Turning the Good Girl Bad

Ooohh, a desk scene! Could she write that...?

Catherine realised Max had finished dictating and was sitting there, watching her, and closed her notepad with a snap.

‘So, Cathy...’ he said.

His voice sounded raw, and Catherine’s mind switched instantly to the job. ‘You need water,’ she said, standing. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘Huh?’

‘Water.’

‘Huh?’ he said again, and then gave his head a tiny shake.

‘Your voice sounds hoarse.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ he said irritably. ‘And I can get my own damned water—you’re not a servant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, anyway... The Queensland resort. I want to know what you think of all that.’

‘All that?’ Catherine repeated, sitting again.

‘Yes, all that. I wasn’t talking to myself, was I? Or maybe I was—because you don’t normally sit there like a spewed-up piece of basalt rock.’

‘Spewed-up basalt?’ she spluttered, caught between laughter and outrage.

‘Yeah—like out of a volcano. But where’s the molten stuff? Aren’t you going to rip into me about the...the...’ He stopped, searching for words, shrugged. ‘I don’t know—the native animals or something?’

‘I don’t rip into you!’ she said. ‘About anything.’

He laughed. ‘Now, that’s a lie.’

Catherine eyed him cautiously as he stood and walked around the desk, each step redolent with the prowling energy that distinguished all his movements. He stopped just to the side of her chair, then perched his gorgeous butt on the edge of his desk.

‘Well? Native animals?’ He plucked the notepad out of her hand, flicked through it.

Catherine shifted her chair backwards fractionally, clamping down on a spurt of temper. She’d had plenty to say on that subject already, as Max very well knew, because he forgot nothing, so what was this? Torture Your Personal Assistant Day?

She looked at one of Max’s slashing black eyebrows, which seemed safer than an actual eyeball. ‘Sorry—am I supposed to be allowing for your jet lag? Because you know what I think about that. You thought the same—and you’ve already addressed the issue.’

‘Oh, yeah, we talked about it at length didn’t we?’ Pause. ‘That night before I left for Canada. Right?’

That night. Catherine repeated those words in her head. That night—when she’d half wondered, half feared, that short, curvy, argumentative brunettes might actually get a look-in after all—and had ended up sexually frustrated, writing Passion Flower.

‘Okay, then,’ he went on, when Catherine remained silent. ‘What’s your opinion of the way I’ve addressed it? Will the changes I’ve recommended damage your perception of the resort? Does it seem less upmarket if the cabins are repositioned the way I just described and the layout and style are modified? Would you still go there?’

‘Yes, I’d still go. If I could afford to, I mean—which I can’t. So, no, I won’t go there, but I would.’

Catherine mentally slapped herself. Could that be the stupidest thing she’d ever said in her life?

‘Because...? You would still go because...?’ he prompted. ‘I’m not asking you for the answer to global warming, Cathy—just a simple opinion about the modifications.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘I would still go because, judging by the diagrams Carl was kind enough to show me while you were away, the redesign will actually be more in tune with the surroundings. More special. More...secret... That’s the way I’d describe it. Which feels more exclusive.’

Max held her notepad out to her. ‘Perfect. Put something like that in that last letter, will you? One more meeting on the environmental impact study—just a formality—and we should be ready to get things underway.’

She reached for the notepad and her knee accidentally brushed against the side of Max’s leg. Somehow that made her start to tremble. Sexual frustration alive and kicking!

Next thing Max was tossing her notepad behind him onto the desk and catching her hand in his. Four whole months without physical contact, and in one morning three separate hits?

Today just sucked.

‘You’re shaking,’ he said, his face full of concern. ‘And you’ve hardly said a word for the past hour. Something’s wrong. Are you ill?’

‘No, I’m not ill,’ she snapped. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

Max looked disbelieving.

‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, but he clearly wasn’t convinced.

Catherine tried to pull her hand free. ‘A bit tired, that’s all,’ she offered.

‘Tired? Why?’

Oh, for God’s sake.

‘Just a...a late night.’

She wondered what Max would say if she gave him the bald truth: A late night transferring a few sexual fantasies about you from my head to the page. Yeah—maybe not.

He let go of her hand—whew!—and folded his arms so his hands were jammed under his armpits.

‘Oh. A late night. I thought maybe—’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Must be lunchtime, right? I assume you have...’ Another clearing of the throat. ‘Do you have plans?’

She got to her feet with alacrity. ‘Yes, I do.’

He watched her for a long moment. X-ray eyes.

Catherine’s hand reached for the button that wasn’t there, and at last Max waved her towards the door. ‘Can you be back by one-thirty?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Catherine said, and dodged around him to grab her notepad.

She hurried from the office as Max reefed the report he’d taken from her in-tray off the desk, as though it would bite him if he didn’t subdue it.

Typical Max! He never just picked something up—he had to throttle it.

Back at her desk, Catherine neatened her work area mechanically. Simmering at the back of her mind was the worrying certainty that her working relationship with Max had gone off the rails this morning. That she’d been caught out.

Something’s wrong. Are you ill?

Yes, I’m sick with lust! What are you going to do about it?

He’d bypass the thermometer and go straight for the psychiatrist if he knew the truth.

She heard a curse float out from his office. He always cursed and tore his hands through his hair when something outside his control slowed him down, so he must have seen something wrong in the report.

She caught herself smiling, and pinched her lips to stop it. What the hell was there to smile at? If there was something wrong in the report Max had only himself to blame, because he’d choofed off to Canada instead of sticking around to beat it into shape.

And him choofing off to Canada was none of her business. She wished he’d go back to Canada. She wished he’d relocate to Canada and email his work in. Because it was not ‘our’ resort. It was his resort. And she would do well to remember that. Sharp, clear distinction between work and personal. Because work wasn’t personal. Work was work.

And, now she thought of it, she was going to change that scene in Passion Flower. That scene with Alex and Jennifer working in the office over a Thai meal—which she would make a...a...a Chinese meal. In fact she would delete the whole scene. Because in reality that interlude had ended with a brusque ‘Thank you for your help’ and a drive away—and what was so romantic about that? What did she think she was doing, turning that into a ‘Jenny, do you know how long I’ve wanted you?’ moment, complete with a slow reel in and a soft kiss?

She was a freaking idiot!

And her damned book sucked.

‘Sucked’: word of the day.

Her eyes moved to her in-tray, where her dark secret was buried.

Uh-oh. Where her dark secret was not buried.

Because the manuscript was sitting brazenly on top.

A whoosh of panic had her reaching for the back of her chair to steady herself. Until she remembered that the report had been covering it and Max had taken the report. That was the only reason the book was sitting there exposed.

Nothing to panic over.

Until she reached out to grab the pages so she could stick them in her briefcase...and saw the page on top.

She distinctly remembered scoring a red mark on the page when Max had called her name.

But there was no red mark on the page.

Catherine’s heart stopped, then started pounding. She slid into her chair, boneless. Flicked through her in-tray again. Sat stock-still for one appalled moment.

No red mark anywhere.

So...if the report had been on top of the manuscript, that meant...

No—God, no. Max Rutherford had picked up a few pages of her book along with his report!

And Max had started reading that report as she was leaving the office.

Hot, then cold, then hot. Hyperventilation. Paper bag...she needed a paper bag. Brain not working. Brain dead.

Then adrenaline tore through her veins and her synapses fired—electrified by pure fear—and she latched on to two essential facts: one, if Max had read even one sentence of those pages he would have come screeching out already and, two, she had to get those pages back.

Get them back immediately. But without running into his office, waving her arms and looking like an insane asylum escapee.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Nope—there was nothing for it. It was physically impossible for her to walk calmly into Max’s office.

She was going in like an insane person.

TWO

Max sighed, unwilling to give up until he’d read every page of the report—even if he had yet to take in a single word.

His mind wasn’t on it. His mind wasn’t in the office at all. His mind was at lunch.

But he wasn’t going to acknowledge whose lunch his mind was at, or why it was there. Because he was a moron, and had done nothing right for two weeks, and nothing had felt right the whole time he’d been away, and enough was enough, and it was time to put his mind back where it should be.

So he just sat at his desk, flipping, skimming, flipping, skimming. Counting down pages until he found a word he could take in: ‘Conclusion’.

One rush of air later he found himself holding nothing.

The report had been whisked out of his hands so fast it took a few seconds for him to feel the sting of the paper cut that had just been inflicted in the web between his thumb and his index finger.

‘Ouch!’

He looked up.

Catherine. Looking horrified.

That was...weird.

Catherine North never looked anything but completely composed. At least she hadn’t until today.

But, then again, Catherine North had never worn figure-hugging black that emphasised every mind-numbingly delicious curve until today. And Catherine North had never let a glossy, finger-luring curl stray out of place until today. And Catherine North had never had the skin of her legs visible until today. And Catherine North—

Was definitely looking horrified.

‘Lunch date stand you up?’ he couldn’t resist asking, wondering if there was a more direct way he could ask her who she was having lunch with without making himself look more of a moron than he already was.

Eyes huge behind the lenses of her tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, Catherine shook her head.

She didn’t seem inclined to add anything, so Max asked, ‘Did you want that report for a particular reason?’

He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue came out to scoot quickly across her bottom lip.

She had the sexiest bottom lip he’d ever seen.

‘No,’ she said, and the bottom lip pinched itself in, in its usual repressed fashion.

Still looked sexy, though.

Max sucked a drop of blood from his wound, waiting to hear what Catherine would add. But it seemed no more information was forthcoming. ‘Then do you think I could have it back?’ he asked politely.

‘It?’

‘The report.’

‘Of course,’ she said, looking down as she hived off some pages from the back and held the rest out to him. She turned quickly on her heel.

Before she could take a step, Max asked, ‘Don’t I get to look at those pages, too?’

She stopped. Her shoulders tightened. And then she shrugged and said over her shoulder, ‘Just some shredding you picked up by mistake with the report. I wanted to take care of it before I left for lunch.’

And then she was running out.

And Catherine North had never run anywhere in this office. Until today.

So... What was so special about today?

Max’s mouth turned down. In short—nothing.

His return to the office had been monumentally disappointing. Not that he’d had any business expecting anything to be different just because he’d been away for two weeks and they’d left things a little...

Ugh. A little nothing! That was how they’d left things.

They’d worked hard that night, and she’d been so gob-smackingly smart, and warm, and energised, and it had been great. Like a revelation. No, not a revelation—a confirmation...of something he’d always suspected. That Catherine was...special.

And then they’d taken the elevator down to the car park and he’d said, ‘Thank you for your help,’ and she’d said, ‘No problem,’ and they’d looked at each other... One, two, three, four beats.

And then they’d gone to their cars and driven off.

And he’d flown to Canada as fast as he’d been able to book and go.

Yep, he really was a moron.

‘Moron’: word of the day. And it was all his.

He went back to page one of the report.

Two minutes later he was cursing and slamming it down again. He was getting nowhere. And all because Catherine was...different. As if something had changed.

Running away to Canada without telling her had obviously been a mistake. But he’d just been...cautious. No, he was never cautious. More like reluctant. Reluctant to mess around with their excellent working relationship by giving in to his curiosity about her. Curiosity about what it would be like to—

No! He shot to his feet. He would not go there, even in his head.

He started pacing around the office, letting out some excess energy.

Not going there. Because it was one thing flirting in the office when you both knew the score, but quite another to hit on a strait-laced virgin who was not interested. Even his father, serial secretary-dater and all-round loser, didn’t go there.

And Ms North was not remotely interested. Ms North did not know the meaning of the word ‘flirt’. Ms North would skewer him with a letter-opener if he laid a lukewarm look on her, let alone a questing finger. Look at the way she’d freaked when he’d held her fingers for a couple of seconds—as if he was an eagle and she was a tiny bird struggling to get free of his talons. And the reception he’d got on arrival today, which had given new meaning to the word ‘unwelcome’. She’d even had it in for his new tie.

He looked down at his tie, decided she was right, and tugged it off. Laughed again as he went back to his desk and sat down.

And then he wondered if he was going mad, laughing about his tie in the middle of this mess. His hands went diving into his hair. It— No, she! She was so...so frustrating.

At first it had been a novelty, having an assistant who wasn’t remotely interested in his body.

But it had moved past that, to another novelty: being seriously attracted to someone who looked as if she’d faint if she heard the word ‘sex’.

Even without today’s hair and top and toenails—even when she was buttoned to the hilt in ill-fitting shirts covered with drab cardigans in shades of porridge and grey and dinge-green—he’d started feeling a little tortured—but in a weirdly good way—being near her.

That lemony fresh perfume she wore combined with her natural scent beneath it—lovely. The way her luminous hazel eyes shone behind her lenses when she was arguing her case—adorable. The habit she had of touching the button at her collar as though reassuring herself it was done up—intriguing. And when her fingers sneaked up to her perfectly shaped ear to touch the discreet gold hoop—demure...and yet somehow not demure.

He cursed under his breath, reached for the report again and saw another tiny bead of blood from the paper cut. He grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and blotted it. Frowned at his hand as he remembered the look on Catherine’s face. There had been something at the bottom of the report Catherine hadn’t wanted him to see.

Max thought back again to his arrival that morning. He’d been so shocked at how she looked he’d been blinded to anything else at first. But if he dug past that there had been...dismay. No, more than dismay. She hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. Because of...

The printing!

She’d been on edge because—and the truth was slapping him in the face now—he’d disturbed her printing something she shouldn’t have been printing. She hadn’t wanted to tell him what the document was—not that he’d really cared; he’d only asked because she’d looked so guilty. He’d wanted to goad her a little, get one of those mind-your-own-business glares out of her that just cracked him up. But now...?

What would a personal assistant be printing that her boss shouldn’t see? What would have her running in and snatching it out of his hands? Hmm...

Oh. Oh! Well, of course. A job application!

But she’d been printing reams. Too long for a letter and CV.

So not just one job. More than one. Which meant she wasn’t attracted to a special job she’d just happened upon but wanting to leave this job and going all-out scattergun to do it. God knew how many emails she’d sent to complement so many snail-mail CVs.

It was like an arrow between the eyes, and for a full minute he couldn’t think straight.

And then he could think. But his poor benumbed brain seemed willing to accommodate only one thought: Catherine wasn’t allowed to leave.

He forced himself to put that ironclad fact to one side. Because if his bogged brain didn’t start working how was he going to figure out a way to make her stay?

Just ask her to!

Okay, that seemed logical—although how he could do it out of the blue, when she hadn’t actually indicated she was unhappy with her job, was not immediately obvious.

Except... Damn. She’d said today she couldn’t afford to go to Kurrangii. Had to be a message in that. He wasn’t paying her enough.

Well, he could give her a pay rise. It was his company—he could pay her whatever he wanted. Whatever she wanted!

Good. Perfect solution.

Without further ado he was out of his chair and heading for the door. ‘Catherine!’ he bellowed, before he reached it.

Silence.

He bolted through the doorway, searching.

Empty.

Max leaned against the doorjamb, running both hands into his hair. Why hadn’t he asked her where she was going for lunch? Hello? Earth to Max? Irrelevant! As if he could invade her date to offer her a pay rise! He’d look completely deranged.

Dammit. He was going to have to wait until she got back. He hated waiting.

He checked his watch. Forty minutes.

Feeling he should be doing something, he circled her desk. Looking at its almost stately tidiness made him smile. It was strangely comforting to see the evidence of her fastidious little habits.

His brain went stubborn on him for the second time: Catherine wasn’t allowed to leave.

Of course if he had a copy of what she’d been printing he’d be in a better position to know what he was up against. What counter-offer would work.

But there was no paper on the desk. No paper anywhere. Reflexively, his gaze moved to the printer. Clean. Silent. Turned off. The computer, too. Strange.

He sat in her chair. Looked at the computer screen. Turned on the computer and signed in to the system.

A sudden mental picture of how he looked—at Catherine’s desk, in her chair, hunched in front of her computer—made him roll his eyes. Thank God their suite of offices was completely private, so nobody would wander past and see him in this shameful Machiavellian guise. But, even so, this was crazy! What had he come to? He should just wait for her to come back and ask her what was going on! The way a sane person would.

He reached to flick the computer off.

And saw it.

A document. Recovered—the way it happened when you turned off the computer suddenly. Just there on the screen, without him searching or opening anything. A document called... What the hell...?

‘Passion Flower’.

Passion Flower?

Max looked around, feeling a tad uncomfortable now the moment of truth had arrived and it turned out not to be a job application—because nobody called a job application Passion Flower.

Could he really do this?

It took him perhaps two seconds to decide that, yes, he could. He had a right to read any document he wanted—this was his business, these were his premises, it was his equipment. Really, he was honour-bound to look.

Three seconds after that he started reading. But he wasn’t prepared for the reality.

Underneath the title Passion Flower was a line in smaller type. It read: A novel of love, lust and loneliness.

And Max’s jaw dropped.

Jennifer Andrews had been dreaming of her boss for months. Wild, erotic dreams.

Definitely not a job application, Max thought, shell-shocked. No way was he going to stop, though.

He read, scrolled, read, scrolled.

He’d figured out the truth as soon as he’d clapped eyes on that strapline, but somehow it wasn’t until he arrived at page three that the knowledge crystallised into recognisable syllables.

Cathy was writing a novel.

A romance novel.

A sexy romance novel.

He scrolled again, avidly searching, the sentences and phrases beckoning to him like a siren’s call, wrapping around his senses.

She knew Alex would be back soon, but Jennifer was too impatient to sit calmly in the navy leather chair she always occupied.

Navy leather chair! Like the chairs in his office, where Cathy sat.

She was drawn to Alex’s office window. Ten floors down, Jennifer could see the Botanic Gardens. It felt like a scene trapped in time...the immaculate green of the trees...Sydney Harbour shining in the distance, a diamond-sprinkled sheet of blue silk...the sun radiating a heady, hazy aphrodisiac...

Tenth floor. Office window overlooking the Botanic Gardens. Sydney Harbour. Check, check, check.

Alex walked into the office, brown briefcase in hand, and fixed her with his blue-eyed stare.

‘Notepad, Jenny,’ he barked at her.

Max was incapable of stopping his fingers from hitting the down arrow as his eyes stayed glued to the monitor to see what would happen next.

Alex towered over her, six feet two inches from the top of his tousled black hair to his Italian leather shoes. She clutched the red silk of her peignoir against her chest...

Max’s finger kept punching the down arrow, almost obsessively.

A red silk peignoir...

What would Cathy look like in that?

Max breathed out and sat back in Catherine’s chair to recover the breath that had somehow become linked to an almost savage tightening in his groin.

He checked his watch, assessing how much time he had. A twinge of conscience hit him. He should not be reading this. He should stop. This was bad.

But he returned his finger, now a little shaky, to the keyboard.

* * *

Catherine was determined to be back at precisely one-thirty, as ordered, so she hurried her friend and colleague Nell through lunch fast enough to cause dyspepsia.

‘What’s the rush?’ Nell protested as Catherine all but grabbed a passing waiter by the apron to demand the bill before they’d finished their coffee. ‘Max isn’t going to mind if you’re late.’

‘I’ll mind. And would you stop staring at me? I’ve had enough of that from Max!’

‘Well, it’s such a change.’ Nell gulped a mouthful of coffee. ‘What did he say? Max? About the new you?’

‘Nothing of consequence.’

Which was the truth. Not that it was really the ‘new’ her; it was the old her—not that anybody at Rutherford Property could possibly know that.