Turning the Good Girl Bad

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘You know I do, Catherine. Because I’m not a eunuch. And I’m a little over being a saint right now, too.’

  ‘I don’t want a saint.’ Small smile. ‘Because I’m not a saint.’

  ‘Yeah, I got that—if you were a saint you wouldn’t be torturing me.’

  ‘My brother, Luke, thinks I should torture you a little more.’

  That took Max a moment to process. Brother? ‘No. His name is Phillips.’

  ‘See? You never forget a name. Half-brother—hence the different surname. But still brother. Which is why he didn’t look at me the way you’re looking at me.’ She moved closer. ‘So if it’s the thought of Luke that’s stopping you...’

  Max swallowed, hard. Not ready. She wasn’t ready. Teeth grinding. Hands fisting in his armpits. Heart hammering. It took the black spots spinning in front of his eyes to remind him to breathe.

  She stepped closer still, and Max momentarily lost his mind. Lost control of his body, too. Because his arms had uncrossed and closed around her like a vice. And then he was dragging her onto her toes and kissing her, devouring her. In an endless stream of succulent, licking kisses, pausing only to breathe before planting his mouth on hers again. Tequila. She tasted like tequila. He loved tequila. Tequila was his favourite drink.

  Okay. He was officially insane. Strait-jacket required.

  He pulled back, breaths choppy and desperate, looked down at her. ‘Okay, you win. You wanted to push me until I couldn’t stop and I’m there. I can’t stop.’

  ‘You will stop, Max, if I ask. I know you will.’

  He looked down at her, torn. God, how was he going to pull back?

  ‘But I’m not asking you to,’ she said steadily. ‘I don’t want you to stop.’

  The words spurred him almost to madness. He was shaking as he kissed her again, backing her into the darkness. Back, back, back, until she was against the palm tree. Thank God for that palm tree. Mouth on hers—hungry, desperate. Hands reaching for her breasts through that damp top—too rough, but he couldn’t seem to be gentle. Clenching, massaging. He could feel the points of her nipples against his palms.

  Catherine moaned into his mouth, pushing herself more fully into his hands. His knee was between her thighs, urgent against the core of her.

  ‘I want you in my mouth...here,’ he said, rolling her nipples. ‘To be inside you...’ He nudged his thigh more closely against the juncture of her thighs.

  ‘Do it. Take me. Right here—now.’

  With a groan, Max lowered his head to suck her through the material of her top, the lacy bra beneath. He was holding her breasts in his hands, raising them for his tongue, fingers manipulating them out of the cups of her bra. He was so hot for her he thought he might explode. She’d told him to take her. So he would take.

  Hands shaking, mouth seeking, fingers delving, he heard...felt...the gossamer-thin fabric tear.

  Then Catherine’s voice, low and urgent in his ears. ‘Don’t stop, Max. Take me.’

  And the sound of her words, the echo of the ripping fabric, coalesced in his head and he froze. Long, long moment. He could hear his breath surging in and out, the silent scream of his body as he raised his head. Then he moved his thigh, drew it out from between hers. Disengaged. Stepped back.

  She was staring at him, all wide eyes and swollen mouth. Her top was torn over her right breast, the bra showing, her nipple visible over the top of the cup. Shuddering at the gorgeous, wanton sight of it, Max had to close his eyes. He’d never heard of anyone coming just from looking at someone, but there was always a first time and he felt perilously close to it.

  With quickly efficient movements he stripped off his shirt, offered it to her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Put it on, Catherine. Secluded or not, we’re outside. Anyone could walk past.’

  She waited...indecisive. And then, with a muffled exclamation, she wrenched the shirt from him, shoved her arms into the sleeves, yanked it closed over her chest.

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ Catherine said, and ran a shaky hand over her hair—which he must have loosened in that mad scramble, because it was a mess. ‘I wanted that as much as you did.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you touch me?’

  ‘But I did!’ Part cry, part plea.

  ‘You let me touch you. Very different proposition. My tongue was everywhere in your mouth. Where was yours? Not in my mouth! Your hands—down by your sides. While mine were all over you. Well, I don’t want to take you, Cathy. This should not be about taking.’

  ‘It was just an expression. The taking thing.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I think this whole thing is about you wielding the power that was stolen from you. Because you’re so sure I’ll stop if you tell me to. And when you say stop—and I do stop—you know you’re in control. But you make me so maddened with lust even I don’t know if I’ll stop. For one moment there I was on the brink, believe me. And I tore your top, Cathy! Remind you of anyone? Can you see what’s happening to me? Because I can. And I hate it.’

  Catherine was doing up the buttons on his shirt with fumbling fingers. ‘You’re not like him.’

  ‘Then stop punishing me. That’s what you’re doing when you hold yourself back. Because I can’t have what I want until you’re ready. And it’s unbearable. Why do you want to punish me? Because you can’t get to him? Or is this about seeing if I’ll snap and be him? Because I will not be him.’

  ‘I—I just—I just want to get over...get over...’ She seemed unable to find the words, and in the end let out a muffled scream of frustration and turned her back on him.

  ‘I get it, Cathy,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve been your safe haven, your hideout, ever since you came for that job interview in your camouflage gear, so scared that even a hint of uncardiganed flesh would have me snuffling after your body fluids.’

  ‘I’m not in camouflage gear any more.’

  ‘And, believe me, I’ve felt every nanosecond of the slow striptease. But I wanted you before you took out the first hairpin. You’re just icing a cake I already wanted to sink my teeth into.’

  She spun back round. ‘So sink your teeth in. I’m here. Ready, willing.’

  ‘Just not able. And I am not giving you an excuse to run away and hide again.’ Max rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Now I’m going to bed.’

  He saw the look on her face and held up his hand.

  ‘Alone. You’re going to have to wait a little longer, passion flower. You still have quite a bit of unfurling to do.’ And then he sighed. ‘More’s the pity.’

  * * *

  Catherine tossed and turned. Got up, went back to bed, got up, went back to bed, got up. Finally she walked onto the deck, staring into the darkness of the river, trying to soak up some of its peace.

  Max saw inside her head better than she did. Her need to feel safe, her need to punish him—and herself, too. Her need to push Max to breaking point to prove he wasn’t RJ—or perhaps that he...was? Her need to run. Hide. Bury herself so she was safe.

  And that meant she was still in gaol. Her beautiful phoenix tattoo was just ink in her skin—not a symbol of her rise from the ashes of the past. Her clothes were just textiles over flesh—the old clothes hadn’t protected her; the news ones weren’t freeing her. Was there even any point to Passion Flower if her alter ego Jennifer’s freedom to touch and be touched by the man she wanted stayed stubbornly on the page?

  It started to rain—one drop, then a few more. More, more—until it was sluicing through the trees in sheets, thumping the river’s surface. Catherine felt moisture on her face. Cheeks, mouth. She licked. Tasted salt. Tears, not rain. Tears.

  Tears for the passion flower whose petals had been so comprehensively plucked, she’d stood like a denuded stem in Max’s arms. Her tongue securely in her own mouth. Melting wi
th lust when he put his hands on her breasts but choking the whimpers back. Desperate to rock herself on that thigh he’d shoved against her but standing still. Wanting to slide her hand over his beautiful, bare, bronzed chest when he’d given her his shirt...but buttoning the shirt over her own chest instead.

  ‘I don’t want to take you.’

  She straightened her shoulders. At least in Passion Flower she could make him take her. She could do whatever she wanted. Alex and Jennifer at the palm tree, Alex staring into her eyes, saying, ‘Yes, Jenny, I will take you, and you will be mine...’

  * * *

  Catherine woke late the next morning, having written and then dreamed herself into a state of unbridled lust.

  She scrambled into the first dress she could lay her hands on, yanked her hair into a ponytail, jammed on her glasses, grabbed her work folders and left the room just as her usual maid, Emily, arrived to clean the cabin. Which meant she really was cutting it fine!

  She hurried along the path, flicking through her folders... Damn! One missing. Going back for it would make her late for the first time in her life and Max would probably think she was scared to face him or something equally pathetic. Galling—but there wasn’t much she could do about it except hurry.

  She removed her shoes so she could run, and regretted it as she ouch-ouched her way along the pebble-strewn path and padded up the steps to her cabin. She was going to have to wait for a buggy to get to the meeting, which would make her even later, because her feet couldn’t take another bruising run.

  She whooshed through her door, and any thought of buggies and feet flew straight out of her head. It took her only a moment to process the scene—young, tiny Emily, pinned to the bed by a man wearing a manager’s uniform—before she advanced, roaring, flinging her files and her shoes at the man’s bulky back.

  He rolled off Emily and lurched to his feet, cursing.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Catherine demanded.

  He set his jaw. ‘This is none of your business.’

  Catherine goggled at him. ‘A woman being raped on my bed is none of my business?’

  With a threatening look at Emily, who’d scrambled off the bed and was adjusting her uniform, he started hurrying towards the door.

  Catherine rushed ahead to block his exit. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. And don’t waste your warning looks on Emily. I’m the one who’s going to cook your goose.’

  ‘It’s not what you think...’ he blustered.

  ‘Well—’ quick peer at his name badge ‘—Raymond, tell me what it is.’

  ‘A consultation. I’m her boss.’

  ‘And do you consult with your male staff while lying on top of them?’

  ‘It was consensual,’ Raymond said, and tried again to leave.

  Catherine laughed in his face and Raymond grabbed her, trying to push her out of his way. Up went her right knee—reflex. A graze, not a direct hit, because Raymond was still in motion. But although he stayed on his feet he’d lost any semblance of control. He grabbed Catherine by her ponytail, using it to shove her into the doorjamb.

  She felt a sting near her eyebrow, heard a crack. Grappling. Cursing. Emily crying...racing across the room. Shove, shove, scuffle.

  A rush, a flash—and Raymond was racing down the wooden steps.

  Sobbing, Emily threw herself into Catherine’s arms.

  * * *

  Max checked his watch again—not even pretending to listen to his Queensland manager Eric’s presentation on state tourism partnerships.

  Where the hell was she?

  Too angry about last night to be in the same room as him?

  He couldn’t blame her—his own body had vented its fury on him by throbbing all night long. But Catherine was a confronter, not an avoider—it was one of the things he loved about her. No way would she hide in her cabin.

  So...hungover? She hadn’t seemed drunk, but those were tequila shots she’d been drinking.

  Or... An accident? Max felt his pulse surge.

  He shoved his chair back from the table. Eric stopped. Max stood—and then the door opened. And she was there.

  Max let out a slow, shaky breath as he slid back into his seat.

  ‘I’m sorry—an emergency,’ Catherine said, and hurriedly took her seat.

  Eric, with a nervous look at Max, picked up where he’d so suddenly left off.

  And Max continued not to listen. Instead he watched Catherine out of the corner of his eye. Her fingers were trembling. There was a scratch at the end of her eyebrow. A break in the tortoiseshell frame of her glasses.

  What the hell had happened?

  Max shoved his chair back again. Eric stopped again. Max gathered his work.

  ‘Sorry, everyone, I have a conference call. Eric—you’re all right to take over? Good. I’ll see you at lunch. Cathy? I need you.’

  Catherine picked up her folders and followed Max from the room. ‘What call?’ she asked as he flagged down a buggy.

  ‘No call,’ Max said. ‘We’re going to my cabin so you can tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘But—’

  Max held up a ‘stop’ hand. ‘Hate. That. Word.’

  He waited until Catherine was seated in the buggy, then got in beside her, conscious that her trembling was systemic, feeling it even though they weren’t touching.

  Once inside his cabin, he poured her a glass of water, set it on the coffee table, gestured for her to sit on the couch.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  Catherine opened her mouth.

  And burst into tears.

  ELEVEN

  So...handkerchief, right?

  Max patted his pocket hopefully, but didn’t know why. He wasn’t a handkerchief kind of guy.

  Tissues, then. She needed tissues.

  He bounded into the bathroom, grabbed the tissue box, bounded back. Stood there ineffectually. Then, with a hand-in-hair-because-I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing gesture, he sat beside her. He ripped a firestorm of tissues from the box and handed the wad to her. Then he gave in to impulse, tucked her under his arm, drew her against his side.

  And waited.

  Until the sobs became hiccups. Until the hiccups became a series of sighing breaths. Until the sighing breaths settled.

  ‘So, not a hangover?’ he asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  Catherine did a weird laugh/snort combo. ‘No. I could drink you and ten of your friends under the table.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Way.’

  ‘So you weren’t drunk last night?’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly sober. Why else would I jump into the hotel pool wearing leather?’

  Leather. The shorts. Max had to grit his teeth as the memory of her in those shorts whacked him in the groin.

  He shook his head to clear it. ‘So...?’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, and shuddered. ‘Raymond.’

  The hairs on the back of Max’s neck rose. All because of a man’s name. He had the first inkling that he was in trouble here. Big trouble.

  ‘Going to need more,’ he said.

  ‘Sexual harassment,’ she said.

  Cold, murderous rage. Like an icy spear through the brain. He concentrated on his heartbeat, trying to contain it.

  ‘He touched you?’

  Catherine angled her head to look up at him. Smiled—not that Max knew what there was to smile at—then reached up a hand, touched his cheek so gently, as though he were the one needing comfort.

  ‘Not me, Max. It won’t be me ever again. Okay?’

  The relief was so huge Max felt light-headed with it. He grabbed her hand, kissed it, held it on his l
ap. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it, resting there on his thigh, looking...right. So right he had trouble concentrating on what she was saying about being late, forgetting something, seeing Emily on the bed. Raymond.

  The name echoed in his head. Raymond.

  ‘...tried to stop him.’

  Okay—he’d missed something important. ‘Stop him?’

  Catherine nodded. ‘I knew those self-defence classes would come in handy.’

  Max looked at her blankly.

  ‘I took self-defence classes after...after.’

  He felt a weird melting sensation around his heart. Amazing that he could get all twisted up over the fact that a woman had learned how to take a man down. But it was just so...her. So her.

  ‘Yeah, of course you did,’ he said, and heard the smile in his voice. Big trouble. ‘So you did...what?’

  ‘Kneed him,’ she said. ‘You know, like...kneed him.’ She was looking at him, wide-eyed and proud. ‘In the groin.’

  ‘You go, girl,’ Max said, and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘It did feel good,’ she admitted, relaxing against him. ‘But it wasn’t a direct hit. Which is how he managed to grab me and— Ouch!’

  Max let go of her suddenly crunched hand. ‘He what?’

  ‘He grabbed my hair. Like this—’ She grabbed her ponytail, pulled it. ‘Ouch!’ she said again.

  ‘What happened next?’

  He could hear the barely tethered danger in his voice but it seemed Catherine could not, because she answered with a nonchalant wave of her hand—a still trembling hand, which edged his anger higher.

  ‘He...what? Waved a hand at you?’

  ‘No, Max, he didn’t wave a hand at me!’

  That sounded tetchy, which gave Max a level of comfort.

  ‘He shoved me into the doorjamb. And now I’m going to need new glasses.’ She took off her glasses, looked mournfully at the broken frame.

  As gently as he could—which wasn’t easy because he’d never felt so violent—Max tilted her face so he could see the gash near her eyebrow. ‘I’ll call for a doctor.’