Turning the Good Girl Bad. Avril Tremayne
how he’d be.
And it had triggered other Passion Flower scenes, which now started rolling in her head. Sex in the filing alcove. Sex on the couch in his office. Sex on her desk—after Alex had wiped the top clear of all distractions...vicious staplers, hapless rulers, all flying off.
When she found herself mixing up the ‘keep’ and ‘archive’ files for the fourth time she started digging her own hands into her hair, even though it was back in its nice tight chignon.
And that was when she started really worrying—that she could write romance novels until the cows came home and still not get her feelings under control.
This was not going to turn out well.
* * *
When Max started reading from the top of page one for the fourth time he finally gave up.
He shouldn’t have touched Catherine. At all. Let alone going the full Neanderthal, dragging her off the floor and digging his hands into her hair. But now he had touched her he wanted to touch her again. Really, really wanted to. Like drag-her-close, breathe-her-in, put-his-tongue-somewhere touch her.
He shoved his hands into his hair and tugged. The truth was he’d wanted to touch her forever. Even when he hadn’t understood why.
And then, that night when they’d worked late, it had started to make sense: his brain had been seeing under her skin, where his eyes didn’t reach, and everything under there had been slowly but surely reeling him in. The sharp-as-a-tack brain. How she giggled to herself when she thought he wasn’t looking, making him wonder what was funny and why it was secret. Her stalwart defence of misfits like Carl—who’d better not have been sniffing around in his absence! The volcanic eruption when they disagreed on something, followed almost immediately with the grab for her top button or her earlobe—even though she had to know she didn’t have to be nervous around him; she could say anything to him.
In Canada, he’d convinced himself that their partnership was not to be screwed with because she was the best assistant he’d ever had. Which meant hands-off. But then he’d come home and she’d been sitting there in that tight top with her hair loose—and he’d known his hormones had been in on the act with his brain all along, seeing what his eyes hadn’t. The total, outrageous hotness of her.
Well, a fat lot of good his hormones had done him! Because she’d dressed like that for that day’s anonymous lunch companion—not for him! She only ever treated him to starchy buttoned-up shirts and shapeless drab skirts. No wayward curls for Max’s viewing. No sexy black tops. No alluring red silk peignoirs.
Peignoir... Max groaned and gripped his head, two-handed.
That book!
The second tactical error he’d made today. Why had he asked her about Alex and Jennifer? What sort of coward’s way was that of finding out how Catherine wanted to be treated by a man? And what difference would it make if he did know how Catherine wanted to be treated when she didn’t want him to be that man?
Damn Alex Taylor, anyway.
Alex. Black hair. Six feet two. Italian leather shoes. Navy leather couches. A view of the Botanic Gardens.
Arrggghh! Everything fitted—whether the eyes were blue or amber or pink!
Why couldn’t Alex be him?
He opened the report again and did his best to read past the first paragraph. But it was no use. Within thirty seconds the report was languishing, unloved, on the desk.
She’d ruined him—that was what she’d done!
She had him ignoring the steady stream of leggy blondes all clamouring for his attention. Had him running away from his own office to get his raging passions under control. Had him becoming his own personal assistant because he was too scared to take her on perfectly legitimate business trips.
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