaning bill.”
Ellie pushed his hand away. “No cleaning bill, mister. A new skirt. You can't get cola out of white linen.”
The man looked briefly at her skirt and made a sound as if he didn't deem the garment worth saving. He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously out of his element dealing with a pint-size irate woman. “How much?” he asked finally, taking out his money clip.
Ellie couldn't help doing a double take at the wad of bills stacked there. “Geez, mister, what are you doing carrying that much cash around? You got a mugging fantasy?”
Every eye in the diner turned to the money in his hand. The man looked around, then shook his head and leaned forward. “Great,” he whispered angrily in Ellie's face. “That's just great! Why don't you go out and tell everyone on the sidewalk, too?”
Ellie balked and swallowed. “Sorry.”
“How much?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Let's see...” Ellie frowned. “The skirt was brand-new. This is the first time I've worn it.”
“How much?” he demanded, counting off bills. “Fifty?”
“Well, then there's my salad and drink.”
“Sixty?”
“And my panty hose are sticky.”
The man inhaled a mighty breath and expelled it noisily. “Here's seventy-five, and we're even, okay?”
“Okay.” She took the money, grinning. “Thanks.”
“Do you think I could possibly have my phone back now?”
“Oh, sure,” she conceded with a generous smile, handing him the unit.
He snatched the phone out of her hand and gave her a final glare, then strode out of the deli without ordering. Immediately, he began punching numbers as he walked by the window and out of sight.
“Yuppie scum,” Ellie murmured, counting the bills. “What a waste of good looks,” she continued to herself, stuffing the bills into her wallet. She mopped up the table and herself as much as possible, ordered another soda, then begrudgingly turned to the want ads.
Jobs were plentiful on the north side of town, in Alpharetta. But Ellie didn't own a car and public transportation hadn't yet caught up with the economic explosion in that area. She narrowed her job search to the few-mile radius surrounding her Little Five Points apartment. She could ride her bike if necessary, or take the train. The pickings were slim, and the artistic opportunities were nil. She had resigned herself to the waitressing section, when a blocked ad caught her eye.
Wanted: Single women of any age with no current romantic attachments to take part in a four-week clinical study. Minimal time commitment. Above-average compensation. Must be willing to keep daily journal.
Ellie frowned. No current romantic attachment. She scanned the bottom of the ad to see if she was mentioned specifically by name. No, but it looked, sounded and smelled like her. She wondered briefly if it could be a scam to target unsuspecting women, but she recognized the address as a reputable clinic. Shrugging, she circled the ad with a red felt-tip pen. It was worth a phone call. A glance at her watch told her she'd be better off to make the call from her desk.
The rest of the afternoon passed mercifully fast. Everyone had heard Ellie would be leaving, so in between expressing their heartfelt regret, co-workers piled last-minute remedial tasks on her desk. Somehow between photocopying, filing, and delivering mail, she managed to call the clinic to obtain a few vague details about the study.
The woman who answered prescreened her with several lengthy general questions. Ellie had to interrupt the interviewer twice to answer other calls. After paging Joan over the intercom, Ellie feverishly punched a button to retrieve the woman she'd been talking to.
“Sorry—I'm back. Now, where were we?”
“Are you heterosexual, bisexual or homosexual?”
“Hetero.”
“And are you currently romantically involved with anyone?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you had sexual relations with a man?”
Ellie coughed. “Um. about a year.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Ellie sighed. “Fourteen months, five days, and—” she checked her watch “—two hours.”
“Very good.”
Indignation flashed through her. “If you must know, no, it wasn't very good.”
“That wasn't a question, ma'am,” the bored screener replied.
Her cheeks burned. “Oh.”
“There will be an information meeting tomorrow evening.” The woman gave her the time and place, and the compensation rate.
Impressed, Ellie counted the days on her fingers until her rent was due, then asked, “When will the study begin?”
“As soon as enough participants register,” the woman told her. “And you're the most ideally suited caller we've had today,” she added cheerfully.
Ellie's eyes rolled. “I'm thrilled for us both,” she said, then slammed down the phone just as Joan walked around the corner.

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