Читать книгу Irresistible? - Stephanie Bond - Страница 9
ОглавлениеELLIE 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.
“We’re thrilled for you too, Ellie,” she said, fighting a grin.
“How much of that did you hear?” she asked, embarrassed.
Joan started to respond, but was interrupted by a yell from John, the accountant who sat two cubicles over from Ellie. “No more than anyone else, Miss Fourteen Months, Five Days and Two Hours.” Choruses of hoots and cheers all over the department backed up his belly laugh.
Her eyes darted to Joan. “The intercom?” she whispered.
Joan bit her lower lip and nodded sympathetically.
DESPITE THE frightful DAY, Ellie’s spirits rose on the walk home. Yes, it was incredibly expensive to live in downtown Atlanta. Yes, traffic was a nightmare. And yes, in summer the humidity was unbearable. But it was worth every inconvenience to be part of the supercharged atmosphere. Ellie loved the outdoor cafés, the street musicians, the colorful murals, the unique shops. People-watching was one of her favorite pastimes, and the eclectic mix of residents that made up the artistic and somewhat affluent area of Little Five Points always provided a treat for the eyes. Atlanta was a wonderful place to live. Now if she could just find a decent job.
Ellie pulled her keys from her purse as she walked down the hall to her apartment. When a motion in front of the door caught her eye, she gasped. “Esmerelda, what are you doing outside?”
The tabby meowed an indignant reply, and Ellie scooped her up, hurriedly glancing down the hall. Her landlord would probably evict her if he discovered she was breaking the no-pet rule.
“It’s me,” Ellie yelled as she walked in. She could hear Manny in the kitchen. Dumping the cat on the couch, she said, “Esmerelda must have gotten out when I left this morning.” She headed in the direction of enticing aromas, her pet pouncing off the sofa to follow her.
“Naughty puss,” Manny chided, shaking a long finger at the cat. “Bad day?” he asked when Ellie flung her purse on the table.
Ellie suddenly felt close to tears. “Would being fired and having my new skirt ruined qualify?”
Her roommate clucked and came over to give her a hug. “You’ll find another job,” he said soothingly. “And that skirt—” he examined it with a thoughtful eye “—we’ll dye it black and no one will ever know.”
Ellie laughed. “You’re an incurable optimist. Can’t you let me be depressed for even a little while?”
He shook his blond head. “No. Now go change. I’m trying something new for dinner.”
Ellie stopped long enough to unwrap her uneaten egg-salad sandwich for Esmerelda, then walked the few steps through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom. Manny Oliver was a gem. They’d been friends for three years—in fact, his friendship with Joan Wright had landed Ellie the job at the arts center in the first place.
He made his living doing cabaret shows in drag. Ellie had seen him perform many times, and stood in awe of his singing, dancing and his killer legs. Her male roommate looked better in stockings and heels than she did. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the man could cook, too.
After Ellie had changed, and joined Manny in the kitchen, she recounted her day over a scrumptious meal of Italian potato dumplings.
“Men are dogs,” he supplied when she described the deli disaster.
“He gave me seventy-five bucks,” she said, grinning.
“But rich dogs can be housebroken,” he amended, and they both laughed. “Was he divine?”
She nodded, the image of the man’s face forming in her mind. “Definite model material.”
“Nice dresser?”
“Immaculate.”
“Straight?”
Ellie shrugged. “I think so, but who knows these days?”
“Tell me you got his name,” Manny pleaded.
“No, he offered me his card, but I smacked it away.”
He shook his head. “Ellie, how many times do I have to remind you, the game is hard to get, not impossible.”
She laughed. “He wasn’t my type at all, Manny. A real stuffed shirt. I’ll bet you couldn’t get a toothpick up his—”
“Ellie!”
“Well, you know what I mean. Except for his obviously better taste in suits, he reminded me of the way my dad used to be—a corporate robot.”
“People change, Ellie. Look at your dad. The man sees more naked people than a doctor.”
“Yeah,” she said with a short laugh. “Imagine my mom and dad retiring next to a nudist colony. It was by accident, you know.”
“Oh, sure, Ellie, what would you expect them to tell their daughter? If they didn’t know about the nudist colony when they moved there, why haven’t they posted a For Sale sign in the two years since?”
“I don’t want to think about it. The whole situation brings to mind pictures I’d rather not see.”
“The point is, your dad finally mellowed out.”
Ellie snorted. “After thirty years of missing family dinners and undergoing two bypass surgeries.” She stabbed another dumpling. “My mom should have left him decades ago.”
“He’s a good man, Ellie, you said so yourself.”
“He neglected his family.”
“But your mom was always there for you.”
Angry tears welled in her eyes. “But who was there for her?”
Manny reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her a light shake. “They’re happy now, Ellie. Save it for your therapist.” He took a sip of wine, then asked, “So what are you going to do about rent money?”
Leave it to Manny not to mince words. “I called about an ad for participants in a clinical study. The money sounds good—I’m going to find out more about it tomorrow night.” She told him about her conversation with the screener. Manny laughed and agreed it sounded promising.
“You’ve got a guardian angel on your shoulder, Ellie. How else can you explain losing a job, then finding a want ad for desperate women on the same day? A toast!” He lifted his wineglass to hers.
Ellie stuck out her tongue at him, then good-naturedly clinked her glass to his.
THE MEETING ROOM WAS more crowded than Ellie had expected. Based on the cramped accommodations, the crowd had apparently surpassed the clinic’s expectations, as well. The room resembled a college classroom: no windows except the tiny one in the door, fairly new, dense low-grade carpet in a speckled gray, and filled with more folding chairs than the fire marshal would probably care to know about. A large blackboard covered the entire front wall. The side walls were adorned with various-size corkboards bearing dozens of multicolored sheets on topics ranging from sleep disorders to impotence.
Ellie lowered her dark glasses and, as inconspicuously as possible, peered at the other women in the room. She judged her appearance to be somewhat better than the room’s average, and the observation depressed her even more. She pulled down her floppy hat and slumped in the hard metal chair.
Opening her pocket sketchbook, Ellie flipped through to find a clean page, always ready to draw the face of the person nearest her for a few minutes’ practice. Her hands stilled at the page where she had sketched a caricature last night. Mr. Italian Suit with the gooey dark eyebrows smirked back at her, a cellular phone clutched in his cartoon hand. His athletic body strained at the savvy suit, miniature in comparison to his big, good-looking head. Ellie studied the rendition of his eyebrows and nose and wondered how close she’d come to capturing his true expression. If she remembered when she got home, she’d add a smudge of green to highlight those brooding eyes.
At that moment, a bespectacled, lab-coated woman walked to the front of the room and raised her arms to hush the chatter.
“My name is Dr. Cheryl Larkin. I’m a medical doctor, and a professor of human behavior, and it is my privilege to oversee this clinical study. Each of you has been prescreened to a certain extent to qualify for a four-week experiment using pheromones, chemicals produced in animals which attract other animals of the same species.”
Ellie sat up. Her own experiments in perfume making had overlapped into the area of aromatherapy. She had become intrigued with the idea that certain scents could be aphrodisiacs. Supposedly, pheromones went even further.
The doctor continued. “Pheromones are subtle but powerful secretions. Some people say they explain the elusive chemistry that attracts a specific man to a specific woman, and vice versa. The objective of this study is to see what effect, if any, oral pheromones have on your ability to attract and meet a romantic interest.”
Ellie glanced around and saw that Dr. Larkin had the undivided attention of every woman in the room. Hope shimmered in the eyes of the shy, the overweight, the very short and the very tall. She swallowed because she knew her own baby blues reflected the same emotion.
“It will be necessary for participants to answer a lengthy and somewhat personal questionnaire, and to keep a daily journal detailing encounters, or absence of encounters, for each day.” A spirited buzz broke out in the room as applicants whispered excitedly to strangers next to them. Ellie ignored the gleeful exclamation of the middle-aged woman beside her.
“The dosage is two pills first thing in the morning, around midday, and again at bedtime. Besides the aforementioned hypothesis,” the doctor said, finally smiling, “there are no proven side effects with this particular formula. We will ask, however, that participants be especially aware of and record any changes in your energy level or in your eating and sleeping patterns.”
An arm shot up near the front. “Let’s say I take these pills and meet a great guy. You’re telling me after four weeks the rug gets jerked out from under me?” Everyone laughed and the doctor joined in, then raised her hands defensively.
“Wait a minute—we can’t guarantee you’ll meet even one eligible man during the course of this study. If that were true, we wouldn’t need the experiment at all.”
Intrigued, Ellie nodded. This could be fun. After the doctor had finished her talk, Ellie stayed to fill out the necessary paperwork and wait for a counselor to administer the dreaded questionnaire. Three hours later, she emerged with a week’s worth of pills and a small blank journal in her purse, feeling as if she’d just been to confession. But she noticed a new spring in her step. She believed in the powers of aroma. Pulling off the hat and dark glasses, she tossed her short blond locks.
Unsuspecting men of Atlanta, beware!
“WELL, Marcus, if you’re not going to get married, you’re going to have to learn to cook,” Gloria admonished her son as she held a dripping whisk.
Mark Blackwell plucked a green olive from the tray on the kitchen counter and popped it into his mouth, smiling. Il like to eat out.”
The plump woman turned back to her bubbling red sauce. “It’s beyond me how, out of all those women you’ve dated, not one of them could find her way around a kitchen.”
“I don’t—” he walked over and took the whisk from her hand “—date women for their culinary skills.” He flashed a grin in his mother’s direction.
“Oh, you,” she snorted, rapping him playfully on the arm. Then her tone grew more threatening. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to grow old all by yourself.”
“I’ll hire a comely young nurse,” he teased. “Besides, you’d be bored if you couldn’t fret over my state of bachelorhood all day.”
“Not if I had grandchildren,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.
Mark didn’t miss a beat in the familiar exchange. “You’re much too young to be a grandmother.”
“And you’re much too young to be working yourself to death in that law firm,” she chided.
Mark grabbed two plates and settled them onto his arm, waiter-style. “That’s what I came to talk to you about,” he said, smiling. He dished up a hearty helping of lasagne for each of them, and spooned on the rich homemade sauce. When he set the laden plates on the table, he struck a cocky pose and said, “Say hello to the newest partner of Ivan, Grant, Beecham, and...Blackwell.” He bowed slightly, rewarded with enthusiastic applause from his seated mother.
“How wonderful, Marcus!” She beamed and brought his hand to her mouth for a long kiss. “I’m so proud of you, son. I wish your father were here.” Tears sprang to her eyes immediately, but she blinked them away.
Mark swallowed the lump of emotion that lodged in his throat. He knew his father would be proud of him at this moment, even if Mark had “caved to the corporate philosophy,” as his flighty father was fond of saying. Ever the softheart, his dad had been struck by a car three years ago when he’d stopped to help a stranded motorist. Mark patted his mother’s hand. “I wish he were here, too,” he said simply, then smiled. “Now, let’s eat.”
During dinner, they chatted about his long-awaited promotion, but Mark had a feeling he wouldn’t escape without at least one more lecture on the importance of finding a good woman. Especially now that he’d made partner. He was right. As he helped his mother clean the dishes, she said in an innocent voice, “You know, the family reunion is this weekend. Are you coming?”
“Yes,” he said patiently. “Don’t I always?”
“Hmm,” she agreed, then asked, “Are you bringing a date? Your cousin Albert will be there with his new bride and baby. And Claire with her newborn—this is her third, you know. Her husband is such a dear man.”
“I can’t wait,” Mark said, inwardly wincing. He considered these get-togethers his penance for bucking the long family tradition of having a houseful of kids before having a house. He would endure one whole day of shaking hands and exchanging cheek kisses with new family members. And dutifully praising and holding everyone else’s kids while his mother drank wine in a corner and her sisters tsk-tsked over her woeful lack of grandchildren.
“So, are you bringing a date?” she asked hopefully.
“I’m definitely bringing a change of clothes in case Mickey’s little one has the runs again.”
Gloria covered her mouth and shook with laughter. “The video he took of you two is just precious.”
Mark rolled his eyes heavenward. “I’m awaiting my debut on one of those home-video shows.”
“Stop changing the subject. Are you bringing a date or not?”
His thoughts shifted to Shelia, the woman who’d last graced his bed. She hadn’t struck him as a woman who’d appreciate the rural pleasures of pitching horseshoes and doing the hokey-pokey. Neither did Vicki, Connie or Valerie, come to think of it. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. It was as close to a promise as he could make. Suddenly, a vision of short blond hair and flashing blue eyes came to mind, and he frowned. “I’m not really seeing anyone right now.”
Gloria clasped her hands together gleefully. “Stella’s niece is in town for the Sunday-school teachers’ convention—shall I give her a call?”
“No,” Mark said quickly, then recovered. “I have a lot to do at work this week, you know, rearranging my office and all that. I’ll be working late every night.”
His mother shrugged, clearly disappointed. “Suit yourself.”
Later, Mark squashed down guilty feelings which threatened to surface as he drove home. He knew his mother wanted to see him properly settled with a nice, quiet girl, but he truly liked being single. He’d sacrificed his social life during law school and the first few years after joining his firm in order to get a foothold. Now at thirty-six and established in his career, he was enjoying his unattached status. Life was good.
He almost managed to drive by the interstate exit to his office, but he merged onto the ramp at the last second. Just a few minutes to go over some paperwork, he told himself.
After he unlocked the office suite, he walked across the glossy inlaid wood floor not without a measure of pride. He considered the law office tastefully furnished, with just the right amount of opulence. His new office space had been achieved by removing a supply room adjacent to his existing office. He had been asked to select additional furniture, and he was pleased with his pecan wood and cream marble choices.
The Piedmont Park painting had been hung, and he approved of the location. One of his favorite pieces of art in the law office, he’d requested it for his own work area when the move began. He flipped on a floor lamp near his desk, and settled into his familiar tan leather chair to shuffle through the stack of papers on his desk.
Congratulatory memos comprised the top layer of paper. A box of cigars and an expensive leather-covered pen set were gifts from thoughtful colleagues. He smiled in satisfaction. Everything he’d worked for had finally been realized. He would never have to struggle like his father just to make ends meet. Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back in the swivel chair to prop his feet on the corner of his desk, basking for a moment in the recognition of his hard-won achievement.
Partner.
At a sound from the doorway, Mark turned his head. Patrick Beecham stood there, holding the hand of Patrick, Junior. “Hi, Mark,” Patrick said, his voice full of surprise. “Pretty late to be working.”
Mark rearranged himself into a position more appropriate for talking. “I could say the same,” he said to his partner with a smile.
“I just stopped by to get a fax,” Patrick said. The small boy pulled on his father’s pant leg. “This is Pat, Junior,” he added.
“I remember,” Mark said. “He’s growing like a weed. How’re you doing, buddy?” he asked the boy.
“Okay,” the child ventured, half hiding behind his father.
“Say, Mark,” Patrick said, “Lucy and I would love to have you over for dinner sometime. Do you have a lady friend?”
“You sound like my mother,” Mark said. “Are you two in on a conspiracy to get me settled down?”
Patrick laughed. “No, but I must admit it helps to have someone presentable when socializing with the other partners and clients. I’ll warn you—Ivan kind of expects it.”
Mark felt a sudden swell of anger that anything would be expected of him other than top-notch work. “I like being unattached,” he said evenly.
“So did I,” Patrick admitted. “But there comes a time when we all have to grow up. Luckily for me, Lucy was there when I came to my senses.” He swung the little boy into his arms. “Just food for thought, friend,” he said absently, tickling the little boy until he squealed. “Don’t work all night, and let me know about dinner, okay?”
“Sure,” Mark said. “Sounds great.”
Mark listened to the footsteps fading down the hall, and pounded his fist lightly on his desk in frustration. What idiot had said behind every successful man was a good woman? He’d made it this far on his own, and he wasn’t about to share the fruits of his labor with some money-hungry man-eater. He’d seen the way women’s eyes lit up when they discovered he practiced law. He’d seen them peruse every stick of furniture in his home as if assessing its worth. He bought nice things because it made him happy, not to impress women. And he resented the females who thought he’d be all too eager to turn over his possessions to their care. Demanding, all of them. Take that little chiseler in the deli the other day—seventy-five bucks for a scrap of fabric!
Where could he find a woman who’d settle for a no-strings-attached arrangement to be his escort, in return for a few nights on the town and an occasional romp? Oh, sure, they all said they weren’t looking for a commitment, but after a few dates, whammo! Feminine toiletries and articles of clothing started to appear in his house, and every jewelry commercial seemed too clever for her to let pass without a remark. Where was it written every man was supposed to settle down with one woman and be content for the remainder of his days?
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.
