Praise for Susan Stephens
‘Stephens’ terrific story shows how love can be transforming. The marvellous hero looks beyond the surface and frees the heroine to open up about her biggest fears.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Italian Boss, Proud Miss Prim
‘Effortless chemistry and vulnerable characters make this novel a pleasure to read.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress
‘The hero literally and figuratively lives in the dark until the headstrong heroine forces him into the light to face his demons. This touching and emotional romance will have readers believing in happily ever after.’
—RT Book Reviews on
The Ruthless Billionaire’s Mistress
‘Hilarious, romantic and irresistible, Housekeeper at his Beck and Call is another keeper by a writer who just keeps on getting better and better!’ —www.cataromance.com on Housekeeper at his Beck and Call
About the Author
About Susan Stephens
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an afterdinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author', had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends, and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside.
Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
Also by Susan Stephens
Maharaja’s Mistress
Master of the Desert
Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress
Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights
Italian Boss, Proud Miss Prim
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Big Bad Boss
Susan Stephens
CHAPTER ONE
‘DAWN. and in front of us the idyllic English country scene. Smell that grass. Look at that thin stream of sunlight driving night-shadows down the velvet hills—’
How long did he have to stay here?
With an exasperated roar, Heath flipped channels, silencing the farming programme. All he’d smelled so far was cow dung. And it was raining.
Resting his chin on one arm, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The Lamborghini roared drowning out the bird-song. Perfect. He missed the concrete jungle—no smells, no mud, no cranky plumbing. Why Uncle Harry had left him a run-down country estate remained a mystery. Heath was allergic to the country—to anything that didn’t come with dot-com attached. His empire had been built in a bedroom. What did he need all this for?
And it was only after asking himself that question that he spotted the tent someone had erected on a mossy bank just inside the gates … spotted the small pink feet sticking out of the entrance. Forget hating the place. He felt proprietorial suddenly. What would he do if someone pitched a tent outside the front door of his London home?
Stopping the car, he climbed out. Striding up to the tent, he unzipped it.
A yelp of surprise ripped through the steady drum of falling rain. Standing back, he folded his arms, waiting for developments. He didn’t have long to wait. A strident pixie crawled out, screaming at him that it was the middle of the night as she sprang to her feet. Red hair flying, she stood like an irate stick insect telling him what she thought of him in language as colourful as the clothes she was frantically tugging on—a camouflage top, and shot-off purple leggings that displayed her tiny feet. One furious glance at his car and he was responsible for everything from frightening the local wildlife to global warming, apparently, until finally, having got over the shock of being so rudely awakened, she gulped, took a breath, and exclaimed, ‘Heath Stamp…’ Clapping a hand to her chest, she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘Bronte Foster-Jenkins,’ he murmured, taking her in.
‘I’ve been expecting you—’
‘So I see,’ he said, glancing at the tent.
Expecting Heath to arrive? Yes, but not her reaction to it. He wasn’t supposed to arrive at dawn, either. Around midday, the postmistress in the village had suggested. Heath Stamp, hip, slick, rugged, tough, and even better looking than his most recent images in the press suggested. This was a vastly improved version of someone she’d dreamed about for thirteen years, two months, six hours, and—
‘You do know you’re trespassing, Bronte?’
And as delightful as ever.
The years melted away. They were at loggerheads immediately. She had to remind herself Heath was no longer a wild youth who’d been locked up for bare-knuckle fighting, and who used to visit Hebers Ghyll on a release programme, but a successful Internet entrepreneur and the new owner of Hebers Ghyll, the country estate where Bronte had grown up, and where her mother had been the housekeeper and her father the gamekeeper. ‘The estate has been deserted for weeks now—’
‘And that’s an excuse for breaking in?’
‘The gates were open. Everything’s gone to pot,’ she told him angrily.
‘And that’s my fault?’
‘You own it. You tell me.’ Heath’s inheritance had a special hold on her heart for all sorts of reasons, not least of which she considered the estate her second home.
While Heath had gained nothing in charm, Bronte registered as he turned his back, he clearly still couldn’t care less what people thought of him. He never had.
He’d walked off to give them both space. Seeing Bronte again had floored him. Since the first time he had visited the estate—where ironically his real-life uncle Harry had used to run a rehabilitation centre for out-of-control youths—there had been something between him and Bronte, something that drew the good girl to the dark side. He’d tried to steer clear, not wanting to taint her. But he would think about her when he sat alone and stared at his bruised knuckles. She was light to his darkness. Back then Bronte had represented everything that was pure, fun and happy, while he was the youth from the gutter who met every challenge with his fists. He’d worshipped her from afar, had she only known it. That buzz between them surely should have died by now.
‘That tree was struck by lightning, and no one’s