‘You nearly snapped my head off a few minutes ago when I asked you about them.’
‘That was a hangover effect. From her. I wear contact lenses sometimes! So what?’
‘Yes—so what?’ Max agreed mildly, and saw her temper surge again. ‘Why did it bother you?’
‘It just— I just— Oh, never mind...Maxie-T.’
‘The T is for Thomas, if you’re interested, South.’
‘The South is for North, if you’re interested—but I’m not. Interested.’
‘Yes, you are, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘She’s condescending.’
‘And Rick’s a tattooed freak. So what?’
‘Tattoooed—?’ She broke off. He could practially see her teeth grinding with rage.
‘Just don’t send her over to ask me to join you for dinner again.’
‘I didn’t send her.’
Catherine’s eyes locked on to him. Sizzling. He wondered if the top of her head was about to be blown off. Wow! And then, with a visible effort, she reined everything back in.
‘I see.’
‘You see what, Cathy?’ Max asked, and found he was holding his breath for the answer.
‘That everything really is ruined. There’s no going back.’
‘Nothing is ruined, and we are going back,’ he said. Holding his breath again. What did he want her to say to that? What?
She glared at him. ‘Then why didn’t you need me today?’
‘Why didn’t you call to ask if I needed you?’
Hair toss. Girly and gorgeous. ‘You’re the boss. You call, I come running—it doesn’t happen in reverse.’
‘It’s never been like that with us and you know it.’
‘We didn’t even go over tomorrow’s agenda.’
‘We’re doing that now.’
‘Are you trying to be obtuse?’
Max’s hands went for his head. He dragged in a long, deep breath and released it suddenly.
‘Ah, hell—all right. I should have had you at the meeting with Darcy. We should have looked at the agenda earlier. We should have discussed the week ahead over dinner. But I didn’t call you and I didn’t involve you because I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation so soon after Friday night.’
‘I’m not scared of you, Max. I trust you. Get it? And, for the record, I have a punishing right knee and I know how to use it—if I want to.’
She looked up at him and he could see it...trust.
She trusted him. God, that made his chest hurt.
They were so close he could see the tiny green and gold flecks in her eyes amongst the brown. Beautiful. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breaths came in short bursts. How could she trust him when all he could think about when he looked at her was kissing her again?
‘But I don’t want to use it,’ she said, and her voice had gone all husky. ‘So go right ahead and kiss me whenever you want. Like...say...now...’
Had she just read his mind?
‘Cathy, you do realise I’m trying to do the right thing, don’t you? And that’s not my default setting so you could meet me halfway.’
‘I’m not meeting you anywhere while you’re tiptoeing around me. I’m going to go mad if you keep that up.’
‘And I’m going to go mad if you don’t back off.’
‘Well, I’m not backing off, so get ready for your strait-jacket.’
‘Cathy, you can’t really want another boss touching you.’
‘Well, I do. So if you have a problem with that you’re going to have to sack me.’ She sounded dismissive—but she’d reached for her earring, twirling it nervously.
‘Sack you...?’ Max felt that ache in his chest again. ‘Okay, I think I get the whole sacking obsession. It’s what he did, isn’t it? Threatened to sack you because you wouldn’t do what he wanted. And now you keep daring me to do it. Just to test my mettle. That’s trust, is it?’
He saw the little jolt of reaction. The sudden vulnerability. Max didn’t make a habit of hugging his assistants, but he wanted to hug her. Just until she got her fire back. That was all.
‘So you’re not going to sack me even if I hit on you?’ she asked, dogged.
‘This is crazy. You’re not hitting on me and I’m not sacking you.’
‘Yes, Max, I am hitting on you. I’m hitting on you now.’ Step closer. ‘Did you read it? The scene I gave you?’
Damn. The words were there, in his head, almost memorised. He nodded. Swallowed.
‘That’s me hitting on you.’
‘I’m not the one for you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m your boss.’
‘It didn’t stop you on Friday night.’
‘Yes, Cathy, it did.’
‘Oh, I see... It stopped you. When I told you...’
She frowned, looking so uncertain he wanted to hug her again.
And then she said slowly, ‘But if I hadn’t told you...?’ She gave him a tiny glimmering smile. ‘We would have kissed again, and ended up in bed. So it’s not a case of you not being attracted to me.’
Whoa. He had to head this off. Why, why, why had he chased her?
You know why. You know.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ignoring that unhelpful voice in his head, ‘I’ve got form...history...when it comes to people like RJ. No—don’t interrupt! Just hear me out. Because I don’t talk about this and it’s not...easy.’ Pause. ‘My father has been hitting on his secretaries since... Well, who really knows when? He certainly didn’t wait long before moving his secretary into the house after my mother died. A month, that’s all—so you’d have to say it wasn’t a brand-new relationship, right?’
‘Oh, Max.’
‘Janelle, her name was. She arrived the day before my thirteenth birthday. She even baked me a cake. She didn’t last, of course. Neither did the next one, Tracy. Or Kelly. Patricia. Elaine. Or any of the many, many others. Flip—that’s my father’s name, which is appropriate given the way he flips women—moved some of them into the house and kept others on the side. But they all had one thing in common—thinking Flip meant it when he told them it would last forever. Which I guess is what he promised my mother. At least she got a version of forever, I guess.’
Catherine had gone all doe-eyed as she looked at him and Max felt his heart lurch. The way it had lurched all those years ago for his mother, when he’d wondered if she’d known what a bastard her husband was. The way it had lurched on Friday night for Catherine, who definitely knew how vile men could be.
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Catherine said gently. ‘How did she die?’
‘Car accident.’
‘And do you think—? Did she...know? About Janelle?’
Max rubbed his hands over his face. ‘That’s not relevant.’
‘Of course it is,’ she said, and touched his hand—the first time she’d ever laid a voluntary finger on him.
It was so brief he shouldn’t have even felt it...and yet he did. Everywhere.
‘So much to take at any age—let alone at thirteen,’ she said.
‘I hope she didn’t know, but she probably did,’ he found himself answering, because somehow that instant of connection had made him want to tell her. Because it was relevant. Max’s whole modus operandi with women stemmed from it.
‘And it was hard—seeing your father with those women, hating him, when you were grieving and you needed him.’ It was a statement, not a question.
He couldn’t trust himself to speak because his heart was lurching again. Because Catherine just knew. And he wished, wished, wished he could hold on to her.
‘And that’s not me getting all “psychological”,’ she said. Another small, warm
touch on his hand. ‘I’ve seen the photos on your desk—that’s how I know. You with your mother. The bond, the love. But no father-son photos.’
Max looked down at his hand. His fingers were flexing where she’d touched him, as if he could still feel it. ‘The thing is, Cathy—and this brings us to our situation—my father always blames the girls.’
She nodded. ‘Like RJ.’
‘Exactly. They come on to him. Put out lures, entice him, dress to attract him. And then, when it’s over, they have to get out of the office, too—and there’s another creative list of excuses. Their shoddy work. Their unprofessionalism. Even a lack of morality once—what a joke!’
‘I understand all that. But from what I know of you, you don’t promise anyone forever, like he does. Am I right?’
‘Right. But—’
‘No buts. And you don’t need a lame excuse to get your assistants into bed, right?’
‘Until you, no.’
‘Me? But I’m no different from the others.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, my God, you are. The way you look, the way you act, the way you work. There was no chink in your armour, so I used Passion Flower as my excuse.’
‘Well, I’m glad something good came out of that book,’ she said, and he found himself speechless. ‘But I don’t accept it was some lame excuse,’ she continued, ‘and you didn’t get me into bed, anyway.’
‘No, because you didn’t—’
‘Don’t say it! You could have—and you didn’t. So stop pretending to be a monster when you’re not. You might cut a swathe through your own personal assistants, but that in itself doesn’t turn you into your father. You’re not unscrupulous enough to be him.’
‘A swathe?’ Max was revolted. ‘I don’t cut swathes. It’s not like I’m fishing in one pool of captive fish at a trout farm.’
‘Well, they all seem to be the same tall, blonde, horse-faced species. But I’ll grant you that you fish in a few ponds—models, lawyers, doctors, teachers, the typing pool...’
‘Typing pool? You’re not a damned typist, Cathy.’
‘Oh—so you are fishing in my pool?’
‘I’m not— That’s not— Look, you’re different. You’re already too free and easy with the resignations and I’m not risking you.’
‘But all those other assistants were riskable?’
‘Stop with the “all those”. It was only ever a couple. Three, maybe. All right—four. But no more than that—and knowing now how close I’ve sailed to Flip territory, I won’t do it again. But the answer to your question is that they should not have been “riskable” either. But at least they were all more experienced than you. They all knew the score.’
‘If they all knew the score, how come they ended up leaving?’
‘Because they— They— They wanted more.’
‘Sounds to me like they didn’t know the score. Sex not love—right, Max? Well, I’m fine with that. I want that. Love would have me packing up my desk. Now. I’ve given you the RJ story. You’ve told me about your father. We both know the score. So let’s go.’
‘You don’t know the score. And it’s not just about whether someone ends up wanting more, either. It’s about— It’s— Look, you’re a baby when it comes to this stuff. I can tell from Passion Flower.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What about Passion Flower?’ she asked, and there was a warning in it.
He pushed it with a laugh. ‘I’ve done a lot—a lot—more than Alex Taylor. So much more it would scare poor little Jennifer Andrews out of her wits.’
‘You’re saying Alex needs character development?’
Another laugh. ‘His character’s not the issue. His character’s nice and romantic—which gives the lie to your sex-not-love mantra. But sexually...?’ He shook his head. ‘Nope. And the reason he doesn’t have the moves is because the writer isn’t ready for them.’
‘If you’re so hot you can teach me. Show me.’
Okay—tactical error. ‘I don’t do sweet little virgins.’
Her temper was glowing nicely, but she stepped closer. ‘If I really stood there in your arms like a block of wood on Friday night then I need help. Because that wasn’t how I was feeling. If I’m scared to touch it’s because of what RJ Harrow did to me. And I don’t want him to be the yardstick by which I measure every sexual relationship I have for the rest of my life. A friend would help me.’
‘I’m not your friend, I’m your boss. Find another guy.’
‘But you’re the guy I trust.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t trust me,’ he said, short and sharp. ‘Because I don’t trust myself.’ Sigh. Deep and tired. ‘Let me spell this out: I am not nice. I’ll never love a woman the way Alex loves Jennifer.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I won’t do to a woman what was done to my mother. I’d have to be so sure—so very, very sure—that a woman would be the last woman before I let it happen. And you know what? You can never be sure. Which means it will never happen.’
‘And that’s why you never keep an assistant for long? They always fall in love with you?’
‘Bingo.’
‘Now, you see—that’s nice!’ Catherine said.
‘What?’
‘Warning me. It’s unnecessary—but sweet of you.’ Head-toss. ‘Let me spell this out: I am not nice either. And I won’t love you.’
‘People have said that before—and fallen. And with you...’ Sigh. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Cathy.’
‘You won’t. You can’t. Not more than—’ She broke off. ‘You won’t.’
She turned her back on him and he came up behind her, hands hovering uselessly near her shoulders. He wanted so badly to touch her. Hair, collar—he’d take anything. But touching her was what had got them into this mess.
He stuck his hands under his armpits, out of harm’s way. Then, annoyed at his lack of control, unstuck them.
‘The thing is, Cathy, what happens if I touch you, and you freak out?’
‘You’ll stop.’
‘Will I? Even I don’t know that. What if I don’t? What if I push on, say it was your fault for tempting me? What happens then?’
She spun to face him, but he put a finger on her lips.
‘Shh. That’s rhetorical. Because I know the answer. You’ll run for the exit, flinging your resignation at me. And that’s not happening, got it? Not. Happening. So, Cathy, go right ahead and goad me, taunt me and tempt me, undo your buttons, wear your contact lenses, change your hairstyle. Whatever you do, I won’t touch you again.’
Catherine’s hands went to her buttons. ‘Well, let’s test that.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘You told me to undo my buttons.’
He stared at her as everything in him urged him touch her again. To kiss her. To be so damned good this time she would have to respond. And that would mean...what? When that happened he could...could... He had no idea what he could do. So he just stood there, indecisive in a way he’d never been in his life.
But then her fingers moved up to her ear to twist the little gold hoop and Max released the breath he’d been holding in one forceful huff.
‘See where your fingers are?’
Her hand dropped immediately, went back to her buttons.
‘Too late. Trust me, Cathy—you’re not ready.’
She strode over to the French doors, stared out at the blackness. Her right hand fisted as if she was going to punch through the glass. She stamped her foot. Once. Twice.
‘I wish I’d never told you.’
He could see her reflected in the glass. See her bra through the gaping front of her shirt. His hands went to his hair again, yanked it. She was going to make him bald!
‘Well, you did tell me, Cathy,’ he said, and his
voice was sharper than he’d intended because she was making it so painful. He wanted her—clenched fists, stamping foot, flashing eyes, starched shirt, wool skirt...everything. ‘And this is where we are. With me horny as hell and you giving me grief.’
She turned. ‘You know, Max, a boss isn’t supposed to tell his employee he’s horny. I’m pretty sure that’s sexual harassment. Maybe I will haul you up on charges—if you don’t get over here and kiss me!’
Max had a sudden blinding understanding. She was the passion flower. Unfurling. The head-tossing, the foot-stamping, the unleashed temper—each of them was a petal. She’d never done any of that before. Until he’d kissed her.
Undoing her buttons on the plane?
Demanding that he kiss her?
Prim and proper Cathy?
She was hunting him. And he loved it!
‘Max,’ she said, so huffy he wanted to lick her, ‘you’re not being fair. Because I’m horny as hell too. And I don’t have a Darcy stashed somewhere.’
He stepped closer. ‘Neither do I!’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a Darcy stashed for two and a half months, thanks to you.’
‘Thanks to me?’ She smiled. Feline. Gorgeous. ‘I think that means you want to have sex with me, Max.’
Horny. She was horny, too.
Well, he’d tried, hadn’t he? But he’d always known he wasn’t a saint!
‘Right,’ he said. ‘One kiss. Let’s see what happens.’
‘Make it a good one,’ she ordered.
NINE
‘For the record, Catherine North, I don’t know how to make it bad,’ Max said—and pulled her in so quickly she stumbled.
Or at least she would have stumbled if he hadn’t snatched her off her feet and plastered her against him.
And it was more than a kiss. Because as his mouth swooped, as he forced his tongue inside before she even had a chance to part her lips, he grabbed her backside and lifted her higher, mashing her right onto his pelvis.
She was so shocked she couldn’t move. But it was wonderful. She was instantly aroused. Aching with it. Horny didn’t begin to cover it. Delirious came closer. Delirious with need.
Max’s was mouth on hers, his heart thudding against hers, his breaths tangling with hers. He was rubbing himself against her as though he would plunge into her through the thick, confining skirt. Damned skirt. Keeping her legs trapped when they really wanted to curl themselves around him. She wished he would tumble her onto the couch, the floor—anywhere—and rip her clothes off.
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