Turning the Good Girl Bad

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘Why would I think you had anything suitable? You haven’t exhibited any sartorial flair in the office. And, going on what I’ve seen you wearing all damned summer, I had a real fear you’d drop dead from heat stroke on day one if I didn’t step in. And I also thought— I thought—’ His hands were digging in his hair.

  ‘Thought...?’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t afford the clothes you’d need for here! All right?’

  Oh, my God, oh, my God. He was embarrassed to be caught out caring. Again! Complication. Because that hit her right in the chest. Like an ache. She’d been so furious about the clothes...and all he’d wanted to do was save her from death and penury.

  ‘Well, now you know I can tell the difference between a satin top and a tweed skirt,’ she mumbled, all the huff sucked out of her.

  He did the through-the-pupils stare. She could see his brain tick-ticking. ‘And you always could, couldn’t you? You just thought I wouldn’t be able to keep it in my pants if you weren’t wearing five-inch-thick flannel. Good old RJ, right?’

  Up went her chin. ‘When I came for my job interview I didn’t know you had a harem of blonde bimbos at your disposal. And you...you can’t deny it was a blessed relief to hire Miss Lemon! Finally someone you wouldn’t be tempted to touch.’

  ‘You know, for someone so smart...’ He paced away, then back. ‘I hired Catherine North—not her clothes. And I hired her because I liked what she had to say at her interview. She’d studied up on the industry and the company. She gave me an articulate rundown on the issues facing the Australian property market. And when I asked her a question about our African development she ripped my head off on the subject of blood diamonds. The way you do that is one of the things I love—’

  He ran a hand into his hair.

  ‘I love that about you, Cathy. The way you think, the way you care. The way you make me think and care.’ He shot her a fierce look. ‘But by all means go and change into your tweed if it makes you feel safer!’

  That ache in her chest was threatening to choke her. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Max said through his teeth, but he looked ready to throttle her. ‘I just didn’t think— Nothing.’ And then, all tetchy, ‘No, it’s not nothing. You’re not ready—so stop torturing me.’

  ‘This is a perfectly respectable dress.’

  ‘So respectable you were scared to wear it to work in Sydney?’ Almost before he’d finished saying that, he had one of those aha moments. ‘The only time you wore your real clothes was that day. The black top. When I wasn’t supposed to be there.’ Harsh laugh. ‘No wonder you almost had a heart attack when I walked in. My God. My. God.’

  His hands went digging into his hair.

  ‘Well, Cathy, just to lay my cards on the table, you look gorgeous in that dress. You looked hot as hell last night. The night before, too. And don’t get me started on the red peignoir. But I wanted you even in your atrocious skirts and your buttoned-up shirts and those chastity-belt cardigans.’ He stepped closer. ‘I am not your old boss, and I am not my father. A nice frock isn’t going to push me over the edge.’

  He took a furious step away. Another back.

  ‘Get this though your head: it’s not time until I say it is. No matter how high you up the ante.’

  ‘Well, I am going to be upping it,’ she said.

  She took a step closer, until they were only a breath away from each other, and stared up at him. He looked down, shooting sparks.

  His eyes dropped to her mouth.

  Do it...do it, she urged silently.

  The eyes dropped again, to her chest, and he licked his lips. She knew without looking that her nipples were erect, pointing through her dress.

  ‘You can touch me if you want,’ Catherine said.

  The fire flared—hot and dangerous. And then his eyes shifted direction—to her earlobe—and one of her hands automatically reached up to her right ear, fondled the gold hoop there.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Max said.

  Catherine braced herself. Waiting for his hands to land...where?

  But Max’s hands stayed loose by his sides as he leaned down, nuzzled his nose, then his mouth, just below her left ear. He licked her there, the way she’d licked him last night. But longer, and with the flat of his tongue.

  She couldn’t hold in her shocked gasp as he moved fractionally, taking her earlobe into his mouth, complete with its gold hoop. His tongue was flicking at the same time as he suckled—and she was scared, so scared, she was going to fall apart.

  And then he eased away. ‘Your buttons have gone but you’re still wearing the gold hoops, Cathy. And you know what that tells me? You’re. Not. Ready. So stop poking the bear.’

  One step away. Stop. Turn.

  ‘And, Cathy—remember what I said. Touch another man and I’m out of the game. Not negotiable.’ Sexy smile. ‘Have a nice time tonight.’

  Catherine blew out a long breath as he exited. Realised she was shaking.

  Lust.

  But not pure and simple.

  There was something else there. Something...deeper.

  She found that she was playing with her gold hoop again and stamped her foot so hard the heel snapped right off her shoe.

  * * *

  Max’s dinner lasted fifty-seven minutes. He timed it, impatient for it to be over.

  Not that the food wasn’t great. The wine—excellent. Doug—his usual informative, sparkling self. But Max wanted to be somewhere else.

  Where Cathy was.

  Yeah, she’s with her date, moron! You do not want to be there.

  So—would the game be over tonight?

  For reasons Max didn’t want to examine, that thought made him furious.

  By the time the car dropped him off at the resort he was so consumed by thoughts of some other guy hearing the sound of Catherine’s breathy voice in his ear, feeling the tantalising promise of her tongue on his skin, he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

  He needed a drink. But, not being fit company for humans, he headed poolside, where the bar would soon close and he could be alone. Six minutes later he was swirling cognac in a balloon glass. It was a suitably brooding drink for his tortured state of mind. Meditative, soulful, pensive...

  He laughed suddenly. He could almost see Cathy rolling her eyes should she get a look inside his head at that moment.

  The last two swimmers got out of the pool, dried off and left. A minute later the barman closed up shop.

  Alone.

  Perfect.

  He raised his glass to his lips and his eyes automatically focused on the balcony of the main hotel bar.

  And then he saw them.

  TEN

  Max’s blood rocketed through his veins. Hot, fast, painful.

  Catherine. And Luke Phillips.

  Options flashed through Max’s mind. One—go to the bar, say a civil hello, subtly let her know their arrangement was at an end. Sane. Two—return to his cabin unseen, then tomorrow let her know their arrangement was at an end not so subtly. Sane. Three—spy on them and hold fire on declaring their arrangement at an end. Insane.

  Which was how Max came to be edging his chair backwards, into the shadows, out of sight—half shielded for good measure by a palm tree. A freaking palm tree! Seriously? He tossed back the expensive cognac as if it was lemonade and trained his eyes on the balcony.

  He could only see the top half of Catherine. But what he could see was beautiful. No glasses. Hair in a ponytail. Wearing something that completely covered her glorious chest, thank God! Nice and demure.

  He switched to her companion. Luke Phillips. Alex Taylor black hair. Big warm smile. He was an inch or two shorter than Max—better for Catherine’s height, Max supposed. He had a
cleft in his chin—which for some reason women seemed to like.

  Basically, Max wished Luke Phillips would drop dead.

  Luke said something, making Catherine hoot out a laugh, and Max’s eyes snapped back to her. What was so funny? And why didn’t she ever, ever laugh like that with him?

  And then Catherine picked up a glass—a shot glass!—raised it to her lips, and tossed its contents down as though she’d been frequenting bars since she was an infant.

  Shots. They were doing shots.

  Max, all gritted up, groaned low and fierce in the back of his throat as Catherine wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. He wanted to lick that sexy mouth of hers, suck the booze right out of her. Even if it turned out to be tequila—which he hated.

  His stomach pitched as he saw Luke wave to one of the serving staff. A minute later the two of them were preparing to leave. So...Catherine would go back to her cabin and Luke would go home—right?

  Max, on tenterhooks, scooted further back—so far back he was practically in the bushes!—because Catherine would walk past the pool to get to her cabin and he wasn’t sure how he wanted to play things. Stay hidden? Or throw out a casual, Hello, Cathy, how was your night?—although how to make it casual, given he’d have to emerge from behind a palm tree, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he would wait for her to get back to her cabin and then call her. Or maybe—

  Maybe he could just instantaneously combust!

  Because she was wearing shorts! Tiny shorts. And killer heels that looked amazing on her absolutely perfect legs. He wanted to run his hands, his mouth, up those legs, from the ankle to the hem, slide his tongue along her inner thigh...

  Okay, if he didn’t get it together he was going to end up being carted off in that strait-jacket she’d warned him about—and he wasn’t even going to argue when they came to strap him in.

  Catherine stopped Luke with a hand on his arm as they neared the pool. She stiffened, frowned, looked slowly around. And then, with a tiny head-shake, she turned back to Luke. ‘You can’t ride home in that state, Luke.’

  Ride? Motorbike, then. Irresponsible lout. And ‘that state’? So—drunk. A motorbike-riding booze-hound. Loser.

  ‘Stay in my cabin tonight,’ she urged.

  Max’s jaw clamped so tightly as he waited for Luke’s answer, he feared for the longevity of his two capped teeth—which, okay, were the result of a long-ago motorbike accident...not that the accident had been his fault!

  He wasn’t moving a tooth, a muscle or a limb from his spot until the bastard answered.

  ‘Nah, I’m not staying,’ Luke said. ‘I’ll want to kill you when I wake up sick as a dog to find you disgustingly bright-eyed and chirpy.’

  ‘It’s a good bet I’ll wake up grumpy! I’m doing a lot of that.’

  ‘Doesn’t count if it’s not from a hangover.’ Luke glanced at the pool, mischief brewing in his eyes. ‘Hey, Cath, remember that wedding? The one where those pretentious academics kept digging at you for being a “glorified secretary” instead of using your business degree? How I dared you to spice things up by jumping in the pool?’

  ‘Yes—and I don’t know what I was thinking! It cost me an expensive cocktail dress. Not to mention my favourite shoes.’

  ‘You weren’t thinking—you were in a rage. Like you’ve been most of the night. And that top you’re wearing is cotton, not silk—right?’

  ‘But these shorts are leather.’

  Luke made clucking chicken noises.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, we really are regressing, aren’t we? First shots—now this.’ Catherine tried to sound disapproving, but ended up giggling. ‘I’ll do it. But only if you come in with me. And no shoes this time—even for you I won’t ruin these!’

  Luke simply started tugging off his footwear.

  Catherine, leaning a hand on his shoulder, took care of hers. And then they smiled at each other.

  Luke took her hand. ‘Ready, Catherine-the-Great?’

  ‘Ready!’

  They ran. Jumped. Splashed into the pool with a shrieking whoop. And then they were laughing. Laughing, laughing, laughing as they splashed and dunked each other.

  Eventually Catherine swam to the waterfall end of the pool, where it was shallow enough to stand. She waded to the side, hoisted herself onto the edge and sat with her legs dangling in the water.

  ‘I have no idea what the point of that was, Luke—unless it was to sober me up.’

  ‘Except that I’m the drunk one.’ Luke hauled himself out of the pool and sat beside her. ‘And the point is that I want you back, Catherine,’ he said. ‘I want my Catherine back.’

  Catherine leaned against him, and for a long moment they sat staring into the water.

  And then Catherine stiffened again.

  ‘What is it?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Just that smell...’

  Luke sniffed. ‘It’s nice. Like vanilla, but...darker.’

  ‘Yes...’ She looked around again. Peered into the shadows. And her eyes sharpened as she made out a form. ‘Uh-oh.’

  Luke swivelled and stared into the space.

  A moment later Max walked out of the darkness.

  Catherine got to her feet, streaming water. Luke followed her, standing close—too close—on Catherine’s right. Catherine-the-Great, Luke had called her. My Catherine.

  Max wondered what the hell he was going to do about that. He’d told her to find someone else, but he knew—very suddenly, very surely—he was not giving her up.

  ‘Max, right?’ Luke asked, with an unconcerned smile that made Max want to punch him.

  ‘Right,’ Max said, but he was looking at Catherine. That ‘demure’ top was clinging wetly to her, transparent. He could see her bra. Creamy, lacy half-cups, with her lovely breasts spilling over the top.

  The curves everywhere else—luscious. The legs—insane! Everything about her was awesome. He was itching to touch her.

  ‘Cath’s been telling me about Kurrangii,’ Luke said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Kurrangii.’

  Max transferred his gaze to Luke. ‘Has she?’

  Luke nodded a few too many times—the shots, no doubt. ‘It sounds great.’

  Silence.

  Luke looked at Catherine, who was looking at Max.

  ‘Cath, do you need me?’ Luke asked.

  She shook her head, eyes still on Max.

  ‘Right, then.’ Luke one-arm hugged Catherine, kissed the top of her wet head, walked over to his shoes and picked them up. He looked from Catherine to Max, back to Catherine. ‘Okaaaaay,’ he said. ‘I’m off. And don’t freak, Cath, because I have a sober ride pre-arranged.’

  He started to walk away, and Catherine seemed to come to her dazzled senses. ‘Wait!’ she called out, and hurried after him.

  Max saw it as she turned. The tattoo. Through her transparent top.

  At least he could see some of it. It was no modest little dolphin or flower or heart. It was big. It was bold. It looked like a falcon, and yet...not. He could see the part that stretched up the curve of her waist to just below her bra, but not the part that dipped below where her shorts rested enticingly on her hip. And, God, he wanted to see all of it. Every square millimetre. But he was not going to ask. Because she’d probably strip off and show him and then he would be lost.

  Max watched as she hugged Luke, as they whispered something to each other. As Luke patted her back!

  Max’s mouth dropped open. Patted her back?

  And then Luke was leaving, and Catherine was making her way slowly back.

  ‘So, Max...’ she said, and plucked her top away from her skin. Which did nothing except make Max realise he had enough material to fuel his wet dreams for the next twenty years. ‘How long were you there, watching me?’

>   ‘Long enough,’ he said, mouth dry.

  She came closer. ‘I could smell you, you know,’ she said.

  Man, oh, man, was that the most erotic thing he’d ever heard? Because it was making him bigger and harder than he’d ever been. And it was painful—but it felt so good.

  She knew his scent.

  He longed to invite her to stick her nose anywhere she wanted and breathe him in. But she wasn’t ready. If he made his move before she was ready he would lose her. She would run. Hide somewhere else.

  ‘Why were you watching me?’ she asked.

  At exactly the same time Max demanded, ‘What’s wrong with that guy, anyway?’

  ‘That guy?’ Catherine stepped closer. ‘What makes you think there’s anything wrong with “that guy”? Whose name is Luke—which you know, because you never forget a name.’

  ‘He patted you on the back. When you hugged him.’

  ‘And that would be bad as opposed to you lurking in the shadows watching me because...?’

  ‘Because he’d have to be a eunuch to have you in his arms and not—’ He stopped.

  Another step. Closer.

  ‘And not...?’ she prompted.

  Max stared down at her, wanting to grab her and shake her and kiss her and ban her from hugging any other man ever again. ‘He didn’t even look at you when you got out of the pool.’

  Which was not exactly answering the question.

  ‘So I have to tell you, I think—’ Shrug. ‘I think you could do better.’

  Role reversal.

  ‘You’re giving me dating advice?’ she asked with a low laugh.

  Role reversal complete.

  ‘Well, come on, Cathy. He didn’t even look at you.’ Yeah, you said that already, mate. ‘And I mean—I mean look at you!’

  ‘Why don’t you look at me?’ Very low, very husky.

  ‘I am.’

  She stepped back. Opened her arms wide, stuck out her spectacular breasts. ‘I mean really look.’

  Okay, he looked. Really looked. Hard. Well, she’d told him to, hadn’t she?

  ‘Do you like what you see?’ she asked.

  He closed his eyes for a brief, get-it-together moment. Then opened them, keeping them safely on her face this time as he crossed his arms and secured his hands safely under his armpits.