Turning the Good Girl Bad

‘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.

‘And, anyway, remember the girlfriends? Susie, Maria, Leah? All tall, all blonde, all dressed in tight, short dresses? And that was just in my first month. And the parade of starry-eyed PAs before me? All tall, blonde, blah-blah-blah?’

‘Haven’t seen any of his famous blondes for a while.’

‘Oh, he’ll have one stashed somewhere. And, regardless, he wouldn’t notice me—not in the way you mean—if I burst into his office doing the Dance of the Seven Veils.’

Catherine delved into her purse and laid some notes on the table without waiting for the bill. ‘I’m paying—the least I can do after rushing you into a bout of indigestion. But can we go? Like...now? Right now?’

‘All right,’ Nell said, ‘but I still don’t get why we have to hurry. We’re not late.’

Catherine didn’t plan on enlightening her—because she couldn’t explain, even to herself, the unformed sense of panic that had been racing through her veins ever since she’d left the office. Telling herself that everything was fine and she was merely suffering from a guilty conscience and an over-active imagination didn’t seem to be working. And the panic just kept growing.

Catherine bade Nell a preoccupied farewell at level eight and, the moment she was alone in the elevator, jabbed irritably at the button for level ten. Although she knew the elevator wouldn’t ascend any faster just because she hit the button a thousand times.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the doors opened at her floor—only to choke on it as she rounded the corner from the lift lobby.

Max was sitting in her chair, eyes glued to her computer screen.

Ohhhhhhhh.

Not much of a thought, but all she could manage initially.

She reminded herself that she’d turned everything off, that the flash drive was in her drawer, the printed pages shoved in her briefcase, and there was no way he could be looking at Passion Flower. He was probably looking for the Queensland report to make some changes.

So breathe. Breathe and be normal.

‘Is there something you wanted urgently?’ she asked, forcing herself not to run to her desk but to walk slowly, calmly.

Max raised his head and looked at her—slack-jawed, marvelling, astounded.

And Catherine knew.

Max’s voice, when it finally came, was unbelievably husky. ‘You wrote this?’

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