word of the day. And it was all his.
He went back to page one of the report.
Two minutes later he was cursing and slamming it down again. He was getting nowhere. And all because Catherine was...different. As if something had changed.
Running away to Canada without telling her had obviously been a mistake. But he’d just been...cautious. No, he was never cautious. More like reluctant. Reluctant to mess around with their excellent working relationship by giving in to his curiosity about her. Curiosity about what it would be like to—
No! He shot to his feet. He would not go there, even in his head.
He started pacing around the office, letting out some excess energy.
Not going there. Because it was one thing flirting in the office when you both knew the score, but quite another to hit on a strait-laced virgin who was not interested. Even his father, serial secretary-dater and all-round loser, didn’t go there.
And Ms North was not remotely interested. Ms North did not know the meaning of the word ‘flirt’. Ms North would skewer him with a letter-opener if he laid a lukewarm look on her, let alone a questing finger. Look at the way she’d freaked when he’d held her fingers for a couple of seconds—as if he was an eagle and she was a tiny bird struggling to get free of his talons. And the reception he’d got on arrival today, which had given new meaning to the word ‘unwelcome’. She’d even had it in for his new tie.
He looked down at his tie, decided she was right, and tugged it off. Laughed again as he went back to his desk and sat down.
And then he wondered if he was going mad, laughing about his tie in the middle of this mess. His hands went diving into his hair. It— No, she! She was so...so frustrating.
At first it had been a novelty, having an assistant who wasn’t remotely interested in his body.
But it had moved past that, to another novelty: being seriously attracted to someone who looked as if she’d faint if she heard the word ‘sex’.
Even without today’s hair and top and toenails—even when she was buttoned to the hilt in ill-fitting shirts covered with drab cardigans in shades of porridge and grey and dinge-green—he’d started feeling a little tortured—but in a weirdly good way—being near her.
That lemony fresh perfume she wore combined with her natural scent beneath it—lovely. The way her luminous hazel eyes shone behind her lenses when she was arguing her case—adorable. The habit she had of touching the button at her collar as though reassuring herself it was done up—intriguing. And when her fingers sneaked up to her perfectly shaped ear to touch the discreet gold hoop—demure...and yet somehow not demure.
He cursed under his breath, reached for the report again and saw another tiny bead of blood from the paper cut. He grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and blotted it. Frowned at his hand as he remembered the look on Catherine’s face. There had been something at the bottom of the report Catherine hadn’t wanted him to see.
Max thought back again to his arrival that morning. He’d been so shocked at how she looked he’d been blinded to anything else at first. But if he dug past that there had been...dismay. No, more than dismay. She hadn’t wanted him anywhere near her. Because of...
The printing!
She’d been on edge because—and the truth was slapping him in the face now—he’d disturbed her printing something she shouldn’t have been printing. She hadn’t wanted to tell him what the document was—not that he’d really cared; he’d only asked because she’d looked so guilty. He’d wanted to goad her a little, get one of those mind-your-own-business glares out of her that just cracked him up. But now...?
What would a personal assistant be printing that her boss shouldn’t see? What would have her running in and snatching it out of his hands? Hmm...
Oh. Oh! Well, of course. A job application!
But she’d been printing reams. Too long for a letter and CV.
So not just one job. More than one. Which meant she wasn’t attracted to a special job she’d just happened upon but wanting to leave this job and going all-out scattergun to do it. God knew how many emails she’d sent to complement so many snail-mail CVs.
It was like an arrow between the eyes, and for a full minute he couldn’t think straight.
And then he could think. But his poor benumbed brain seemed willing to accommodate only one thought: Catherine wasn’t allowed to leave.
He forced himself to put that ironclad fact to one side. Because if his bogged brain didn’t start working how was he going to figure out a way to make her stay?
Just ask her to!
Okay, that seemed logical—although how he could do it out of the blue, when she hadn’t actually indicated she was unhappy with her job, was not immediately obvious.
Except... Damn. She’d said today she couldn’t afford to go to Kurrangii. Had to be a message in that. He wasn’t paying her enough.
Well, he could give her a pay rise. It was his company—he could pay her whatever he wanted. Whatever she wanted!
Good. Perfect solution.
Without further ado he was out of his chair and heading for the door. ‘Catherine!’ he bellowed, before he reached it.
Silence.
He bolted through the doorway, searching.
Empty.
Max leaned against the doorjamb, running both hands into his hair. Why hadn’t he asked her where she was going for lunch? Hello? Earth to Max? Irrelevant! As if he could invade her date to offer her a pay rise! He’d look completely deranged.
Dammit. He was going to have to wait until she got back. He hated waiting.
He checked his watch. Forty minutes.
Feeling he should be doing something, he circled her desk. Looking at its almost stately tidiness made him smile. It was strangely comforting to see the evidence of her fastidious little habits.
His brain went stubborn on him for the second time: Catherine wasn’t allowed to leave.
Of course if he had a copy of what she’d been printing he’d be in a better position to know what he was up against. What counter-offer would work.
But there was no paper on the desk. No paper anywhere. Reflexively, his gaze moved to the printer. Clean. Silent. Turned off. The computer, too. Strange.
He sat in her chair. Looked at the computer screen. Turned on the computer and signed in to the system.
A sudden mental picture of how he looked—at Catherine’s desk, in her chair, hunched in front of her computer—made him roll his eyes. Thank God their suite of offices was completely private, so nobody would wander past and see him in this shameful Machiavellian guise. But, even so, this was crazy! What had he come to? He should just wait for her to come back and ask her what was going on! The way a sane person would.
He reached
