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Max was sitting in her chair, eyes glued to her computer screen.
Ohhhhhhhh …
Not much of a thought, but all she could manage initially.
She reminded herself that she had turned everything off—the flash drive was in her drawer, the printed pages were shoved in her briefcase, and there was no way he could be looking at Passion Flower. He was probably looking for the Queensland report, to make some changes.
So breathe. Breathe and be normal.
‘Mr Rutherford? Is there something you wanted urgently? You should have called me,’ she said, forcing herself not to run to her desk but to take it slowly, calmly.
Max raised his head and looked at her—slack-jawed, marvelling, astounded.
And Catherine knew.
Max’s voice, when it finally came, was unbelievably husky. ‘You wrote this?’
I’m a Scorpio, so I’ve always loved the idea of the phoenix—rising from the ashes of an old life to claim a new one. And that’s the idea at the heart of TURNING THE GOOD GIRL BAD.
In this case we’re taking one prim and proper personal assistant—who is really a wild child in hiding—mixing her with one tough-talking boss with a secret Sir Galahad complex, and getting …
Well, Catherine North and Max Rutherford aren’t exactly sure.
All they know is that they have a brilliantly unconventional working relationship that shouldn’t be messed with. But when Max accidentally uncovers Catherine’s alter ego messy doesn’t begin to describe the situation.
Catherine suddenly decides it’s time to burst out of the cage she’s built for herself—but she can’t find the key. She thinks Max just might have one that fits, so all she has to do is tell him to open the door. Simple, right?
Wrong! Nobody tells Max Rutherford what to do. Oh, he’ll fit the key in the lock, all right—but he won’t turn it until he’s sure Catherine is ready.
And so starts a steamy high-stakes game of seduction, played by two sets of rules but with only one prize—if only they can agree on when and how to claim the spoils.
TURNING THE GOOD GIRL BAD is a story about coming to terms with who you are and what made you that way. It’s about rising from the ashes, showing off your coloured feathers and fighting for the life—and the love—you deserve.
I hope you enjoy watching Max and Catherine turn themselves inside out along the way.
Avril Tremayne
Turning the
Good Girl Bad
Avril Tremayne
AVRIL TREMAYNE read Jane Eyre as a teenager and has been hooked on tales of passion and romance ever since. An opportunistic insomniac, she has been a lifelong crazy-mad reader, but she took the scenic route to becoming a writer—via gigs as diverse as shoe salesgirl, hot cross bun packer, teacher, and public relations executive. She has spent a good chunk of her life travelling, and has more favourite destinations than should be strictly allowable.
Avril is happily settled in her hometown of Sydney, Australia, where her husband and daughter try to keep her out of trouble—not always successfully. When she’s not writing or reading she can generally be found eating—although she does not cook!
Check out her website, www.avriltremayne.com, or follow her on Twitter, @AvrilTremayne, and Facebook, www.facebook.com/avril.tremayne
This one is for Karen Sloane—quite possibly the funniest woman on the planet, and most certainly one of the kindest, most generous and loyal friends anyone could ask for!
Contents
Dear Reader
DEDICATION
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
...he tugged at the chignon at her nape. Hairpins scattering, the tight knot unwound. His fingers slid through the heavy chestnut silk—
‘Cathy!’
Catherine North jumped in her seat, scoring a bright red mark across the manuscript page she’d been poring over.
Max.
Her boss.
Back early from his overseas trip.
She cast one horrified glance at her computer screen, where the ardent love moves of her fictional hero, Alex Taylor, screamed Disaster! at her. A second glance went to the printer, which was delivering Passion Flower page by steamy page at precisely timed intervals.
‘Cathy? I’m back!’ came the bellow.
Catherine’s breath jammed like a fork in her throat. Heart leapt. Sweat popped.
She shoved at the edge of her desk and shot backwards across the floor on her wheeled chair to the printer. Grabbed the pages. Used her feet to leverage another whizzing roll back to her desk. Shuffled the fresh pages behind the others she’d be marking up. Stopped, panting like a woman in labour. What next?
A click from the printer galvanised her. Duh! She should have cancelled the print job first. She started jabbing, lightning-fast, at the keyboard. Find the printer. Jab. The print queue. Jab, jab. Dammit, where is it? Where is it? Where—
She heard a curse, looked up. Saw Max’s brown leather briefcase swinging into sight, rounding the corner. Froze as six feet and