‘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.
Well, this state of affairs could not continue.
He was experienced with women. Successful in business. A shrewd entrepreneur used to getting his own way. A natural and efficient problem-solver.
One frosty-pants spinster was not going to get the better of him.
It was time to take control.
Time to kick things up a notch and see what happened.
Yep, it was time to fix this...this travesty.
Word of the day: ‘travesty’.
What his sex life had become.
FOUR
When Catherine arrived at work the next morning she was amazed to find that
the old filing cabinets had been replaced by ones that were shorter, sturdier and safer.
She barely had time to marvel at the change before the second miracle of the day happened: Nell showing up with two clerical assistants to help transfer the files.
‘Care to swap bosses?’ Nell asked. ‘Somehow I can’t see Damian commandeering staff to make a job easier on me.’
‘Max commandeered you?’
‘He told Damian you’d had an accident with the old cabinets and he was making sure it didn’t happen again.’
‘But it won’t happen again with these new ones,’ Catherine said. ‘And I don’t need help. So I’m grateful, but—’
She stopped suddenly. Because she could smell him.
‘I see your help has arrived.’
Max.
Catherine turned towards the doorway of the filing alcove where her boss—supremely indifferent to Nell and the two assistants at half-swoon—was leaning against the doorjamb.
He was wearing a navy blue suit, the whitest of white shirts and a gold and navy silk tie, and had somehow managed to get more handsome overnight.
‘Yes,’ Catherine said, past a sudden tightness in her throat. ‘And thank you for arranging it, but there’s no need—’
‘No more buts—I have no intention of listening to them. In fact, I really hate the word “but”. Why not “okay” or “of course” or “I’m fine with that”? There’s way too much butting.’ He was about to breeze out again when he seemed to have second thoughts. ‘And, Cathy—you’re here to direct—not to do the work yourself. I want you to take it easy after that bump on the head yesterday.’
‘But—’
‘But. Tsk-tsk-tsk. Not liking that word.’
Nell sighed as he left. ‘Please swap bosses,’ she begged. ‘I’ll pay you!’
* * *
Three hours later the job was finished, but for a small number of confidential files Catherine had insisted on looking after herself, and Catherine was alone in the filing alcove.
She opened the necessary drawer, quickly sorting through folders until she reached the section she wanted. She put the files away, pulled out one that had been misplaced—
And then the unmistakable scent of Max filled her nostrils again.
Give me a break!
She turned quickly, landing a file-carrying wallop to Max’s ribcage.
He stepped away, rubbing his ribs. ‘Ow! What did I do?’
‘You sneaked up on me,’ Catherine snapped—which she figured was more acceptable than, You smell too good.
‘I didn’t sneak.’
Catherine turned back to the filing cabinet, put the file in the correct place.
‘What’s got up your nose, Cathy?’ he asked the back of her head.
Nose. Scent. You. No!
‘If you must know it’s embarrassing, having people trucked in to help me with work I can easily do myself.’ She reefed open another drawer.
It was like viewing an erotic movie, seeing Max’s hand moving in front of her to close the drawer. Long, lean fingers. Clean, square, no-nonsense fingernails. Tanned skin. White cuff.
Longing flooded her belly as her heart started that familiar slam against her ribs. He didn’t touch her, and she didn’t turn to face him...yet she felt him in every pore.
‘Catherine,’ he said, and she felt goosebumps rise all over her at the softness of his voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
Swallow. Boss. Work. Real world.
‘I just don’t want to be the subject of office gossip. I mean about...about you doing things...special things...for me.’
‘There is nothing gossip-worthy in getting you some help with the filing after that accident. If Damian had asked for you to be released to help Nell under similar circumstances I would have agreed in a heartbeat.’
Heartbeat. Heart. Beat. Her heart. Beating too heavily.
She said nothing, just kept her eyes on the filing cabinet in front of her.
‘The only thing gossip-worthy in this office is your book,’ he continued. ‘And the fact that the hero bears a striking resemblance—’
‘I told you he’s—’
‘—to me. And unless you’ve been showing Passion Flower around—’
‘Of course I—’
‘—there isn’t a problem.’ Pause. ‘You’re like Rutherford Property’s Miss Lemon—all efficient and fastidious and incorruptible.’ Pause. ‘I mean...Passion Flower aside...aren’t you?’
Another pause, during which Catherine kept her eyes on the filing cabinet, completely incapable of forming a word.
‘Aren’t you, Cathy?’ he asked again. ‘Take Passion Flower out of the equation and nobody would believe we were having a steamy affair even if they caught us walking around together naked.’ Pause. ‘Would they?’
Catherine screwed her eyes shut. Of course nobody at Rutherford Property would think staid Ms North was capable of a sexual thought, let alone an affair. Just as no man would ever fantasise about her—least of all her drop-dead-gorgeous boss.
Which was exactly the way she wanted it.
So she had no business—no business at all—thinking of Alex and Jennifer in the filing alcove, Alex spinning Jennifer to face him, leaning her back against the filing cabinet. ‘Let them gossip,’ Alex would whisper. ‘I don’t care. Just kiss me.’
Catherine’s hands were damp. Her lungs were joining forces with her tripping heart and refusing to stick to a normal physiological pattern. Her body was one big throb.
This was unbearable.
She bolted her eyes open and quickly pulled out a new drawer, even though she had nothing left to do. She flicked a few files around for no reason.
‘You might want to stand back,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hit you again. Accidentally.’ Or on purpose.
But Max didn’t move. ‘Why would anyone be gossiping, Cathy?’ he asked again.
A little more purposeless file-fiddling. ‘They wouldn’t. You’re right. I overreacted because I just like my space.’
Max stepped back. But there was no time for even a quick mental whew because he sighed, and she felt it on the back of her neck—the problem with chignons was that they left your skin bare there—and her legs almost buckled.
‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘You’re stewing over something. I know you.’
Yes, I’m stewing over you and my need to jump your bones.
Hmm, perhaps not. She stared at her perfect files, trying to come up with an answer. Files. Neat. Perfect.
Bingo.
Catherine slammed the drawer shut and turned to face Max. ‘All right. I’ll tell you. I’ve been wondering if there’s something about my work you’re unhappy with.’
‘Huh?’
‘My work. Do you have a problem with it? I mean, aside from not liking my filing.’
‘Huh?’
‘Because there was no other reason to get three extra people in today. And you’ve been away on two separate trips in the past month and have barely communicated with me except through Damian. That’s not reassuring.’
‘No, I don’t have a problem with your work,’ he said, as though she were insane. ‘You’re perfect—as ever.’
‘Perfect—as ever.’ Alex could say that to Jennifer in the filing scene as he reached for the buttons on her shirt. ‘But let’s muss you up a little.’
God—enough with Passion Flower already.
Catherine produced a perfunctory smile that just touched her pinched-in lips. ‘Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check that everything is fine in here before I go to lunch.’
‘No, I won’t excuse you,’ Max said. ‘I want you in my office now.’
‘I said I’d like to—’
‘Do I
have to play the boss card, Catherine?’ he asked, cutting her off.
‘But—’
‘Ah, that word. The boss card it is, then. Catherine—I said I want you in my office. Now.’
He turned on his heel and Catherine was left fuming. The boss card. Things would be better all round if he would stick to playing the boss card all the time. Maybe then she would stop being distracted by how criminally hot he was.
She cruised into Max’s office as regally as the QEII and remained standing, all rigid dignity, wasting a witheringly astringent look on Max, who was sitting behind his desk and didn’t even bother to look up.
A minute passed.
‘For God’s sake, get off your high horse and sit down on that nice navy leather chair, Cathy,’ he said eventually—but he still didn’t bother to look up.
Oooohhhh! She really wished she could force-feed him every page in Passion Flower that mentioned those damned chairs, then ask him to repeat ‘navy leather chair’ with a giant wad of paper stuck down his throat!
But with a small touch of her gold hoop earring she sat, as stiff and upright as a ramrod. And waited, waited, waited. Max jotted notes in the margins of a document. Set that aside and picked up a report. Started reading, every now and then dragging a hand through his dishevelled hair.
Hello? You dragged me in here to watch you mess up your hair?
She cleared her throat—trying to redirect his attention to where it should be. On her!
Max looked up. ‘Do you need a glass of water?’ he asked, the solicitousness of his voice at odds with the challenge in his narrowed eyes.
‘No, Mr Rutherford, I do not need a glass of water,’ Catherine said, and despite her righteous irritation her hand leapt defensively, protectively, to the button at her neck.
‘Max,’ he corrected automatically. Then he lowered his head again, muttering something Catherine couldn’t hear.
She waited, seething. There would be no ‘Max’ today. Not if she had to stick her mouth on the binding machine and thermo-seal her lips shut!
And then, abruptly, he looked up again. ‘The filing is finished?’
‘Yes.’
Turning the Good Girl Bad Page 5