Turning the Good Girl Bad

‘I didn’t mean for you to kill yourself!’

‘And I didn’t.’

‘Couldn’t you get someone else to get the files for you if they were too high?’ He started pacing in front of her. ‘In fact, why are they so high?’

‘I have no idea. I guess your last assistant was taller.’

‘Elise,’ Max said, matter-of-fact. ‘Yes, I guess she was.’ He looked at Catherine’s feet, her hideous flat shoes. ‘She wore high heels, too.’

‘Well, it seems your various Elises—’ oozed Catherine, dripping poisoned honey ‘—never threw out a piece of paper in their lives! I’ve found files so old they should be given a gold watch!’

‘Do you need help going through them?’ Max asked, ignoring her sarcasm to cut straight to the point.

Instantly Catherine’s back was up. No way was she going to get landed with a leggy blonde ‘Elise’ to help her. ‘I’m nearly finished. I can handle it.’

Max looked at her sceptically.

‘I can,’ she insisted.

Max was silent, studying her for a long moment. Then he got to his feet and walked over to look out of the window. ‘So...how’s the book going?’

Catherine pokered up. ‘If you think that’s the reason I haven’t finished—’

‘That’s not what I—’ Max broke off, spinning around. ‘I just...had an idea. You know...for a scene. I thought of it while I was in Queensland.’

Catherine opened her mouth to tell him to mind his own damned business—but for some reason out came, ‘A scene?’ instead. Because—arrggghhh!—she was interested. Intrigued, even. And clearly insane.

In. Sane.

‘Yeah. A cocktail function where Alex is trying to woo investors,’ he said. ‘Jennifer has planned the event. And something goes wrong. She...she twists her ankle or...or hits her head, maybe...? And Alex has to rescue her, and he calls the doctor and...and stuff.’

‘What kind of party? I mean, black tie?’ Catherine frowned, thoughtful. ‘Because Jennifer doesn’t dress up.’

He hurried over to her, sat on the edge of the couch again. ‘This could be the first time she does though, couldn’t it? And he’s thinking, Wow, who knew?’

She stared at him, her brain ticking over. ‘Hmm... Maybe I could try that.’

His eyes were so warm, so serious. For a heart-stopping moment Catherine thought he was going to touch her. She flinched backwards and Max jumped to his feet.

‘I just wondered, that’s all,’ he said, and paced to the other side of the room, jamming his hands under his armpits. ‘That’s how he’d treat her, right? Alex? How he’d be with Jennifer if she needed help?’

Okay, maybe she had a concussion and Max had some bizarre kind of interstate-travel version of jet lag. Because there was no rational explanation for this conversation.

‘I think I should get back to work.’

Max unjammed his hands, shoving them into his hair instead. ‘Not until the doctor has a look at you,’ he said, and all but ripped the phone off his desk. ‘I’ll call him, then go and bring Damian up to speed. Give you some privacy while the doc’s here.’

Alex...calling the doctor. Max...calling the doctor. This was weird. Too weird.

Catherine was so fidgety she could barely respond to the doctor’s questions. And when she was pronounced fit and well and was back at her desk with the filing she couldn’t concentrate. Because whenever she saw Max’s bold handwriting on a document she’d remember how it had felt to have his arm around her, his hands in her hair, that look of worry creasing his forehead and darkening his eyes, him talking to her about Passion Flower.

That’s how he’d treat her, right? Alex. How he’d be with Jennifer if she needed help?

Yes, that was exactly how he’d be.

And it had triggered other Passion Flower scenes, which now started rolling in her head. Sex in the filing alcove. Sex on the couch in his office. Sex on her desk—after Alex had wiped the top clear of all distractions...vicious staplers, hapless rulers, all flying off.

When she found herself mixing up the ‘keep’ and ‘archive’ files for the fourth time she started digging her own hands into her hair, even though it was back in its nice tight chignon.

And that was when she started really worrying—that she could write romance novels until the cows came home and still not get her feelings under control.

This was not going to turn out well.

* * *

When Max started reading from the top of page one for the fourth time he finally gave up.

He shouldn’t have touched Catherine. At all. Let alone going the full Neanderthal, dragging her off the floor and digging his hands into her hair. But now he had touched her he wanted to touch her again. Really, really wanted to. Like drag-her-close, breathe-her-in, put-his-tongue-somewhere touch her.

He shoved his hands into his hair and tugged. The truth was he’d wanted to touch her forever. Even when he hadn’t understood why.

And then, that night when they’d worked late, it had started to make sense: his brain had been seeing under her skin, where his eyes didn’t reach, and everything under there had been slowly but surely reeling him in. The sharp-as-a-tack brain. How she giggled to herself when she thought he wasn’t looking, making him wonder what was funny and why it was secret. Her stalwart defence of misfits like Carl—who’d better not have been sniffing around in his absence! The volcanic eruption when they disagreed on something, followed almost immediately with the grab for her top button or her earlobe—even though she had to know she didn’t have to be nervous around him; she could say anything to him.

In Canada, he’d convinced himself that their partnership was not to be screwed with because she was the best assistant he’d ever had. Which meant hands-off. But then he’d come home and she’d been sitting there in that tight top with her hair loose—and he’d known his hormones had been in on the act with his brain all along, seeing what his eyes hadn’t. The total, outrageous hotness of her.

Well, a fat lot of good his hormones had done him! Because she’d dressed like that for that day’s anonymous lunch companion—not for him! She only ever treated him to starchy buttoned-up shirts and shapeless drab skirts. No wayward curls for Max’s viewing. No sexy black tops. No alluring red silk peignoirs.

Peignoir... Max groaned and gripped his head, two-handed.

That book!

The second tactical error he’d made today. Why had he asked her about Alex and Jennifer? What sort of coward’s way was that of finding out how Catherine wanted to be treated by a man? And what difference would it make if he did know how Catherine wanted to be treated when she didn’t want him to be that man?

Damn Alex Taylor, anyway.

Alex. Black hair. Six feet two. Italian leather shoes. Navy leather couches. A view of the Botanic Gardens.

Arrggghh! Everything fitted—whether the eyes were blue or amber or pink!

Why couldn’t Alex be him?

He opened the report again and did his best to read past the first paragraph. But it was no use. Within thirty seconds the report was languishing, unloved, on the desk.

She’d ruined him—that was what she’d done!

She had him ignoring the steady stream of leggy blondes all clamouring for his attention. Had him running away from his own office to get his raging passions under control. Had him becoming his own personal assistant because he was too scared to take her on perfectly legitimate business trips.