Turning the Good Girl Bad. Avril Tremayne

using her own words, so she didn’t get too strict with the transcribing, even though she was pretending to get every single syllable verbatim—because that way she could keep her eyes very deliberately on her notepad, and off her boss.

      Which was not easy. Because Max was drop-dead gorgeous.

      Just under the too-tall threshold, with the promise of athlete-grade strength under his immaculate suits; black hair on the long side, and always, always bed-head tousled; vivid blue eyes fringed with thick, black lashes; that lopsided grin that would turn a female ice sculpture into a puddle.

      The whole package—the looks, the sense of humour, the ace brain, and that elusive factor X that made him seem unattainable without any apparent aloofness—was droolworthy.

      There was a good side and a bad side to having a hot-as-Hades boss.

      The good side? Max had women throwing themselves at him with a frequency and ardour that was embarrassing. He didn’t have to grope or flash or proposition an unwilling employee to get his sexual thrills. And what a blissful realisation that had been after the hell of her last boss—the despicable RJ Harrow.

      But the bad side—and it was very, very bad!—was that a month into the job Catherine had started wondering what Max would do if she groped or flashed or propositioned him! And she just could not get her head around how she could think like that. The last thing Catherine needed was another boss-related fracas, ending in her ignominious departure from a job she was good at.

      Not that Max would ever give her the chance to grope or flash or proposition him. Because he might be the flirt of the century—as the whole office knew!—but Catherine North wasn’t his type. Tall, leggy, blonde—dared she say horsey?—that was his type.

      She swallowed a giggle as she pictured the shock on Max’s face if starchy-knickered Ms North were to roll a prurient eye in his direction. They’d need a defibrillator! Or maybe she could give him mouth-to-mouth...

      ‘Something funny, Cathy? Because you’re allowed to laugh here, you know.’

      She looked up. ‘Nothing’s funny.’

      He did that through-the-pupils stare, then leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie with three sharp tugs. ‘Onto the problem child—Kurrangii, our luxury resort in Queensland.’

      He nudged the report he’d taken from her in-tray earlier and smiled at her—and Catherine’s heart started knocking into her ribs again as she hastily dropped her eyes and started taking notes.

      ‘Our’ luxury resort. And it did feel as if it was theirs—his and hers—because they’d worked so closely on it together.

      That night two weeks ago, when they’d stayed late to finish preparing the main report, Max had loosened his tie with those exact three tugs. Her memory of that night was so clear. Just the two of them, bouncing ideas back and forth, writing and rewriting. They’d ordered in Thai food and worked while they ate. It had struck midnight, but they’d worked on. Neither of them had been happy with the end result, so they’d decided to call it a night and do it all over again the next day—into the night if required.

      But Max hadn’t turned up the next day. Or the next, or the next, or... Well, he hadn’t shown up until today. And in the interim the only contact they’d had was via email or through his deputy, Damian.

      It had driven Catherine a little bit crazy.

      She’d figured she had two options for dealing with the situation: she could gnash her teeth at her own stupidity for mooning over her boss, of all people—and, moreover, one who liked tall, skinny, amenable blondes, not short, curvy, argumentative brunettes—or she could take affirmative action to get her out-of-control hormones back in their cage before he returned.

      In the end she’d gone hybrid and started writing Passion Flower. A teeth-gnashing way of exploring her secret fascination with Max and hopefully getting it out of her system before she did something really insane—like throwing herself at him and begging him to take her on his desk.

      Ooohh, a desk scene! Could she write that...?

      Catherine realised Max had finished dictating and was sitting there, watching her, and closed her notepad with a snap.

      ‘So, Cathy...’ he said.

      His voice sounded raw, and Catherine’s mind switched instantly to the job. ‘You need water,’ she said, standing. ‘I’ll get it.’

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘Water.’

      ‘Huh?’ he said again, and then gave his head a tiny shake.

      ‘Your voice sounds hoarse.’

      ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said irritably. ‘And I can get my own damned water—you’re not a servant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, anyway... The Queensland resort. I want to know what you think of all that.’

      ‘All that?’ Catherine repeated, sitting again.

      ‘Yes, all that. I wasn’t talking to myself, was I? Or maybe I was—because you don’t normally sit there like a spewed-up piece of basalt rock.’

      ‘Spewed-up basalt?’ she spluttered, caught between laughter and outrage.

      ‘Yeah—like out of a volcano. But where’s the molten stuff? Aren’t you going to rip into me about the...the...’ He stopped, searching for words, shrugged. ‘I don’t know—the native animals or something?’

      ‘I don’t rip into you!’ she said. ‘About anything.’

      He laughed. ‘Now, that’s a lie.’

      Catherine eyed him cautiously as he stood and walked around the desk, each step redolent with the prowling energy that distinguished all his movements. He stopped just to the side of her chair, then perched his gorgeous butt on the edge of his desk.

      ‘Well? Native animals?’ He plucked the notepad out of her hand, flicked through it.

      Catherine shifted her chair backwards fractionally, clamping down on a spurt of temper. She’d had plenty to say on that subject already, as Max very well knew, because he forgot nothing, so what was this? Torture Your Personal Assistant Day?

      She looked at one of Max’s slashing black eyebrows, which seemed safer than an actual eyeball. ‘Sorry—am I supposed to be allowing for your jet lag? Because you know what I think about that. You thought the same—and you’ve already addressed the issue.’

      ‘Oh, yeah, we talked about it at length didn’t we?’ Pause. ‘That night before I left for Canada. Right?’

      That night. Catherine repeated those words in her head. That night—when she’d half wondered, half feared, that short, curvy, argumentative brunettes might actually get a look-in after all—and had ended up sexually frustrated, writing Passion Flower.

      ‘Okay, then,’ he went on, when Catherine remained silent. ‘What’s your opinion of the way I’ve addressed it? Will the changes I’ve recommended damage your perception of the resort? Does it seem less upmarket if the cabins are repositioned the way I just described and the layout and style are modified? Would you still go there?’

      ‘Yes, I’d still go. If I could afford to, I mean—which I can’t. So, no, I won’t go there, but I would.’

      Catherine mentally slapped herself. Could that be the stupidest thing she’d ever said in her life?

      ‘Because...? You would still go because...?’ he prompted. ‘I’m not asking you for the answer to global warming, Cathy—just a simple opinion about the modifications.’

      Her eyes flashed. ‘I would still go because, judging by the diagrams Carl was kind enough to show me while you were away, the redesign will actually be more in tune with the surroundings. More special. More...secret... That’s the way I’d describe it. Which feels more exclusive.’

      Max held her notepad