That grip was all it took to make him hard again. They were good together. They were outstanding. He moved in response to Bronte’s fierce instruction—hard—fast—deep. He could do that. With pleasure.
‘Do you realise we’ve rocked the rug from one side of the room to the other?’ he asked her some time later. ‘I think it’s time we took this to the bed.’
‘You won’t find any argument from me,’ Bronte assured him, laughing against his mouth. Scooping her up, he carried her across the room.
‘Do you think you’ll ever get tired?’ she said when he lowered her onto the sheets.
‘I’ll let you know,’ he said. Slipping a pillow beneath her hips, he raised her up into an even more receptive position, and, taking his cue, she gripped the bed rail above her head.
‘You’re fantastic,’ she cried out as another wave of pleasure hit her. Before she had time to recover, he turned her so she was kneeling in front of him with her hips held high. Holding her in place with one hand, he teased her into a frenzy of excitement with the other as he moved inside her to the rhythm he knew she liked best.
They must have fallen asleep with exhaustion, because she woke to find Heath watching her as she slept. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘You,’ he murmured, barely moving his lips as he eased his head on the pillow.
‘Me?’
‘You … Bronte—’
‘Don’t say it,’ she told him, putting her finger over his lips. ‘I have to.’
‘No, you don’t. I know we live different lives. I know your life is here in London, Heath, and I’m glad I came down. I’ll be able to picture you now.’ She’d be able to hold it in her heart, Bronte thought. ‘This was just one of those crazy episodes,’ she said, ‘for both of us.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’ Heath said, frowning.
‘I’m okay with that. We can still be friends. I mean—we’re sophisticated adults, aren’t we?’
Heath smiled his slow, sexy smile, but his gaze was somewhere else. ‘We’re adults,’ he agreed.
‘Okay,’ she said softly, kissing his chest. ‘So here’s what we’re going to do. No—this time, I’m setting the agenda, Heath,’ Bronte insisted when Heath started to say something. ‘You have to let me do this.’ She waited a moment. ‘You’ve got that copy of my contract. So—I’m going to take a shower now, and then I’m going to get dressed, call a cab—and go home.’ There, she’d got it out. Her voice sounded a little wobbly, but still determined. Tilting her chin at the old defiant angle, she added, ‘Anything else would be unbearable—so, please don’t say anything. You’re not allowed to speak.’
She slipped out of bed before Heath could argue. Dragging a cover around herself, she headed for the bathroom. It was over, this … little interlude. It was already in the memory box where the dreamweaver would take care of it.
She got the cab to drop her at the office first so she could pick up her things. She cried all the way. The cabby passed back a box of tissues without a word. No doubt he had seen this sort of thing before. She couldn’t cry when she got back to Hebers Ghyll with the good news and spoil it for everyone. She couldn’t cry at Heath’s office in front of Quentin, who’d been so kind to her. And she definitely couldn’t cry in front of Heath. ‘Thank you,’ she said, handing over a large tip when she got out of the cab.
‘Look at it this way, love,’ the cabbie advised. ‘It can only get better from here.’
‘Yeah—sure you’re right,’ she agreed, rustling up a smile. Thanking the cabbie and saying goodbye, she tipped her chin and put on her ready-to-see-Quentin face.
Quentin was subdued. Had Heath spoken to him already—asked him to have everything ready for her?
‘Things didn’t exactly go to plan, did they?’ Quentin remarked.
‘They went exactly to plan,’ Bronte argued. ‘I just left too much stuff out of the plan.’
‘The devil’s in the detail,’ Quentin agreed.
‘He certainly is. But, Quentin, the good news is, I got the job—thanks to you,’ Bronte added, giving a surprised Quentin a hug. ‘So I have to get back—there’s a job waiting for me and people I want to share the good news with that Heath is keeping the estate.’
‘Great,’ Quentin drawled without much enthusiasm. ‘Say hello to the country for me.’
‘Why don’t you come and say hello to it yourself?’ Bronte suggested from the door.
Quentin grimaced. ‘Like Heath, the thought of all that fresh air and organic food makes me wince.’
‘I’m sure I could persuade you to change your mind.’ She refused to think about Heath. ‘If you do decide to give it a try, you know where to find me.’
‘Yes,’ Quentin agreed witheringly, ‘in a hay barn dressed in dungarees.’
‘Not until next September. Until Harvest Home, then—’
‘Harvest Home?’ she heard Quentin scoff as she shut the door, but she could see him smiling through the glass.
CHRISTMAS came and went, and to everyone’s disappointment the hall wasn’t ready in time for the party. Bronte buried her disappointment in renewed effort. Not seeing Heath since she left him in London hurt most of all, but she remained in regular contact by phone and e-mail—and it was all very businesslike, which left her feeling hollow. Other than that, her efforts to bring the land back from the brink took up all her time, just the way she liked it. With the healthy proceeds from the fresh produce and the happy chickens she was able to take on more people from the village. Somehow she managed to find time to cook too. She considered that a pleasure—a reward for her hard-working team at the end of each back-breaking day. She had even been persuaded by the local authority to take on some disaffected youths on short-term contracts. With the proviso that they came with trained staff, how could she refuse, when each one that passed through the gates reminded her of the first time she’d met Heath?
Easter came and went and there was still no sign of Heath, though they exchanged e-mails and she delivered her report to him as agreed each Friday. But e-mails were cold, impersonal things, and she worried how easily they could be misunderstood. Their video conferences were almost as bad. Heath was always in such a hurry to get away.
‘It’s a compliment,’ Colleen insisted. ‘You’re doing such a good job Heath doesn’t need to interfere.’
Bronte laughed. ‘Apart from his phone calls every day, twice a day, do you mean?’
‘At least he calls,’ Colleen pointed out. ‘He must like speaking to you.’
‘Heath wants to check up on progress,’ Bronte argued as they cleared up after breakfast. ‘I just wish—’ She stopped herself just in time.
‘You miss him,’ Colleen supplied.
Bronte shrugged. ‘This is Heath’s property, not mine. I just think he should show more interest—do more than call.’
‘Heath’s a busy man, Bronte—and even if he does want to spend more time here, he’ll have to plan for it—fit it in—and all that takes time.’
‘It’s been almost a year.’
‘It’s been nine months.’
‘Okay,’ Bronte conceded wryly. ‘I could have had a baby in that time.’
‘No way am I getting into that,’ Colleen told her