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 out to her. ‘Perfect. Put something like that in that last letter, will you? One more meeting on the environmental impact study—just a formality—and we should be ready to get things underway.’
She reached for the notepad and her knee accidentally brushed against the side of Max’s leg. Somehow that made her start to tremble. Sexual frustration alive and kicking!
Next thing Max was tossing her notepad behind him onto the desk and catching her hand in his. Four whole months without physical contact, and in one morning three separate hits?
Today just sucked.
‘You’re shaking,’ he said, his face full of concern. ‘And you’ve hardly said a word for the past hour. Something’s wrong. Are you ill?’
‘No, I’m not ill,’ she snapped. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’
Max looked disbelieving.
‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, but he clearly wasn’t convinced.
Catherine tried to pull her hand free. ‘A bit tired, that’s all,’ she offered.
‘Tired? Why?’
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘Just a...a late night.’
She wondered what Max would say if she gave him the bald truth: A late night transferring a few sexual fantasies about you from my head to the page. Yeah—maybe not.
He let go of her hand—whew!—and folded his arms so his hands were jammed under his armpits.
‘Oh. A late night. I thought maybe—’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Must be lunchtime, right? I assume you have...’ Another clearing of the throat. ‘Do you have plans?’
She got to her feet with alacrity. ‘Yes, I do.’
He watched her for a long moment. X-ray eyes.
Catherine’s hand reached for the button that wasn’t there, and at last Max waved her towards the door. ‘Can you be back by one-thirty?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Catherine said, and dodged around him to grab her notepad.
She hurried from the office as Max reefed the report he’d taken from her in-tray off the desk, as though it would bite him if he didn’t subdue it.
Typical Max! He never just picked something up—he had to throttle it.
Back at her desk, Catherine neatened her work area mechanically. Simmering at the back of her mind was the worrying certainty that her working relationship with Max had gone off the rails this morning. That she’d been caught out.
Something’s wrong. Are you ill?
Yes, I’m sick with lust! What are you going to do about it?
He’d bypass the thermometer and go straight for the psychiatrist if he knew the truth.
She heard a curse float out from his office. He always cursed and tore his hands through his hair when something outside his control slowed him down, so he must have seen something wrong in the report.
She caught herself smiling, and pinched her lips to stop it. What the hell was there to smile at? If there was something wrong in the report Max had only himself to blame, because he’d choofed off to Canada instead of sticking around to beat it into shape.
And him choofing off to Canada was none of her business. She wished he’d go back to Canada. She wished he’d relocate to Canada and email his work in. Because it was not ‘our’ resort. It was his resort. And she would do well to remember that. Sharp, clear distinction between work and personal. Because work wasn’t personal. Work was work.
And, now she thought of it, she was going to change that scene in Passion Flower. That scene with Alex and Jennifer working in the office over a Thai meal—which she would make a...a...a Chinese meal. In fact she would delete the whole scene. Because in reality that interlude had ended with a brusque ‘Thank you for your help’ and a drive away—and what was so romantic about that? What did she think she was doing, turning that into a ‘Jenny, do you know how long I’ve wanted you?’ moment, complete with a
