Turning the Good Girl Bad

by Avril Tremayne

  Because she was his. His. His.

  ‘His’: that was the word of the day. Of the week, of the year.

  His, forever.

  FOURTEEN

  Cathy spent a miserable weekend with her thoughts.

  Her accusing, guilty thoughts.

  It had hit her, right about the time when Max had made his speech at the cocktail party, that he was perfect—a defender, a protector, honourable and caring, generous and funny and gorgeous...and just damned perfect.

  And that she, by contrast, was the female equivalent of RJ Harrow. Because she had forced herself on Max against his will!

  And as if that wasn’t perfidious enough, when she’d worn him down, and he’d helped her petals unfurl to the point when they were doing a victory dance across the garden bed, she’d refused to do the one thing he’d asked of her: stay.

  But how could she stay when she loved him so? He didn’t want her to love him. He’d warned her not to love him. Surely he wouldn’t want her to stay when she’d gone ahead and done it, anyway?

  Deep, deep in her black heart she’d thought—hoped?—Max would be so furious with her for leaving he’d demand to see her in the office on Monday morning. But despite a few missed calls from him while she was in-flight he’d left no messages, and there had been no calls since.

  He’d just let her go.

  Let her go. Like it was no big deal. Because he didn’t love her. He would never make her the ‘last woman’ because she wasn’t his type. And she was damned sure she wasn’t the type to stand by and watch him move on to someone else when their affair ended.

  Man, this unrequited love business sucked.

  Monday morning dawned and Catherine woke depressed. Two Mondays ago she would have been getting ready for work. Today she was jobless, with nothing to do except write Passion Flower. And she just didn’t have the heart to string together a new fantasy. Because she couldn’t improve on the reality she’d had with Max.

  So maybe she would just...well, connect with him without his knowledge. Via her Rutherford Property email. Or at least see if her access had been cut off—as it should have been if someone was doing their job properly.

  Deep breath.

  Okay.

  Opening emails now.

  And it was there. A message from Max. And bang went her heart. Bang, bang, bang, bang.

  She stared at the subject line: NEED HELP. Of course it would be in capital letters—typical Max! And then, sucking in a big brave breath, she opened it.

  Oh.

  It was...work! Work? Work.

  Oh.

  A list of questions about Kurrangii—of all the ironies—with a file attached. Well, she supposed answering his questions was the least she could do after resigning so precipitately and leaving him in the lurch.

  It took four hours.

  Tuesday morning there came a file on the Canada project, and a list of questions was waiting in her inbox. She answered and—four hours and thirty minutes later—sent it back.

  Wednesday it was the Brazil eco resort—HELP! I’M DROWNING in the subject line. List of questions.

  Five hours.

  Thursday—another Kurrangii file.

  Five hours.

  Friday: WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? with assorted questions concerning office administration. Including a query about her—her job description?

  Whoa! Like...whoa!

  How dared he involve her in finding her own replacement when he hadn’t even had the decency to mention her own resignation? The only way she was going to help was if he was looking for a ninety-year-old woman or a straight man or a lesbian. Someone she wouldn’t need to chainsaw in half.

  Furious, she emailed back: Mr Rutherford, I resigned.

  Thirty seconds later, back came the reply.

  I didn’t accept that. You’ve had enough sulking time, so man up, Phoenix Firebrand. See you Monday.

  Man up? Phoenix Firebrand? Sulking time? Sulking?

  Catherine-the-Great did not sulk.

  On Monday morning, after a weekend of uncontained wrath that had seen the tinkling demise of an array of glassware and ceramics, Catherine got out of bed, dressed, and went to work.

  She was going to make Max Rutherford love her.

  ‘Love’: word of the day. And skip the ‘unrequited’.

  FIFTEEN

  Catherine was wearing a snug summer-weight skirt suit in eye-popping red. Her hair was in a loose bun at her nape and she was wearing new glasses—heavy, black, rectangular frames. Very sexy librarian.

  At her desk. Waiting for Max. Ready to make him beg for mercy!

  Max checked for a moment as he came around the corner from the lift lobby and saw her. Said ‘Huh.’ Then walked on.

  He paused at her desk. ‘Morning, Cathy.’

  ‘Good morning, Max.’

  Then he disappeared into his office and the day passed normally—like any day in the office pre–mad sexual escapade.

  Which was infuriating.

  This was work—okay, she got it. She wanted work to proceed as usual. But were they not going to reference what had happened in Queensland at all?

  Well, if nothing happened by six o’clock she was going into Max’s office to chase him around his desk.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon Max poked his head out. ‘Cathy, can you collect a courier package from Reception? Straight away. I think it’s urgent.’ And he disappeared back into his office.

  Ooooh, he was pushing it!

  But Catherine dutifully went downstairs and got the package—which was addressed to her, anyway, so Max could shove his ‘urgent’ where the sun didn’t shine.

  She sat at her desk, opened the package. Extracted a sheaf of pages.

  Phoenix Firebrand—a Passion Flower book was printed in big bold type across the top of first page.

  Ooohhhhhhhh...

  Alex sat in Jennifer’s chair, eyes glued to her computer screen. The words were there, but he couldn’t quite take them in. Couldn’t quite take it in, even though the resemblance was staring him in the face.

  He was Max Rutherford?

  The woman he was in love with had written him into a steamy romance novel?

  Did it mean...could it mean...she was in love with him, too?

  Catherine laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Crazy. This was crazy. She was crazy. Because this could not be happening.

  She kept reading, her heart racing... Reading, reading...

  And then it was there—today’s scene—and the tears started.

  Alex saw her sitting in her usual chair and his heart sang.

  Jennifer was exactly where she belonged. With him.

  If he were an eloquent guy he could tell her what she meant to him.

  He could tell her that his enjoyment of anything equestrian was a thing of the past.

  Laugh. Oh, God, how could she not laugh at that?

  He could tell her she was it for him. His life, his world, his aching love. He didn’t care that she was a maniac, because he was, too. He didn’t care how often she gave him the death stare—as long as she did it. He didn’t care about anything, except...her. Being his. His last woman. The one.

  She heard a sound. Looked up to find Max watching her from his office doorway.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t give up your day job,’ Catherine said, wiping her eyes.

  He smiled. ‘I won’t if you don’t. Although it was easy to write, Cathy. I guess it’s always simple when you think you’re going to die. And I think I will die if I can’t have you.’ Laugh. ‘No pressure, though.’

  ‘Oh, no pressure?’ she asked. ‘Because it feels like pressure.’

 
‘Okay, pressure,’ Max conceded with an easy shrug. ‘So? Catherine-the-Great can’t take a little pressure?’

  Catherine kept her eyes on him as she stood, walked over to him, gazed up at him. ‘Catherine-the-Great can take anything you dish out.’

  He touched her cheek—just as Nell came barrelling around the corner.

  Nell stopped, turned tail—as any sane person would when confronted with that annihilating glare—and ran for the elevator.

  ‘I’m going to kill the next person who walks onto this floor,’ Max said.

  ‘Chainsaw,’ Catherine offered.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Chainsaw—it’s my preferred murder weapon—not that Nell is a tall leggy blonde. And, really, she is so smart and funny and great. She sings, you know?’

  Max stared at Catherine for a long, delighted moment, and then he laughed. ‘No, I didn’t know she sang, but I’m glad you’re sparing her the chainsaw.’

  ‘Now, you see? How could I not love you? Even the chainsaw doesn’t scare you.’

  Max’s slow lopsided smile flashed. Stayed. ‘Didn’t quite catch that,’ he said.

  ‘I love you. So much.’

  ‘Okay, in that case you get this...thing...’ Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a small jewellery box. ‘It’s for the good of humankind that we get married, you know. Because we can’t have you chainsawing stray blondes and me ripping the heads off any man you touch.’

  He opened the box and wrenched a ring out. Typical Max!

  ‘Whew...’ He breathed out. ‘I’m kind of nervous. I’ve never done this before.’

  ‘And you won’t be doing it again, so get it right, Max.’

  ‘I’m not getting on my knee, Cathy, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I’ll be happy if you can just get that ring on my finger with breaking a bone in the rush.’

  ‘It’s a ruby,’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘Your colour, Firebrand.’

  ‘Huh,’ she said as he slid the ring onto her finger.

  ‘Huh? What’s with the huh?’

  She smiled up at him. ‘You’re asking me? Well, in this instance it means please kiss me. What does it mean when you say it every other minute?’

  He smiled back at her, raised her hand, kissed the palm, the back, the finger where his ring sat perfectly.

  ‘It means...I long for you,’ he said.

  And then he took her in his arms, hugging her so hard she feared for the structural purity of her ribcage. Kissed her—a long, lush claim of a kiss.

  He gave her his slow, lopsided smile as he released her. ‘Thank God you’re back, because I was dreading the prospect of having to find another personal assistant.’

  ‘Is that the best you’ve got?’ Catherine asked, narrowing her eyes at him. ‘That you want to marry me to spare you having to recruit another plain-Jane personal assistant?’

  ‘Another one? Who was the first? Not you—that’s for sure.’ He kissed her again. ‘Not that I mind if you want to chase me around the desk,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think that’s going to provide much sport for either of us. I’ll be very easy to catch. I’ve wanted you to catch me since your second week on the job—your first ever volcanic eruption, about a Canadian staffing issue, as I recall.’

  ‘I don’t erupt.’

  ‘Oh, you so do! So it’s good thing you ended up with a boss who likes the occasional hot lava flow. Speaking of which—I’ve got some ideas that will be very good for your career, too.’

  Catherine stiffened and pulled out of his arms, but before she could retreat more than a step Max grabbed both her hands to keep her there. ‘Not this career, obviously,’ he clarified, ‘because you’ve already got that sewn up. Sleeping with the boss.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hey, it’s not so bad—I’m sleeping with mine, too. You know—partners. Which I guess means I’m not sleeping with my personal assistant. Hmm... I’m not sure that won’t reignite my father complex. Maybe I should get a new personal assistant.’

  ‘Chainsaw.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, anyway, my ideas concern your career as a romance novelist.’

  ‘And how do you figure you can help me with that?’

  ‘Well, I’m Alex Taylor, and I’m going to let you prop me up around the office—or anywhere, really—for research purposes. Try out the positions. You know—the sex scenes. Because, to be honest, Passion Flower needs more sex.’

  ‘Oh, it does, does it?’

  ‘Well, better sex, at any rate. Because Alex... Meh! Wimp! Now, I have some ideas...’

  ‘Oh, do you?’

  He pulled her in. ‘Starting with that scene in Alex’s office. The bit about the hairpins scattering...’ He dipped his head, kissed her until she was breathless. Smiled into her eyes as his fingers slid into her hair. ‘I want to try it. Right now. And you’ll see what I mean.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from BREAKING THE BRO CODE by Stefanie London

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin KISS story.

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  ONE

  The numbers didn’t make sense. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—they made sense, but they didn’t tell the story Elise Johnson had hoped for. They didn’t tell her that she ran a successful, thriving ballet studio. They didn’t tell her that she’d be able to live off anything other than baked beans and toast this week. More concerning, they didn’t tell her that things were going to get better any time soon.

  She rested her chin in her hand and frowned as the grid of looping cursive swam in front of her. Maybe she’d skip the baked beans and head straight for a bottle of wine instead.

  ‘You’ll go cross-eyed,’ Jasmine Bell, Elise’s best friend and employee, chirped as she changed out of her leg warmers. ‘I always thought number crunching was best left to the professionals.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ She looked up from her paperwork, feigning indignity as Jasmine smirked.

  ‘Oh, nothing...only I remember a young girl once faking a panic attack to get out of a maths exam.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything fake about it.’ Elise closed the folder containing the evidence of her dire financial situation and tucked it away in a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. ‘That panic was real.’

  ‘And the time you tried to con your maths tutor into doing your homework for you by flashing him?’

  ‘That was less about the maths homework and more about him—he was seriously cute. Unfortunately for me a tiny bust was not enough to persuade him...’ She frowned, looking down at her boyish frame. ‘Not much has changed.’

  ‘It’s the curse of the ballerina.’ Jasmine slipped her feet into a pair of flats and bundled her leg warmers into her workout bag. ‘Anyway, that’s why God invented push-up bras.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  A flat chest was the trade-off for the sculpted legs and washboard stomachs that ballerinas were known for. Elise’s years of formal training and her short-lived career with the Australian Ballet had given her just that. It was a good body, but not one designed to win men over with flashing.

  ‘Seriously though, why don’t you look into getting someone to do the bookkeeping for yo
u?’

  Elise desperately wanted to palm that job off to someone else. Jasmine was right: numbers were not her thing at all. Sequins and choreography and people...those were her things. Addition, subtraction, multiplication—not so much.

  ‘Yeah, I should look into that,’ Elise said, brushing the suggestion off. She was doing her best to hide the EJ Ballet School’s financial situation; the last thing she wanted was Jasmine or any of the other teachers stressing about job security...or her.

  ‘Do you want a hand cleaning up before I go?’

  Elise shook her head. ‘Go home and enjoy that man toy of yours.’

  Jasmine waved as she left the studio, leaving Elise alone with her worries. She had to figure out how on earth she was going to keep the school afloat despite her dwindling savings.

  The silence of the studio engulfed her. After a long day of teaching and managing the seemingly endless administration that came with running a business, exhaustion seeped into her bones. She would worry about the books tomorrow. Tonight she was going to curl up on the couch with a glass of red and a good book. Make that a glass of cheap red and a good book.

  Elise grabbed the broom and set off to sweep the studio. She couldn’t be too down on herself. It was common knowledge that small businesses often suffered in their first five years and the studio was due to turn three in a month’s time. She could still turn things around.

  She had to. Her mother had medication and treatment to be paid for, and she was the only one left to make sure it happened. She had to turn things around.

  The sharp bang at the studio’s entrance made Elise jump.

  ‘Jas?’ Her voice echoed off the mirror-lined walls.

  When there was no response, she made her way to the waiting room. Awareness prickled along the back of her neck; her hands held the broom handle in a vice-like grip. Someone was here.