Heath grimaced as he roughly brushed a stubble-roughened chin against his arm. What the hell had he been thinking? Bronte was as innocent as she had ever been. And he had never been innocent. If he owed Uncle Harry anything, it was not to pursue this madness—this hunger—this … Bronte.
But even when he tried to clear his mind she was still in there—her fresh wildflower scent lingering, mingled with paint fumes. He could still see the humour in her eyes, and the determined jut of her chin … that stubborn mouth. That stubborn, kissable mouth—
He actually groaned out loud at this point. He should never have come to the country. He belonged in town. The only thing he could be thankful for right now was that his utility vehicle was eating up the narrow lanes with an appetite he shared. The sooner he replaced green fields and Bronte with a reassuring cityscape of concrete and uncomplicated women, the sooner he’d relax—
Was that right?
When Bronte had shaken him in so many ways? She’d touched on feelings he’d managed to successfully beat down for years. She’d left him questioning more than just his relationship with Uncle Harry and Hebers Ghyll. She had reminded him of things he’d been ashamed of, and turned them into something to celebrate. She was the first woman to match his sexual appetite. The first woman to whom he had felt seriously attracted. The first woman he had ever come close to considering a friend—
Bronte’s vulnerability stopped him dead in his tracks every time. Seeing that was the only warning he needed that this madness had to stop. They weren’t meeting on an even playing field, or anything like. Bronte cared too much about everything—and she hadn’t fooled him with her casual act. Bronte wore her heart on her sleeve—which was lovely, but not when he was involved. It would be too easy for him to trample her heart. And not intentionally. That was just the way he was. He had never made room in his life for emotion. He was stone to Bronte’s soul. He had nothing to offer her. But he wouldn’t break his promise. He had assumed responsibility for Hebers Ghyll, and that wouldn’t change. And he would give her a shot at the job.
Dealing with Bronte on a professional basis would be different, Heath convinced himself as industrial units encroached on the fields, reminding him that his journey was coming to an end. He would be in control if and when she worked for him. Emotion had no part to play. Poverty had made him a stickler for control dating back to when he’d made his first big money and realised the changes he could make. He had controlled the spending to make sure not a penny of his hard-earned cash was wasted. He couldn’t delegate. He had never learned to relax.
More reasons why he could never be the man Bronte wanted him to be. She wasn’t even his type, Heath reasoned, stamping down on the accelerator as the lights changed. Her dress sense alone was bad enough—
To keep the thought of yanking Bronte’s clothes off her at the forefront of his mind at all times.
He curved a smile—and then reminded himself about his good intentions. They were soon dispatched. But then there was The Temper. Wasn’t that just what he needed? Why couldn’t he meet some nice, compliant girl?
Because they bored him, Heath reasoned, swinging the wheel as he turned onto the six-lane highway leading into the city. That certainty only grew when he remembered the squads of eager candidates with their porcelain smiles and improbably inflated breasts. It made him smile to think those flutterbys had been effortlessly eclipsed by a tiny, passionate girl—so real, so true, he doubted he could ever go back to plastic.
She usually woke up and leapt out of bed at the cottage full of bounce because there was so much to do at Hebers Ghyll, and she so wanted to get there and do it—but not this morning. This morning she felt flat.
Because there was a whole world of beating herself up to do, Bronte realised as she crawled out of bed. She was still aching from Heath’s spectacular attentions, and only wished she could feel differently about what had happened. But she couldn’t. It still felt so right to her, though clearly Heath hadn’t felt the same.
Heath was right. Get on with your life, Bronte reasoned as she walked down the now neatly manicured drive towards the hall. It was such a beautiful morning she wouldn’t let anything get her down—
Where was Heath’s truck?
Bronte’s heart plummeted as she quickly raced through all the possibilities, ending in the feeble: perhaps Heath had left early to get some supplies.
That wasn’t the answer. She was just putting off the moment when she had to face the truth. Lifting her chin, she took a moment to steel herself before facing the others. She was her old self again by the time she let herself into the house—as far as anyone else could tell.
The kitchen was empty.
So empty.
With just a faint smell of non-smell paint. The first thing she did was open the window to let some fresh air in.
What had she expected, Bronte asked herself, gripping the edge of the table—Heath waiting with a bunch of flowers and a cheesy grin? Did that sound like Heath? He had never planned to stay long. And he had never misled her. If anything, she was surprised he had stayed in the countryside as long as he had. Heath ran a highly successful business in the city. Hebers Ghyll was just a hobby for him. He’d come down when he could spare the time, he’d said.
If all those elegant women queuing up to go to bed with him could spare him—
She mustn’t think like that, Bronte scolded herself fiercely. What had happened last night was nothing more than the result of working in close proximity with a very attractive man. It was normal—natural. She was a free agent—she could do what she liked. And she liked what had happened last night. A lot. And what Heath chose to do in his own time was Heath’s business. And—
And, damn it, she was crying.
DASHING her tears away impatiently, Bronte got the morning underway—putting the kettle on, slicing bread for toast. She had breakfast to cook, thank goodness. There was so much she had to do that would take her mind off Heath.
The laugh she gave now was poor competition for the whistling kettle. It was a horrid, weak, sniffly sort of laugh. She couldn’t forget him. She couldn’t let it lie here. As soon as everyone had finished breakfast she was going to ring Heath’s PA and ask about the interviews. The job of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll was going begging, and no one else was going to muscle in while she was mooching around here feeling sorry for herself.
Bronte was stunned when Heath’s PA rang her first. She was still tidying the kitchen, and had to sit down on a chair to take the call. Shocked? She was incredulous he’d even remembered her. Interviews for the post of estate manager had been arranged for the following week in their London offices, the posh guy called Quentin told her, and he was calling to make sure she was still interested.
‘Absolutely,’ she confirmed, branding the date and time of the interview on her mind.
Getting up, she paced the room. What did this mean? Did Heath miss her? Did he want her back?
Desperate twit, she thought, drawing to a halt to stare out of the window at the yard where Heath had put on his spectacular wet torso display. This wasn’t about Bronte and Heath. This was about the job of estate manager. Heath had promised her this chance to attend a formal interview—why would he take that away? What would be the point? She was well qualified—a good contender; she had to hope the best. The fact that Heath had asked his PA to call her rather than doing it himself only proved that he wanted to keep things on a strictly business footing. It was the right thing to do. It was what she would have done had their roles been reversed, she told herself firmly. This