‘I thought you said he was smart?’
‘He is. Very.’
‘Then he’s twigged to the real you by now.’
Catherine thought about Max’s occasional piercing looks. His intermittent curious comments and questions and digs. The way he’d recognised her so quickly in Passion Flower...
Except that he hadn’t really recognised her in Passion Flower—not the essence of her, only the hair, eye colour and glasses—or he couldn’t have called her Miss Lemon.
‘No, Luke. He actually sent me off for fashion advice today, so I don’t disgrace the firm on this trip. Don’t laugh—it’s true!’
‘Oka-ay...’ he said, but didn’t sound convinced. ‘So...the book? No chance of turning it into a murder mystery?’
‘Why? Are the hearts and flowers really going to freak you out? I won’t force you to read it if they are.’
‘It’s not the hearts and flowers I object to—it’s the sex scenes. Yeeeuuuch!’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘Well, to start with you’re my sister.’
Catherine laughed. ‘I’ll weed out the sex parts before I hand over the pages, okay?’
‘Hit me!’ he said, and took a fortifying gulp of wine.
* * *
The wine had been consumed, pages of Catherine’s manuscript were scattered across the carpeted floor and Luke was preparing to depart when the doorbell rang again.
Catherine looked at her watch. ‘Wow, it’s almost ten-thirty.’
‘Who are you expecting?’
‘It’ll be Rick from next door. I have his spare key. This will only take a second.’
Catherine hurried over to dig in the dish on the hall table for a second time and opened the door, smiling—and the key slipped from her fingers right along with the smile from her face.
Max Rutherford was standing there.
Just like a scene she’d written for Passion Flower. Alex turning up at Jennifer’s house, all hard-faced and intent.
And in Max’s case, stunned as well, as he looked at her hair.
Then his eyes dropped to her peignoir. ‘Huh,’ he said, and swallowed.
Luke made an unhelpful strangled sound and Max’s eyes shot straight to him.
Smiling easily, Luke walked over to them, and Catherine managed to get over her shock long enough to string an introduction together. ‘Luke Phillips, this is Max Rutherford—my boss. Max, this is...is Luke. I’ve mentioned him before.’ Nice and pointed.
Alex Taylor, at your service.
Max said a clipped hello to Luke, then returned his eyes to their previous target: Catherine’s peignoir. A few scorching seconds and then his gaze roamed behind her, to the living room. Catherine got the feeling he was processing a different element of the scene with each small movement of his head, his eyes.
She felt an almost overpowering urge to explain Luke’s presence, the peignoir, the wine, the book—but she gritted her teeth to stop herself, because it was none of his business.
‘Is there a problem, Max?’ she asked, and if there was a touch of defiance in there, too bad!
Max’s intent blue stare returned to her, wandering over her face and up to her hair. Catherine reached a self-conscious hand up. Her hair was loose, tumbling.
Instead of answering, Max looked at Luke again.
‘I’m just leaving,’ Luke said hurriedly, ‘so don’t let me get in your way—unless—’ he tugged at a hank of Catherine’s hair ‘—you want help clearing up. Or you need me to find those veils...? Seven, right? Seven veils?’
‘No need for those tonight,’ Catherine said, and gave him a too-hard hug that promised violence at a future date. ‘So I won’t keep you—but thanks for your help with...you know.’
‘Any time. So I’ll see you...soon?’
‘Yes, soon,’ Catherine agreed.
Luke cast a way too interested glance at Max as he bade him goodnight. Then, with a jaunty whistle, he left.
Catherine stood there, tongue-tied, waiting for Max to speak.
‘Did I interrupt something?’ he asked at last.
‘No.’
More silence. A heavy silence she didn’t know how to break. Because she had no intention of babbling an explanation about Luke being her brother—well, half-brother—and a novelist, and telling him that he’d been giving her advice on the book she was never discussing with Max again.
Max smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I told you today I wanted to cause as little interruption to the lives of my staff as possible. If taking you away for a week is going to be a problem for anyone—you know, anyone—I can rethink it.’
She stared at him while that sank in. Oh. My God. Luke was going to laugh himself sick when she told him Max thought he was her boyfriend. Not that the existence of a boyfriend was a valid reason to skip Queensland, anyway—but it was just so brilliantly ridiculous!
Catherine clamped down on a give-away giggle and said ambiguously, ‘I don’t let my private life interfere with work.’
‘Seriously. I can easily take someone else. Nell, for example. If you need to stay in Sydney. For any reason. You know, any reason. At all.’
He was fishing! For information on Luke!
Insaaaaane.
‘It’s not necessary,’ she assured Max, very breezy and unforthcoming.
‘No...no encumbrances, then?’
‘Nothing that will interfere with this trip.’ She thought it best not to add that in fact she would annihilate whoever got in the way. Nell. Max. Anyone along the flight path between Sydney and Cairns.
Max looked at her for one long moment. ‘All right, then.’
‘All right, then,’ she repeated.
Then...nothing.
The house was deathly quiet, as if it was waiting for something.
She could smell Max’s cologne and it was making her want to lick him—right under his ear, where a tiny kiss curl of black hair sat against his skin.
She moved fractionally, nervously, towards the door—a hint for Max to state his business and go before the temptation got too much for her. Felt the faint swish of her silk sleeve brushing Max’s arm. Heard his sharp intake of breath. Now she’d taken that step they were standing way too close to each other, and it was excruciatingly good.
Why didn’t he just take the hint and leave? But he didn’t budge.
‘Hot,’ he said.
What the hell...?
He gave his head a tiny shake. ‘In the city,’ he added. ‘It’s hot in the city. Tonight, I mean.’
Whaaat?
‘Oh. The...the song?’
‘No.’ He shook his head again, as if to clear it. ‘Nothing.’
Pause.
Catherine took another small step towards the door.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ Max said.
‘Thank you,’ Catherine managed to get out of a suddenly dry throat.
He touched her hair. Just a fleeting touch. ‘Why do you always pull it back in a bun?’
A strange liquid warmth was invading her limbs, making them feel heavy. ‘It gets in the way. I mean, for work.’
‘I see.’
Silence again. Thick. Impenetrable. She could hear her own breathing, and it wasn’t sounding normal.
Giving no indication of an imminent departure, Max walked into the living room—as though he had a perfect right to wander around her house. Typical Max! He looked at her furniture. Narrowed his eyes at the wine bottle. Frowned at the haphazardly strewn manuscript pages, staring as though he’d absorb every piece of print on them.
Catherine was paralysed by a strange push-pull desire—to move closer to him and at the same time run upstairs, lock herself in the bathroom and shove cotton wool up
her nostrils so she could stop smelling him.
She took a panicky breath. ‘So, what—? I mean why—? I mean... Is there a problem?’
The silence had stretched to snapping point but Max didn’t seem to care. He bent to pick up some pages, started speed-reading.
God! She hurried over, wanting to rip the pages out of his hand.
But when she got there he pointed to a paragraph and said, ‘You know, this part’s been bothering me.’ He dropped the pages. ‘The angle.’ He took Catherine by the shoulders, and positioned her in front of him. ‘Alex is six-two, right?’
Swallow. Nod.
‘And she’s...what...? About your height?’
Nod. Biiiiig swallow.
‘So when he takes her in his arms like this...’
He had pulled her into his chest. She was going to faint.
Help! Help, help, help!
‘...and he holds her, like this...’
Oh. My. God. One of his hands was in her hair, the other on her lower back.
‘Well, can you see where her head should be?’ he asked, but he didn’t sound like Max. ‘To do what you’ve written he’d have to...’
He had his hand under her chin, was lifting her face to his, staring at her mouth. Something was going to happen. Something momentous. Did she want it to? She didn’t know. Could hardly breathe.
‘Have to...?’ she asked, all quivery.
But before Max could answer the doorbell rang—again—and Catherine wrenched herself back to earth and out of his arms.
She stood there, staring at him.
Doorbell. Ringing.
She blinked, blushed—and ran to answer it, hearing Max’s muffled curse. Thank God for whoever was out there. Because she wasn’t ready for...for...whatever that had been. She’d welcome anyone. Dracula. Mr Hyde. Freddy Krueger.
But this time it was Rick—who looked monster-scary, with his shaved head and his vicious-looking tattoos down each arm, but who was gentle as a lamb.
‘I know I’m hopeless, South,’ he said. ‘Sorry!’
Catherine looked blankly down at her hands, then remembered she’d dropped the key and bent to locate it and pick it up. She held it out to Rick, who grabbed her to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before snatching it.
‘Angel! How’s the book travelling? Have you added in a bit more sex, like I suggested?’
A quick, nervous look over her shoulder at Max, to find him watching her, looking a little serial-killerish himself. ‘Luke says less sex—you say more!’
‘Luke likes cold, dead bodies; I like live, warm ones. I’d say that makes me the normal one.’
‘You have a point.’
‘And remember what I said—I’m available for research purposes. But not if you’re wearing that, South.’
And then he was gone, and Catherine turned to find Max striding towards her with blood in his eye.
‘So, we’ve had Luke lolling around like a sultan drinking wine. Rick flinging around nicknames and kisses. And me. How many more men have you got dropping by to offer you some raw material?’ he exploded. ‘And don’t tell me it’s none of my business!’
‘Well, it’s not,’ Catherine assured him, wrapping her peignoir a little more securely.
Max grabbed her, and this time there was no gentle instruction about where her head should be. Just a wrench into his arms.
‘I’m making it my business,’ he said.
SIX
Max stared into her eyes. One split second. All heat and furious energy and unleashed lust.
And then his mouth was on hers.
Oh. My. G-o-o-o-o-d.
It was nothing like the soft kiss she’d imagined for Alex and Jennifer in Passion Flower. This was desperate and straining. Unimaginable. His mouth fusing to hers, devouring. Tongue searching, filling her. He tasted so...so hot. No, hot wasn’t a flavour. She tried to concentrate, to isolate the taste, but then one of his hands was in her hair, and then both his hands were there, delving, burrowing, tugging to angle her head for his mouth, and she couldn’t concentrate.
A burst of fire was rocketing through her core, crackling along her veins. Where were her hands? Her arms? She had no idea. Couldn’t think. All she could do was stand there, anchored to Max by his hands in her hair. Better than her fantasy. Max claiming her. Max wanting her. She could feel him, big and hard against her. His hands were moving again, circling her neck, his fingers warm, stroking. But never, not once, did he disengage his hungry mouth from hers.
Catherine wanted to open her eyelids, see him, imprint this on her brain, but she couldn’t seem to move them.
‘Cathy...’ he murmured against her lips. ‘Cathy, I want—’ But he didn’t finish that. Simply kissed her again, thumbs at her jaw, tilting her face, kissing her, kissing her as though he couldn’t help himself.
And then, very suddenly, he stopped. Let her go. Jerked back.
Catherine’s eyelids managed to flutter open as her wondering fingers came up to press against her tingling lips. The last time she’d been kissed it had been RJ—harried and frightening and disgusting. Nothing like this...this magic. She didn’t want to lose the feeling. Wanted a moment to savour it before reality came rushing back. So she held her fingers there, as though they could contain the taste of him, the feel of his mouth.
He gave a shaky half-laugh. ‘So now I know,’ he said.
‘Now you know what?’ Catherine asked through her trembling fingers.
‘That I’m not Alex Taylor. Well, that sucks!’
She blinked. ‘That...sucks?’
Max ran his hands agitatedly into his hair. ‘You told me I wasn’t, but I didn’t believe you, and now... Well, now I guess I do. I’m not Alex and you’re not Jennifer.’ Pause. One shoulder hunched. ‘At least you’re not my Jennifer.’
Catherine’s fingers dropped. She was momentarily bereft of speech. Of all the things he could have said he’d said...that?
‘So you kissed me just to prove a point about my book?’ Catherine asked when she could find her voice.
‘I didn’t plan on kissing you, Cathy, it just happened. Like—like my blood suddenly boiled.’ Another one of those shaky half-laughs. ‘Where are the vampires when you need a blood-letting?’
‘Well, Max,’ Catherine said, dangerously calm, ‘if you’d care to bring your jugular vein into the kitchen I’ll grab a carving knife—in the absence of fangs, you understand.’
That startled him. ‘Huh?’
‘I’d be delighted to drain your blood,’ she said, and saw the aha moment hit him.
‘Uh-oh, the death stare,’ he said. ‘I said something wrong, didn’t I?’
Catherine pursed her lips. ‘Oh, I don’t know... Do you mean the part about preferring to be attacked by a vampire to kissing me? Or the part insinuating I was a lousy kisser—unlike the heroine in my book?’
‘But I didn’t mean— That’s not what I—’
‘So what will it be?’ Catherine interrupted. ‘A severed jugular vein? Or will you leave my house immediately and never come near me again? I’ll accept either option.’
‘Enough with the death stare, already,’ he said, grimacing. ‘I kissed you, you said no thanks—no harm done.’
She’d said no thanks? She shook her head, dazed. Un. Believable. ‘You know what? Keep your blood. Less mess for me to clean up if I just resign.’
He shook his head. ‘Again with the sacking thing?’
‘Not sacking—resigning.’
‘Well, you’re not resigning. I need you.’
‘Oh, I’m replaceable.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Perhaps with a nice tall blonde you actually might want to kiss.’
‘No! It’s not— It’s not you, Ca
thy, it’s—’
‘Puh-leeeeease,’ Catherine interrupted, with a massive eye-roll. ‘Let’s not do the “it’s not you, it’s me” routine. I’m well aware I’m not your type. “Nobody would believe we were having a steamy affair even if they caught us walking around together naked.” That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘But I didn’t mean—’
‘No buts, remember? And, whatever you want to say, it’s a moot point—because I resign.’
He looked mulish now. ‘Well, I’m not accepting your resignation, so get over it.’ Hands in his hair again. ‘Look—does it help if I say I’m sorry I kissed you tonight?’
‘You’ve made that abundantly clear.’
‘Will you shut up and listen? This is not about me not enjoying it. It’s about you not enjoying it. That’s how I know I’m not Alex Taylor. Because you didn’t kiss me back. If you’d kissed me back I would have swept you up in my arms and whisked you off to bed and we’d be having a very different conversation now.’
Okay—that stopped her. ‘But I...’ Stop. Swallow. ‘I did kiss you back.’
‘I’ve kissed a lot of women, Cathy. A lot. I know the difference between being kissed by someone and being allowed to kiss someone. I haven’t had someone “allow” me to kiss them since I was fifteen. Summer. School gym. Sian Michaelson. It was like kissing a block of wood. Rare—therefore memorable.’
‘A block of wood?’
Blinking. Stunned. Mortified.
But Max had leap-frogged ahead. ‘So the question is, why did you let me? It’s not like you to let anyone take liberties.’
‘It just— You just—’ She broke off. How did you explain such a thing? Every woman on the planet wants to kiss you, Max, why would you think I’m any different? Um—no! Not after being likened to block-of-wood Sian Michaelson.
He was watching her, eagle-eyed. ‘It just— I just— What?’
‘Look, since it was so unmemorable let’s forget it happened.’
‘It wasn’t unmemorable.’
‘Oh, yeah—memorable for its woodenness, right? A mistake, then.’
‘Mistake?’
Turning the Good Girl Bad Page 7