Instead Max stood there, holding her off the floor, kissing her so hard she was sure her lips would be bruised. And then he suddenly released her, dropping her back onto her feet.
He kept his eyes on her as she swallowed, as one of her hands instinctively reached for her top button, felt skin, then gripped the gaping edges, clutching them together.
She saw the look in Max’s eyes, the shift from passion to weariness as he took in her fingers gripping her shirt, and she cursed silently in her head.
‘Just what a man wants to see—a woman buttoning up after he kisses her,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I don’t do virgins.’
She forced her hands to drop. ‘I’m not a virgin.’
‘Maybe not technically.’ He ran a hand into his hair as he sighed. ‘Cathy, I’m offering you the chance—one chance—to put a stop to this insanity. Stop poking the bear if you’re not sure you can handle the response.’
‘I can handle anything you dish out.’
‘You didn’t handle that kiss so well. And that’s not even the best one in my arsenal.’
She stared at him. Blink, blink, blink. Trembling lip. ‘You really don’t want me?’
‘Just the fact that you can even ask that tells me—’
She watched the emotions chase across his face. Lust. Tenderness. Incredulity. Frustration. And then—bingo. He smiled grimly.
‘Going all girly on me, Cathy? Well, save it. You know I want you. And, yes, I know I can have you, too. If I want to feel like a depraved monster—taking someone who isn’t up to my weight. Oddly enough, I’m not too crazy about feeling like a depraved monster—and all that button-grabbing is going to get very old, very fast. So save the blinky, trembly-lip stuff and think. Carefully.’
‘I can take your weight!’ she insisted, although her limbs and her voice were shaking.
‘Can you? Be sure. Because I’m not a toy or a lapdog. Or even particularly civilised—especially not in bed. If you think you’re getting Sir Galahad, think again.’
She threw back her shoulders. ‘I don’t want Sir Galahad.’
‘Just as well—because he has now officially left the building and is working in a burger joint with Elvis somewhere.’
He did that stare—right through her pupils. And then he nodded. ‘All right, consider the line irrevocably crossed, little passion flower. I’ll help you unfurl your petals. But it’s going to be done to my timetable, and on my terms, and until I say you’re ready, you’re not. So...you wait. Got it?’
‘How will I know when the time is right?’
Low, sexy laugh. ‘You’ll know. It will be when you’re so hot you’ll think you’ve got lava in your bloodstream.’
For one moment he looked at her, and then—shocking her even more than the kiss had—he pulled her in, hugged her, ran his hand over her ponytail. He pulled back, looked down at her. Smiled that slow, lopsided smile and turned her knees to jelly.
‘So, now can we do the agenda?’
And Catherine, who suddenly wasn’t quite so sure of herself after all, could only nod.
* * *
Catherine took exquisite care with her appearance the next morning. Just a little change—enough to start the ball rolling. The glasses were back on, her hair was in its usual tight chignon, she was wearing a businesslike brown skirt and her shoes were nana-heeled brown pumps. But her legs were bare and her top was fluttery daffodil-yellow silk.
She was the first in the room at the resort’s conference facility, double-checking the arrangements. She adjusted name cards, ensured everyone was positioned at the table appropriate to their level of participation—with herself next to Max, set out folders of materials at each spot, tested the audio-visual equipment, and organised for beverages and snacks to be available throughout the day.
Max came in fifteen minutes after Catherine, full of energy. He stopped as he took in what she was wearing and said, ‘Huh...’ Or at least his mouth made the shape of it but no actual sound emerged. And Catherine felt a curl low in her belly as his face went taut and dark.
If she could achieve that just with a yellow top and knee-to-ankle flesh, she couldn’t wait to see how he coped as the week wore on and she progressively deconstructed herself.
That night, for the first business dinner, Catherine wore the glasses and the chignon, but changed into a cotton trouser suit teamed with a skimpy camisole—and had the satisfaction of seeing Max’s jaw actually drop.
The next morning: glasses, businesslike but expertly tailored skirt, hot pink short-sleeved top, and the chignon replaced with a messy bun on top of her head.
Max’s teeth were clamped so tightly as he took in the differences she thought she’d be hunting down paracetamol before the day was too advanced.
That night’s dinner—an even looser bun and a form-fitting wrap dress in mint-green that displayed a generous hint of cleavage.
She saw Max take a deep breath and walked over to him, smiling. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked sweetly.
‘No.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Max’s jaw worked for a moment, but nothing emerged.
‘Well, if nothing’s wrong, I’d better get back to it,’ Catherine said.
‘Back to what?’
‘Making sure everything’s on track.’
‘It’s on track.’
‘So why are you looking like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Morose.’
‘Because—’ Cut off. Another breath. Tiny shake of the head. One more breath. ‘Why aren’t you sitting with the guests? This is the second night in a row.’
Hmm, that clearly was not the real ‘because’...but one hairpin at a time. ‘I prefer to float and make sure everything goes smoothly. I had something to eat in my room, so I’m fed and watered.’
‘Which would be fine if you were a horse,’ he snapped.
‘You would know, as an equine aficionado. All those coltish blondes...’
‘Well, Cathy, thanks to our little deal, the only coltish blond I’m touching on this trip is our PR guy, Doug. Are you coming to dinner with the two of us tomorrow night?’
‘Actually, I have a...a sort of date tomorrow night.’
One long, hot stare. Then Max scanned the restaurant. ‘Which one?’
‘None of these guys.’
‘You haven’t had time to meet anyone else.’
‘It’s someone I’ve known forever. He lives up here.’
Tight, tight smile. ‘Good for you. But, just so you know, once you touch another man I’m out of the game.’
‘Then tonight, at least, you’re still in the game—aren’t you?’
Another long, hot look. ‘You’re right. And I’m playing the boss card. Take a seat. You’re joining us for dinner.’
‘I thought—’
‘Boss card, Catherine. Sit the hell down.’
The boss card. Ugh. Max seemed to play that particular card whenever he was reminding her of the boss/employee dynamic. Almost as if he was pushing her away. Which was not what she’d had in mind for tonight.
Sighing, Catherine adjusted the place cards at one of the tables, positioning herself between one of Rutherford Property’s junior engineers and a young marketing manager. They were the best-looking men in the room—aside from Max—and, given the set of Max’s mouth when he’d made that remark about her touching another man, she had a feeling her choice of seat would irk him. Which served him right for playing the boss card.
She was so girly and charming over dinner she was making herself sick—but the increasingly surly looks Max was flinging at her across the room made it worthwhile. And then she laughed—too loudly—and Max actually glared at her.
Right. Time for another little push!
One of Catherine’s responsibilities was to ensure that Max circulated. It was relatively easy to steer him towards people at cocktail functions, where people were always moving. Dinners were trickier, because she had to watch for briefly vacated seats that Max could occupy for a quick hello. If Catherine had been floating she would have been able to walk into Max’s line of sight and give him a subtle head or hand gesture. But tonight, not floating, by order of the boss, called for something a little more definite.
She watched the tables and the instant a seat opened up—at the table next to hers—excused herself and headed for Max. She put her hand on his shoulder, letting a finger slip subtly above his shirt collar to touch his neck. Just the tiniest touch. It might almost have been an accident.
But Max shivered.
And, oooohhh, she felt it. The power...
Before the shiver had worked itself through his body she leaned down close to his ear, cupping a hand to cover her mouth as though whispering something confidential. ‘Table Three...’ she said—very Happy Birthday, Mr President.
Max shivered again, and started to put down his wine glass, but Catherine wasn’t finished. She leaned in as though for another whisper...and let the tip of her tongue touch behind his earlobe. One tiny, tiny lick.
Max’s arm jerked and three drops of red wine spilled onto the white tablecloth before he could stabilise his glass. And then, with an abrupt, ‘Excuse me,’ he stood. With a darkling look at Catherine, who glided serenely back to her own table, he made his way to the empty seat.
Catherine knew she would have to produce something more definitive than a one-second lick if she was to get Max into bed by Friday, but at least it was a start.
She wasn’t feeling quite so sanguine five minutes later, when a hand suddenly descended on her shoulder. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Max—because she’d seen him leave Table Three and smelled him as he arrived behind her—but she still flinched.
‘I hope Catherine’s been looking after you?’ he said genially to the table at large.
One of Max’s potential investors smiled at the two of them. ‘Very well!’ he said. ‘She’s been advising me on residential property investment in her old stomping ground, Abu Najmah.’
‘Has she? What did she say?’
Catherine glanced up at Max, caught the arrested look on his face, and decided ‘she’ could speak for herself. ‘I said that although the market bottomed out a couple of years ago there are still bargains to be had because of a chronic over-supply.’
Max gave her shoulder a squeeze and his little finger touched the skin where her neck met her shoulder. Lingered there. And even knowing it was pure and simple payback, Catherine’s mouth went dry.
Fortunately the investor took up the narrative. ‘Catherine recommends buying at a maximum twenty-five per cent above estimated construction and reasonable land costs and watching that potential fancy finishes aren’t included in the price. Within those parameters, she says rental yields of upwards of four per cent are possible, which should limit the downside in any future debt crisis.’
‘I think she’s angling for my job,’ Max said with a laugh, and she heard something in his voice that made her look up at him again.
He was smiling at her—a strange smile. Kind of...proud. Wondering... And for the briefest moment Catherine couldn’t seem to help relaxing her head so that her cheek grazed his hand.
And then he was gone.
He didn’t come near her for the rest of the night—didn’t even look at her. And she didn’t go near him either. Because things felt suddenly...complicated.
When she’d let herself into her cabin she headed straight for the deck so she could gaze at the river, remembering his scent, the texture of his skin, the taste of it, on the tip of her tongue, the feel of his hand on her shoulder, the smile on his mouth but also in his eyes.
When the knock on the door came her heart started that gallop she couldn’t seem to conrol. She was blushing as she went to the door, so sure it was Max. That this was it. The time. Because of the way he’d looked at her...
But it was one of the resort staff, presenting an envelope. She took it, closed the door, then sagged with relief.
With...relief? Oh, my God. She was relieved. How twisted was that? She should be sagging with disappointment—not relief.
She slid onto the couch as the ramifications hit. She wasn’t ready.
She stared blindly at the envelope in her hands. Took a few deep breaths. No, she wouldn’t accept that. It was just... Just that smile. The way he’d smiled at her. That smile had not been a getting-you-into-bed-tonight smile. It had been a something-else smile. Something almost...frightening.
She didn’t want to think about what the smile meant and why it had affected her so much. She just wanted to have sex with him. Why did that suddenly not feel simple?
She felt a shiver ripple through her—the way that shiver had run through Max when she’d put her tongue on his skin—and looked at the envelope, at her name scrawled in Max’s bold handwriting. It made her shiver again.
She ripped open the envelope, removed the sheets of paper. It was probably another boss-card instruction. Well, he could take his boss card and—
Ooooohhhh! The shiver ripped through her again. And again.
‘I hope you like water,’ Alex said to Jennifer as he waded into the private pool with her in his arms. ‘Because I’m going to make you wet.’
He lowered her, manoeuvring her so that her legs wrapped around him as the water settled. Her arms were around his shoulders. His were around her hips. The look in his eyes, deep as sin, promised a fantasy.
But under the water he was hard against her sex—and that was the reality. Huge, throbbing, poised at her entrance. He dipped his head to take her mouth and she moaned...
Lava. Hot. Wet. Racing through her.
All Catherine’s uncertainty vanished.
If he thought he could send her that—stringing her along with a few new moves for Alex without fronting up in person...?
Well, game on.
* * *
The next morning—Wednesday, with only two days to go to the cocktail party—Catherine upped the ante. No glasses. Floaty beige dress cinched in at the waist. Nude sandals two inches higher than usual. Hair in a loose braid.
Darcy gave her a dagger-like stare—which she enjoyed immensely.
And Max, after a single sharp breath, turned his back on her.
Excellent.
She gave it a little push with a surreptitious knee-nudge under the table as the meeting got underway. Max’s breath hung suspended for a split second—and then he edged away. When she did it a second time she got a glare. A third time and he reached under the table, gave her knee a retaliatory grab, and then edged his hand up, up, up, until she gasped. One last warning squeeze, right at the top of her thigh, and then the hand was gone.
Catherine desisted after that—because it was one thing trying to give a guy grief by making him horny as hell but quite another squirming around on your chair, trying to accommodate the achy throb between your legs as you pictured Alex Taylor lifting Jennifer Andrews out of her seat and jamming her on his lap in front of a roomful of serious-faced people.
Torture. Utter torture.
‘Torture’: word of the day.
The whole damned day.
Because whenever Max leaned closer to ask her to remind him of a key fact, or to jot down a special mention—so carefully not touching her again—she became an amorphous mass of raw arousal. She became Jennifer in the pool, legs wrapped around Alex. She became a hot scorch of flowing, surging, bubbling lava.
And there was nothing immediately do-able about it because she would be spending the evening with her brother and Max would be heading to Cairns with Doug. Which was probably just as well
—because she wasn’t certain a person couldn’t die from an excess of unassuaged arousal, and Max wasn’t doing much assuaging!
Once the meeting’s participants had disappeared, Catherine packed up. Max had retreated to the end of the room with his phone stuck to his ear, so she gave him a series of I’m-out-of-here hand gestures—only to be furiously motioned to stay where she was. Exactly where she was.
Catherine could recognise the boss card, even in mime, so she stayed.
Into her head popped a memory of RJ on the phone in D.C., yelling at her about the seating plan just to trick her, and her throat tightened. Stupid—so stupid. Because Max wouldn’t trick her. Max didn’t have to. She would be perfectly happy for Max to shove her against the nearest wall and stick his tongue down her throat; he didn’t need an excuse to get her alone and vulnerable.
But when Max came striding towards her she couldn’t seem to help grabbing for her earring. Reflex.
‘Okay—what the hell is going on?’ he asked.
‘Going on with...?’
‘You.’
‘I don’t underst—’
‘The clothes.’
She stared at him for a moment as that frisson of uncertainty faded. As she understood that this was good, not bad. Finally—finally—Max was acknowledging the change in her appearance in words, not scowls.
‘You have a problem with my clothes?’ she asked, throwing in an innocently confused blink.
‘Knock off the girly stuff, Cathy. All the clothes were returned to Sandra—I checked. So where did that come from? And the green dress? The pink and yellow tops?’
Catherine tossed her head. ‘Well, Max, when you were expressing your disdain for my appearance you didn’t bother to ask if I had suitable clothing—either for this climate or this calibre of event.’
Turning the Good Girl Bad Page 12
