Turning the Good Girl Bad

by Avril Tremayne

  She hurried up the steps and entered the most amazing room she’d ever stayed in. Honey-red polished wood floor, stark white walls, high ceilings, a massive four-poster bed hung with gauzy white curtains. Wooden beams and shutters. A deck with a wooden table and two chairs.

  She walked out onto the deck to take in the view and found that the cabin was perched above a river. It was private and peaceful and perfect, and it made her wonder what the finished product at Kurrangii would look like.

  She wished she could discuss it with Max right away, instead of being forced to ‘look around, relax, have a swim or a spa treatment’ while he unzipped Darcy’s lilac dress!

  She’d always found rivers soothing, so she concentrated on the water, trying to calm down as she pondered what she was going to do about the unforseen blonde obstacle.

  Deep breathing. Calm, calm, calm...

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Max?

  Okay, not calm.

  She hurried to open the door, only to find one of the resort staff standing there, holding out a can of shaving cream.

  ‘Compliments of Ms Appleby,’ he said.

  Catherine took the can. Closed the door. Looked at the shaving cream.

  And then she swept into the bathroom and liberated its contents down the toilet. ‘Take that, Maxie-T,’ she said, and flushed. ‘Take that!’

  * * *

  By the time Darcy left Max’s cabin she’d propositioned him three times and suggested he join her for dinner at a ‘fab new place’ in Port Douglas. He’d knocked her back, and back, and back, while trying to understand what the hell his recalcitrant libido was up to—because apparently it couldn’t accept an offer of sex unless it came wearing a wool skirt, thick tights and a cardigan.

  Catherine North.

  So hot. And cold. And hot.

  He’d started salivating the moment he saw her on the plane and hadn’t stopped. He’d had to tell her to take the day off just to give himself a respite. And then he’d gone and read that scene she’d given him, searching fruitlessly for a reference to Alex’s eye colour—earth to Max, get over it!—and now he wasn’t only salivating, he was gagging for her. Because he knew a promise of sex when he read one, regardless of Alex’s eye colour.

  How Jennifer wanted to touch him. His face, his hair. She wanted to grab his backside and pull him harder against her, where she was melting. But the rush of lust was too overpowering. First she had to wait, had to bend and take and feel. But she would have her turn. Soon she would touch and kiss. And it would be more than he’d ever dreamed of...

  Hello, permanent erection! Did Catherine really think that needed critiquing? She could critique it herself with one look at the front of his pants.

  Max ran his hands tiredly through his hair and walked out onto the deck to try and clear his head—it was either that or re-read the scene he shouldn’t have read in the first place, and those pages were already showing signs of overhandling. Disintegration by morning was a real possibility.

  Calm, calm, calm... That was what he needed. Calm.

  This resort had a magical setting. Everywhere you turned there was rainforest, dense and lush and green. Around every building and along every path bushes and trees clustered, as though promising to consume everything man-made.

  He wondered what Catherine’s reaction had been. She was perceptive, and always had something intelligent to say, and he’d found himself relying on her judgement more and more the longer they worked together. He wanted to know if she liked this setting. What she thought of the cabins. If she believed the Moss Falls’ pool design—lagoon-style, with a waterfall at one end—would work at Kurrangii.

  Then you shouldn’t have given her the day off, moron! Now, stop thinking about her.

  Tomorrow was time enough to hear her views.

  Tomorrow.

  When he would not brush against her as they passed each other in the meeting room, would not finger-graze her when he handed her a document, would not nudge her knee under the table.

  Okay—he was petrified about tomorrow. Because if he had to specifically instruct himself not to do those things, he needed a libido adjustment. And okay, he already knew he needed that, from his reactions today.

  He’d never found the prospect of plane sex remotely appealing, so how come seeing three undone shirt buttons had him instantly imagining crowding Cathy into the aircraft toilet, ripping off her underwear and shoving himself right into her?

  And what was so wonderful about lemon perfume that it should be able to hammer-whack him in the head? Because that’s what the smell of her had done to him when he’d leaned towards her in the car. He’d wanted to wrench her out of the seat and into the back, lay her down on the leather, dive under her hideous skirt and see how far down she dabbed it.

  At least imagining the look on Darcy’s face had he acted on that fantasy gave him a laugh.

  Darcy clearly hadn’t thought much of Catherine. And vice versa.

  Darcy—his decoy. He’d figured that if Catherine thought he and Darcy were going at it she’d feel safer. And Catherine already seemed to have got the message, so he was glad he’d asked Darcy to come to the airport to get it established straight off the bat. Even if he had to put up with that ridiculous nickname.

  He went back inside. Read the scene again. Cursed.

  Okay—he might have given Catherine the day off, and she might have thought he was busy with Darcy...but she could have called him, couldn’t she? She had to know he’d be interested in her views of this resort.

  Or what about a quick call to...to ask if he had any work for her? To check if he wanted to go over tomorrow’s agenda? To see if he needed...well...anything. Like...like dinner, for example!

  Not that dinner was part of her job. Of course it wasn’t.

  But he was hungry, dammit!

  And he should not be lurking in his cabin on the off-chance that Catherine would call and ask if he wanted to grab a bite and go over...something or other.

  He should just go and eat!

  Without Catherine North.

  Because it was definitely not a good idea to eat dinner with a woman whose body you wanted to eat dinner off.

  Okay—enough! Moss Falls had a great open-air bar and restaurant overlooking the pool. He would go there, grab a drink, eat something, then take a walk to stretch his legs and get his head together.

  Max suppressed a sigh as he saw Darcy the instant he entered the bar. So much for her ‘fab new place’ in Port Douglas! She beckoned him over.

  ‘What’ll it be, Maxie-T?’

  Looked as if he had a dinner companion. But mouth-to-skin food consumption was now officially off the menu.

  * * *

  Max was halfway through his chargrilled trout when he saw Catherine. Being led to a table on the restaurant balcony. Smiling as a waiter seated her.

  Not wearing her glasses.

  What did that mean? Did she not need them unless she was working with documents?

  What the hell does it matter? his frazzled brain asked.

  It doesn’t, his sane self answered.

  But somehow it did. Because she looked...different. Her hair wasn’t down, but it wasn’t in a bun either. It was in a ponytail, high on her crown, and the style made her eyes stand out and sharpened her cheekbones.

  ‘Maxie-T, you’ve had your fork halfway to your mouth for a full thirty seconds. What’s up?’

  Max dragged his attention back to Darcy. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  But Darcy was already turning, seeing Catherine. ‘Oh, it’s your poor little assistant...all alone. Shall we ask her to join us?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Darcy was up and off.

  Throughout Max’s professional association with Darcy he’d seen her sharpen her teet
h and rip whole chunks out of ‘rival’ females. But there she was, sitting opposite Catherine, gesturing to Max. It was a safe bet she had no idea what was going through Max’s X-rated mind when he looked at Catherine. Darcy probably imagined she would be shown to advantage next to the ‘poor little assistant’.

  The ‘poor little assistant’ didn’t even spare him a glance. She spoke to Darcy, her eyes narrowed, her lips pinched, and she shook her head—emphatic.

  It seemed Catherine wouldn’t be joining them.

  Huh.

  Darcy came gliding back over. ‘She says we seem to be well advanced so she’ll leave us to it. Which makes sense.’

  ‘Yes. Perfect sense,’ Max agreed, and heard the curtness that meant he was hanging on to his patience by a thread. He took a bite of fish, tasted nothing, laid down his cutlery. ‘I’m done,’ he said. Same curt voice. He needed to see Catherine. Alone. Right now. He didn’t have time to eat chargrilled fish!

  Darcy pouted. ‘No dessert?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  Foot tapping, Max waited for Darcy to finish her spaghetti whatever-the-hell-it-was, then order a caramel tart that took an age to be delivered as he kept an inconspicuous eye on Catherine’s table. At least he hoped it was an inconspicuous eye and not a swooping eagle eye—but he couldn’t swear to it. He could feel each breath he took as he watched, because he counted through them, controlling them.

  Catherine’s plate had been cleared, and she was slanting a long look out at the night, all dreamy-eyed. Thinking...what? He would love to know. Then she was reaching for her phone. Smiling at the screen. Text message? Yes, because she seemed to be texting back. Long message. Loooong. Still going.

  Who the hell was she texting?

  Next thing, she was calling for her bill. She was signing. Picking up the purse she’d laid on the table. Looking inside. Retrieving her cabin key. She was leaving—and Darcy was only halfway through her caramel tart. Right. He wanted to leave. Now. Leave. Now!

  He had to know where Catherine was going and who she’d been texting and if she was meeting someone.

  None of which was any of his business.

  Catherine looked over at him. No smile, but she sent a small wave his way—very hello-boss-from-uninterested-employee—as she left the table. She walked to the restaurant entrance, spoke to the maître-d’...

  Then Darcy said something, so Max had to redirect his attention to her, and when he checked the entrance again Catherine was gone.

  Goddammit!

  ‘Darcy,’ he said, interrupting he knew not what, ‘I need to speak to Catherine—a problem about the morning. Sorry, but I’m going to have to leave you.’

  Darcy acquiesced, albeit with a pout. Followed by the offer of an in-cabin nightcap—hastily declined.

  And then Max was off.

  Chasing after Catherine. Who probably did not want to be chased.

  But enough was enough.

  EIGHT

  Max knew which cabin Catherine was in so he headed in that direction, and saw her—yes!—a metre shy of it. She was walking slowly and had that dreamy look again. The way she looked when she was gazing out of his office window. Thinking about a scene for Passion Flower, maybe...?

  Like...Alex calling out to Jennifer to wait for him... Walking to her... Taking hold of her... Backing her against a handy tree trunk... Moving his thigh between hers as he raised her skirt, fingers moving up, between her thighs, into her wet heat... The sounds of the rainforest alive around them as his fingers slid inside...

  Holy Mother of God, he wanted to do that to Catherine.

  ‘Cathy!’ he called out.

  She turned, her fingers jumping to where the top button of her shirt was done up. And his brain snapped back. She did that when she was stressed. He was stressing her—and that was before he backed her against a handy tree trunk and shoved his thigh between her legs.

  Her fingers dropped. ‘Do you need something?’ she asked, all businesslike, walking back to him.

  ‘I just... I just...’ Have no idea what I’m doing! ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  Think fast, think fast.

  The heat settled around them. The silence. Except it wasn’t dead silence. It was alive. Water trickling, frogs, leaves rustling. Some weird insect noise. A plop-plop in the river. He could smell that lemon fragrance of hers. Stronger in the heat. He wanted to lick it off her.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘We should go over tomorrow’s agenda.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not now?’

  There was a challenge in that which he hadn’t intended. It reminded him of the way he’d put the Queensland trip to her—playing the boss card, almost daring her to say no. Just because he’d got all hot and achy and...and hot...in the filing alcove and it had freaked him out that she could do that to him. Like he was freaked out now, chasing her when he’d been determined not to.

  ‘Unless you’re meeting someone?’

  Damn. That had come out all belligerent too. Clearly he needed to look up the words ‘sledgehammer’ and ‘subtle’ in the dictionary and learn the difference.

  ‘No, I’m not meeting anyone. Now is fine. Where?’

  Stab of relief. Out of all proportion.

  ‘My cabin.’

  Hmm, that sounded like another challenge. He had to stop that. ‘It’s got a separate area I use for meetings, in case you’re wondering.’

  Okay, that was just pathetic.

  ‘Why would I be wondering?’ she asked, sounding amused. ‘I do occasionally book your accommodation.’

  ‘I just meant— I mean, we can go somewhere else, somewhere more public, if you’d feel more comfortable. After Friday night.’

  And so much for not having to talk about Friday night ever again!

  ‘After Friday night?’ she repeated slowly. And then she stepped closer. ‘Are you saying if we’re alone together you’re going to kiss me, Max?’

  ‘Huh?’ Clearly an intelligent response was beyond him. Probably because he did want to kiss her. Right then. Right there.

  Earth to Max...earth to Max...get a grip! Not going to so much as breathe on her, remember?

  Catherine gave him what could only be termed a superior smile, and stepped back again. ‘No need to have a conniption, Max. Remember how you wanted me to tell you when you were being stupid? I’m just calling it, that’s all. Because I know it’s acceptable to work from your cabin.’

  ‘Good. Because it is. Acceptable. And...and safe. For you, I mean.’ Oh, he was stupid, all right. And pathetic.

  ‘Do I need my computer?’

  ‘No, but what about your glasses? Don’t you need them?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ she said shortly, and gave him the death stare.

  Okaaaay. Glasses were not a subject for discussion, then.

  Wow, this was going to be fun! Him tense. Her bristling like a cactus. No buffer between them. And forbidden lust clawing at him like a wild thing. Forbidden lust? He’d be writing his own romance novel soon.

  They walked in uncomfortable silence to his cabin—which was more like a house, set amongst the foliage and edging the river. Catherine’s eyes widened as she took in the expansive living space, the wide glass doors opening onto a huge deck.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked. ‘A drink? Coffee?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She walked around the room. ‘Is Darcy joining us?’

  ‘No. Why would she be?’

  ‘From the way things seemed in the car, and the fact she was with you this afternoon, I thought maybe you needed her involved in everything.’ A raised eyebrow. Very cool. ‘Unless that wasn’t work? This afternoon, I mean?’

  He took a step towards her. ‘There’s nothing going on between me and Darcy.’ Okaaay,
so much for using Darcy as a decoy.

  Catherine’s lips pinched in. ‘Isn’t there? She’s blonde. Tall. Horsey. Your usual type.’

  Blonde, tall—okay. But horsey? He couldn’t help himself—he laughed. ‘And when did you last see one of these...these fillies...prancing around on my arm?’

  ‘Two and a half months ago. Leah. She was the third in just my first month at Rutherford Property. Impressive.’

  ‘So where have all these tall blondes been since Leah?’ he asked. ‘And why am I stuck here with a short brunette?’

  ‘Not so stuck you didn’t arrange to have a tall blonde waiting for you.’ She took a step closer. ‘And frankly, Max, you could do better.’

  She gave that head-toss Max had never seen her do until today in the car—and he had to say it worked better with a swinging ponytail than it had with a bun.

  ‘You’re giving me dating advice?’ he asked, laughing again. God, she was just...brilliant. ‘Okay, let me have it. What’s wrong with Darcy?’

  ‘Other than the fact she’s condescending?’

  Before he could respond—and God knew what he would have said to that, anyway—she jabbed him in the chest with an irate finger.

  ‘Do you know what she said to me?’

  No, he didn’t, but he was suddenly dying to hear it.

  Head-toss. ‘She said, “I see you’ve done the sensible thing and abandoned your specs. Good for you.” Good for you? How utterly— How—’ But words seemed to fail her. She made an explosive sound of frustration. And then, suddenly finding the word, she flung it at him: ‘Outrageous.’

  Max could feel his lip twitch and ruthlessly subdued it. But, God, he was enjoying this. Like the volcanic eruptions she sometimes treated him to in the office, only magnified—superb.

  ‘So you’re sensitive about your glasses. How was she to know?’

  ‘I am not sensitive about my glasses. I am myopic. I wear glasses. Full-stop.’