‘God, Cathy, how did I keep my hands off you for so long?’
She stayed, poised over him, letting his fingers dip and slide. He could feel her thighs trembling either side of him.
And then she said, ‘I’m going to come, Max,’ and she took him into her hands, guided him to her opening.
One of his hands moved to her tattooed hip; the other shifted so that his fingers could circle and pinch that small nub of nerves as she settled, hard, on him.
Almost immediately she was coming, moaning his name. But he kept going, stroking, touching with his fingers as he thrust up into her until he could feel her starting to tighten around him again.
‘Cathy, you make me so hot and wild and crazy.’
She whimpered a response as she collapsed onto his chest, another orgasm ripping through her. But he couldn’t hear what she said. His heart was roaring. He thrust again, groaning into her neck. Kept the rhythm up until he exploded.
With a shaking hand he stroked her hair. ‘Get some rest, Cathy,’ he whispered. ‘Because tonight I’m going to make you come, and come, and come.’
* * *
That evening, as Catherine got ready for the all-important cocktail party, she thought of the almost surreal juxtaposition of today’s ruthless professional discipline and last night’s outrageous passion when Max had indeed made her come, and come, and come—to the point when she’d been half afraid to stand on her wobbly legs this morning.
Sitting next to Max, taking notes and conferring on various discussion points, she might have thought last night’s debauchery was a scene from Passion Flower—except that every time Max had looked at her he’d smiled in a way she’d never seen him smile before, and she’d been able to tell he was remembering, too.
She checked herself in the mirror. Her make-up was dramatic and sexy. The red dress, wickedly low-cut, fitted her like a second skin and shimmered with spangles. She’d tumbled her hair onto her head in a soft, loose ballerina bun, with a tendril or two strategically placed to help hide the love-bite Max had planted on her neck, because make-up could only do so much. She’d vacillated between her old, musky perfume and her new lemon one—and ended up dabbing on a little of each.
The new and the old. Perfect.
She couldn’t wait for Max to see her, smell her, taste her. The cocktail party would be like foreplay—each of them seeing the other gliding amongst the guests, knowing what was coming when the party was over.
The party was being held in a cordoned-off outdoor area close to the pool, with an emergency roof that could be extended in case of rain. She arrived early to check that everything was perfect—food and drinks ready to go, the low-key jazz band she’d hired in position, the flowers fresh and amazing. Marking time, waiting for the first sight of Max.
He arrived flanked by Darcy—who gave Catherine her own version of the death stare, complete with a show of teeth—and Doug.
One glinting smile from Max and Catherine’s spirits surged. Even Darcy’s proprietorial pawing of Max’s arm couldn’t affect her, because whatever happened tomorrow, next week, next month...tonight he was Catherine’s.
And she was euphoric!
The euphoria lasted approximately twenty-five minutes.
Which was how long it took for RJ Harrow to arrive.
THIRTEEN
Catherine saw RJ’s eyes widen in appreciation as she came into his line of vision and her heart started hammering. He wasn’t on the guest list. So how—why—was he here? And what was she going to do? Because she knew he would make his way to her.
And within ten minutes he had, ushered over by Eric.
‘I hear you two know each other,’ Eric said.
‘Yes,’ said Catherine, like death.
‘How lucky that RJ happened to be in Australia on other business,’ Eric said.
‘You should have called me about Kurrangii, Cat,’ RJ said to her, all faux reproach. ‘You know Samawi Air is in investment mode, and this is right up our alley.’
She murmured something suitably vague as Eric scooted off to greet other arrivals.
Catherine made to follow Eric, but RJ grabbed her wrist. ‘So, my little Cat landed on her feet.’
He leered like a villain in a melodrama, and Catherine—to her shock—giggled. And just like that the tension drained out of her. He didn’t scare her, she realised. She was out of gaol and she was safe. Shock—and then euphoria rushed back.
‘I detest being called Cat,’ she said. ‘And unless hell has frozen over...’ She cocked her free hand around her ear. ‘What’s that? Hell hasn’t frozen over? Well, then, not your Cat.’
RJ’s eyes narrowed. ‘We can fix that. For tonight at least.’
Catherine laughed. She couldn’t help herself. With a disbelieving shake of her head she pulled on her hand, trying to break free—but he held it in a bruising grip.
‘Not so fast,’ he said, close to her ear. ‘Unless you want me to tell Max all about our...time...together.’
She gave him a pitying smile. ‘He knows all about our time together.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Told him, did you? But there are always two sides.’
‘By all means tell him your side.’
‘After,’ he said, and started dragging her away from the area, smiling charmingly as he went.
Only her determination not to ruin Max’s evening kept Catherine from screaming like a banshee as she was drawn inexorably along with him towards the pool, past the waterfall, into the darkness, until he had her shoved against the palm tree. Max’s palm tree.
‘Let me go or I’m going to scream,’ she said, matter-of-factly.
‘You won’t do that. You never could bring yourself to spoil the party by screaming. You don’t want to spoil Max’s party, do you?’
‘Actually,’ Catherine said, still going with matter-of-fact, ‘if the alternative is being slobbered over by you, Max will understand why I’m opting for the scream.’
She opened her mouth to let fly, but before she could make a sound RJ had wedged his mouth on hers, cutting off her breath. His mouth was bruising, wet. She could taste cigar.
She thought of Max seeing her like this. Vulnerable, defenceless, powerless. And the rage rushed at her. Her knee came up, forceful and sharp, into his groin. Fingers reached for his eyes.
A gasping squeal and she was free.
But she didn’t run. Not this time. Not from him. She scrubbed a hand across her mouth. ‘You really need to learn how to kiss, RJ, because that was just pathetic.’
RJ had doubled over, clutching his groin with one hand, his face with the other.
Catherine heard the racing footsteps. Caught the scent. And then he was there. Max. She smiled tremulously at him. Wanting to laugh and cry. Simultaneously.
‘Not the palm tree!’ Max said, and got Catherine laughing. And, yes, crying. She just...loved him. So much.
And then Max looked at RJ.
‘And if it isn’t Dead Man Walking. Or should that be dead man hunching and squealing like a girl?’ He inclined his head towards RJ’s groin. ‘Did you hit your mark this time, darling one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. Have you finished with him? Can I take over?’
Max—perfectly conversational.
RJ tried to get a word out, but Max gave him an offhand, ‘We’re not talking to you,’ and ignored him.
‘What are you going to do?’ Catherine asked.
‘I can drown him for you, if you like.’
RJ blustered something about Catherine asking for it.
Max turned a look of such ferocity on him he quailed. ‘Do you want to spend tonight looking for a dentist?’ Max asked.
At that point RJ, looking terrified, pushed at Catherine—who went hurtling backwa
rds towards the damned tree. Max lunged for her, and RJ made a run for freedom.
‘Now, you see, that is exactly like Raymond,’ Catherine complained as Max tugged her close and pulled a leaf out of her hair. ‘Running away before I can finish.’
‘Hang on—I’ll get him for you,’ Max said.
But when he turned to give chase it was to see a panic-stricken RJ so busily looking behind him that he barrelled into a poolside chair.
A loud splash later, and he and the chair were in the pool.
Max turned back to face Catherine. ‘Do you really want me to get him? Or shall we just report him?’
Catherine moved back into Max’s arms, rubbed her cheek against his chest. ‘Will it stick?’
Max sighed. ‘Who knows? But we have to do something.’
They were both aware of RJ wading out of the pool and hurrying away, but they ignored him.
‘Okay—let’s do it. And, regardless of the outcome, I’m going to get him where it hurts—Abu Najmah. I’m going to write an account of what he did to me and send it to the powers-that-be over there.’
Max nodded. ‘And I’ll do my bit and get the word out in my circles that he’s not a fit and proper person to do business with. And then we’ll put him in the past.’ He held his arm out to her. ‘You look beautiful, by the way. Red is your colour.’
‘It’s my favourite.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘The toenails that day. The peignoir that night. This dress. You.’
‘You’re very perceptive.’
‘And you’re wearing a new perfume. You smell even more divine than usual.’
‘I call it “Phoenix”.’ Catherine took Max’s arm. And then she laughed. ‘Wow, I feel great!’
* * *
Catherine had slipped away from the party right after his speech, but Max knew she would be waiting for him in his cabin.
And there she was—out on the deck. The river. Soothing. She would have needed to be soothed after tonight’s encounter. Because no matter how great she’d felt at that one moment, reaction was bound to have set in.
She turned, and he saw she’d been crying. His fiery, wonderful Cathy crying—he couldn’t bear it.
She came slowly towards him, looking so soft and vulnerable he felt his whole body ache with the need to hold, to protect. Maybe he did have a Sir Galahad complex—but it was all directed at her. Just like the rest of him. All, all, for her.
A metre away from him she stopped, undid her dress. It dropped to the floor—swoosh—and she stood before him naked except for delicious red lace knickers.
‘It really isn’t about the way I look, is it?’ she asked.
Max shook his head. ‘I’d want you if you were wearing glasses, contact lenses, an eye-patch. Hair up, hair down, head shaved. In that red dress, or the peignoir, or the tweed skirt, or a sack...or nothing except your glorious phoenix rising from the ashes—the way you rose tonight.’
She smiled. ‘Tonight I feel like I finally earned my ink. Thank you, Max.’
And then she walked into his arms.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, and then kissed him, her lips clinging, sweet as honey.
Outside, the rain hit. Drenching, soaking, sheeting down, ferocious—the way he felt about Catherine. The way he knew he would always feel about her. As if he was drowning in her, dying for her.
Please love me. Please don’t leave me. Please, please, please.
He swung her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom. Laid her gently on the bed, let her lips cling to his... Until the sweetness was gone and the kiss had changed. Subsuming, devouring, possessive, wild. Lips seeking, teeth clashing, tongues shoving and tangling.
Max shifted so that he was looming over her. Dipped his head to kiss her again, again. Then dragged his mouth down her neck, over her breasts, pausing to lick and suck as Catherine used her hands in his hair to urge him on.
He edged down over her ribs, to her navel. A swirl of tongue, a kiss. And down, down... Over the red lace, breathing her in.
‘Open,’ he commanded, and her legs fell apart, and she was crying again as his mouth found her.
He kept kissing between her legs as his fingers gripped the lace at her hips, tugged it down. One tiny pause and his mouth was on her naked flesh, wet and hot, tongue stroking deeply into her. He shifted again, sucking the tiny nub of throbbing nerves into his mouth.
‘Max!’ she cried as she started to come, head thrown back on the pillow, moans ripping from her throat, fingers tangling in his hair. He kept the pressure steady and strong, over and over, until she was coming again and he thought he would die with the need to give her more, more, more.
‘Please, Max,’ she begged, and he slid up her body.
Max kissed her mouth, reaching blindly for the bedside table where they’d left the condoms. Kept kissing her as he ripped a condom free, slid it on, and then he was between Catherine’s legs, his arms fully around her, holding her as close as his own flesh, wanting her closer still.
When at last he pushed within her Max’s world stopped spinning. For one incredible, tight moment he held still, feeling only Catherine’s hot, quivering core, seeing only her trembling eyelids as she waited for him to move inside her, hearing only the catch in her breath as she jerked her hips against his, urging him. And when he moved it was heaven. Stroking so fully, deeply, completely inside her. Silently chanting her name: Cathy, Cathy, Cathy...
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she said, as though she’d heard her name singing in his blood and was answering him. She wrapped her legs around him, pushing desperately against him.
When he felt her orgasm he let himself go with a harsh, gasping cry—blinding, almost unbearable. And then he collapsed, rolling to the side, dragging her with him. And then there were only harsh, shocked breaths, hands that couldn’t stop touching, heartbeats that wouldn’t slow.
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
But Max’s throat was too tight to respond. Because he didn’t want her thanks. He wanted her love.
* * *
Max wasn’t sure what to expect when he opened his eyes the next morning.
But it wasn’t to find Cathy gone.
She wasn’t in the bed. Or the bathroom. The deck. Anywhere. He called her cabin—no answer. Her mobile—switched off.
His heart started to race for no apparent reason—because he knew she had to be somewhere. They weren’t booked to fly home until Sunday. But he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.
He checked his watch. Riffled his hair. Blew out a breath. Tried her cabin again. Her mobile.
Without bothering to shower—because he wanted to reek of her, of sex with her—he pulled on pants and a T-shirt and hurried to the restaurant in case she’d opted for an early breakfast.
Not there.
He stopped at the reception desk. Very casual. Had they seen her?
One of the staff held out an envelope. Said something Max didn’t hear because his brain had stopped functioning at the first sight of it. Because he knew. Knew.
Max returned to his cabin, carried the envelope onto the deck, looking to the river, which always soothed Cathy. But he wasn’t soothed. Could barely think.
He saw something red on the wooden slats of the deck, glinting in the sun.
Red.
A spangle from Cathy’s dress.
It brought him back to the moment. And he realised he had to know.
He tore open the envelope. One sheet of paper. A few short paragraphs.
Dear Max
Please accept this letter as formal notification of my resignation from Rutherford Property.
While I have enjoyed my time at the company, personal circumstances have forced me
to re-evaluate my career.
I thank you for your support during my time at the company, and wish Rutherford Property every success.
Thank you! Thank you so much.
Yours sincerely
Catherine North
Even expecting it, Max felt as if he’d taken a blow to the chest.
Personal circumstances...
He picked up the red spangle, rubbed it between his fingers, stared at it. He looked down at the page again, let the words settle into his gut.
And felt the desperation claw at him—because she was leaving him.
But he loved her. How could she leave him when she was the last woman? His last woman? She was so much the last woman he might as well chop it off without her, because she’d ruined him for anyone else.
Earth to Max—you never told her. How would she know?
Max to earth—she didn’t want me to love her. She said love would make her pack up her desk.
But she’d gone and packed up her desk, anyway. Which meant...who the hell knew?
His hand closed hard over the sparkle of red.
His temper flared.
Well, sorry, no! In fact, ditch the sorry. Just no.
If she thought, after putting him through that week of torture, she was going to flit off into the sunset without leaving him any of her, she was sorely mistaken.
Never to see her again—when he needed her. Needed her everywhere.
He opened his fist, looked at the tiny glinting piece of red. All he had of her.
No. Not happening. Not.
His heart gave an approving thump as that thought settled.
He was experienced with women. Successful in business. A shrewd entrepreneur, used to getting his own way. A natural and efficient problem-solver.
She might be Catherine-the-Great—all right she was Catherine-the-Great—but she was not going to get the better of him.
It was time to take control.
Time to make her see she belonged with him. And if she didn’t love him, he’d make her!
She’d written a damned book about him, hadn’t she? Jennifer loved Alex. She was Jennifer. He was Alex. So she could damned well write herself into loving him. Hell, he’d write it for her!
Turning the Good Girl Bad Page 17