- -
- 100%
- +
Forget it, Bronte concluded, treading water. Her best effort wasn’t nearly good enough. Heath was streaking towards her with a strong, fast stroke and had soon cut off her escape route. Before she had chance to change direction he gathered her up like a rugby ball and kicked for shore.
‘Put me down!’ she shrieked the instant Heath found his feet and started wading. ‘I’m warning you, Heath—let me go. There’s no need for this.’
‘There’s every need for this.’ Heath sounded less than amused. Dumping her on her feet on the middle of the lawn, he stood back.
She had never seen anyone quite so furious. She hunched over, acutely conscious of her nakedness.
Heath seemed disappointingly unaware of it. ‘What did I tell you before I left?’ he demanded.
Bronte’s face flushed red. ‘I haven’t been near the old buildings—’
‘So you swim in the lake on your own? Brilliant.’
Heath’s expression was thunderous. All male. All disapproval. And the sight of his naked torso—powerful beyond belief, wet, tanned and gleaming in the sun—was an unnerving distraction. She jumped alert the moment she realised Heath’s narrowed gaze was roving freely over her naked body as if it were his to inspect. ‘Do you mind?’ she flared, covering herself as best she could.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing in the lake?’ Heath snapped as if they were both fully clothed.
‘Swimming,’ she said as if that were obvious. ‘And I know what I’m doing.’
Heath took one look at her. ‘That would be a first.’
‘Can’t you turn your back or something?’ He ignored this remark. ‘Never swim in the lake again on your own. Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly.’ She was trying to edge towards her clothes, which wasn’t easy with her legs crossed. At last she managed to snag her leggings with the thong still tangled inside them. Snatching them up with relief, she held them in front of her. However ridiculous she looked, it was some sort of shield. All she could do now was to start moving backwards, away from him.
She should have seen the tree root coming. She should have known that lightning did sometimes strike the same place twice. The breath flew from her lungs as Heath dived to save her—by some miracle he managed to swing her around before she hit the ground, cushioning her fall with his body. She was too shocked by the impact to do anything but yell, ‘Get off me!’ And scowl down.
Heath grinned up. ‘I think you would have to get off me,’ he pointed out.
Oh, great. She was straddling him, and Heath was clearly enjoying every moment of it—as well he might, with his great big hands firmly attached to her backside. ‘Let me go,’ she insisted, wriggling furiously. But the moment Heath lifted his hands away she missed them and wanted them back again. Fortunately for her, common sense kicked in.
‘You don’t really want to do that, do you, Bronte?’
She turned to look back over her shoulder at Heath.
‘Seriously, it’s not your best look,’ he assured her as she continued to crawl away.
All she cared about was reaching a covey of trees over to her left where there were bushes to hide in while she sorted out her clothes. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she shrieked with surprise.
Heath had grabbed her and trapped her beneath him on the ground. ‘Preserving your dignity,’ he said calmly, ‘or what little remains of it.’
She followed his gaze. And groaned. Maisie, Colleen, and all of Heath’s men had gathered at a safe distance to watch their little drama play out.
‘Don’t say it,’ Heath warned her in a low growl. ‘I can’t bear to hear a woman swear.’
‘Swear? I can barely draw enough breath to speak with you on top of me. Well—get up,’ she insisted, only to be rewarded by a wolfish grin. ‘Get off me, please,’ she said reluctantly as their audience scattered. ‘We weren’t expecting visitors,’ she said, acutely conscious of her naked body pressed into Heath’s naked chest.
‘Clearly,’ he murmured, gazing down at her.
He seemed in no hurry to move away. ‘Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’ she said, thinking it best to make conversation in a position like this.
‘Warn a squatter the owner’s on his way?’
‘I’m not a squatter,’ Bronte argued. Her gaze slipped from Heath’s mocking eyes to his sexy mouth, where it lingered. ‘We’re not even staying at the hall,’ she protested faintly.
‘And I should be grateful for that?’
She should be grateful for this, Bronte reflected, telling herself to relax and enjoy—would this moment ever come again?
‘When will you get it through your head that Hebers Ghyll is not yours to do with as you like, Bronte?’
Nor was Heath’s magnificent body, unfortunately. ‘We were only trying to help.’
‘Against my express instructions.’
‘We stayed away from the castle.’
‘Next time, do me the courtesy of asking if you can visit my property first. This obviously comes as a surprise to you, but this is my land, and safety is an overriding concern of mine.’
How could it be when Heath’s chest hair was tormenting her nipples? The men she met on her travels were too busy fretting about their skin care regime or whether or not to wax their chest. Heath clearly suffered no such dilemmas.
‘Well, this is nice,’ he remarked, easing his position, which made her blink. ‘I never took you for a nudist, Bronte.’
‘And I never took you for Genghis Khan,’ she fired back in an attempt to blank the sensation currently flooding her veins.
‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Heath growled softly.
Was it safer to stare into his eyes and see what he was thinking, or at Heath’s firm mouth and long to kiss him? She was in trouble whatever she did, Bronte concluded, while Heath was hot-wired to all her erotic pressure points. She took the only option left open to her, and closed her eyes, shutting him out.
‘Open your eyes, Bronte. This is no time to fall asleep.’
Or to experience that first seductive brush of Heath’s lips, apparently. ‘Oh, clear off,’ she flared, trying to push him away. ‘What are you made of?’ she demanded when he didn’t yield. ‘Kryptonite?’
‘Flesh and blood the same as you.’
‘Not a bit like me,’ Bronte argued primly.’ I have manners.’
‘And a naked bottom,’ Heath commented mildly as she struggled to cover herself with an impossibly shrunken pair of leggings.
‘You’re such a barbarian.’
‘Come on—get dressed.’ As Heath sprang up he dragged her with him. ‘This has gone on long enough, Bronte. You’re still a trespasser with a lot of explaining to do.’
Snatching her hands free, she was crouched down in a ball again. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now.’
‘Oh, can I?’ Heath demanded, planting his hands on his hips.
‘Honestly,’ she flared—though flaring was difficult from a crouching position. ‘I really can’t believe your ingratitude. We cleared your house—your grounds—’
‘And if a wall had fallen on your head?’
‘I already told you, we haven’t been anywhere dangerous.’
‘You’ve been back to the hall,’ said Heath, who showed no sign of going anywhere.
‘Do you seriously think I’d take the girls into a dangerous situation?’
‘No, but you’d walk blindly in,’ Heath argued. ‘And you’d probably be hit by falling masonry before you got halfway through the door.’
‘There’s no need to sound quite so thrilled by the prospect.’
‘Leaving me to clear up the mess,’ he finished, talking over her. ‘When I say don’t do something, there’s a very good reason for it.’
Oh, why wouldn’t her clothes co-operate on damp skin? Her leggings had twisted round like a self-imposed chastity belt. All she could do was crunch over with her arms covering her chest as Heath threw her her top.
‘When were you going to tell me about the window, Bronte?’
She froze mid-pulling it on.
‘What?’ Heath barked. ‘You thought I wouldn’t notice?’
She hadn’t meant to do it and felt terrible. When she had forced the upstairs window to break into the hall the handle had come away in her hand. ‘Oh, Heath, I’m really sorry—’
‘Are you?’ he said impassively. His hands on his hips, he confronted her with a stony gaze.
Displaying a truly magnificent chest, Bronte registered with a sharp intake of breath. She had forgotten how tall Heath was, how impossibly fit. And with nothing to cover those massive blacksmith’s arms, or his powerful torso—
‘Have you done staring?’ he snapped.
‘I’m going home,’ Bronte announced in exasperation. ‘I need to wash this mud off.’
‘I’d say be my guest,’ Heath observed sardonically, ‘but as you have already made yourself at home.’
‘I prefer to use my own shower, thank you,’ she snapped back.
‘As you wish.’
But now Heath stood in her way. Feinting past him, she snatched up the last of her clothes. ‘I don’t need anything from you, Heath.’
‘Except a job, presumably?’ She froze.
‘You’re not going the right way about it, are you?’ Heath pointed out. ‘You broke into my house. You brought your friends along too.’
‘This has nothing to do with Maisie or Colleen,’ Bronte interrupted, rushing to her friends’ defence. ‘This is all my fault, Heath. Blame me, if you must. I was just trying to help. I thought that if we.’
‘You didn’t think,’ Heath interrupted her sharply. ‘You went straight into an old building without a safety review—just as you swam solo in the lake. I could forgive that, but you got your friends involved and that was irresponsible. Or had you conveniently forgotten that breaking and entering is a criminal offence? Go home, Bronte,’ he rapped when she tried to defend her decision. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious about applying for a job here. If that’s still the case, you’ve made one hell of a start. I can’t imagine how you’re going to climb back from this.’
And neither could she. Heath’s tone of voice made it clear that playtime was well and truly over.
She had alienated Heath. She had forfeited her chance of getting the job. She had lost the girls their promised pay-off—the Christmas party—which meant that all their hard work was wasted.
Things couldn’t be worse, Bronte mused back at the cottage, where she was sitting on the sofa with her head buried in her hands.
So she’d just have to make it right, she determined, springing to her feet.
Heath couldn’t possibly have appeared less thrilled when she turned up at the hall with Colleen and Maisie in tow.
‘What do you want, Bronte?’ he rapped, while she stood and stared. Heath in hard hat, steel-capped boots, and a high-vis’ jacket, was a fantasy yet to be explored.
‘We’re here to help,’ she said, conscious of Maisie and Colleen skulking behind her. The girls hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic when she had sold them this idea over a drink at the pub.
‘Help?’ Heath demanded, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘We’re on the roof, Bronte. How can you help?’
‘Has the fresh air given you an appetite, possibly?’ she enquired pleasantly.
‘Why? Did you bring pizza?’ Heath looked behind her to see if the girls were carrying anything.
‘No.’ Bronte shook her head. ‘I’d only serve pizza if I’d made it myself. I was merely suggesting I could cook supper for you—but if you’d rather we left—’
‘You cook?’ Heath interrupted.
‘Of course I cook. My mother was the housekeeper here,’ she reminded him with a frown. ‘And as you pointed out,’ she added innocently, ‘I have a great line in jam tarts. But don’t stereotype me. I mend engines too.’
Heath hummed. ‘I suppose the men will need feeding when they knock off, so if you’re offering to cook supper for nine—’
‘Twelve,’ Bronte said, turning to look at the girls. ‘I’ll get started, shall I?’
With some reluctance, it seemed to Bronte, Heath stepped aside. The way to a man’s heart would always be by the same route—something women knew and had used shamelessly across the ages. She was hardly a trailblazer in that regard, Bronte reflected as she led her troops towards the kitchen.
CHAPTER SIX
SUPPER was nearly ready. They just needed some fresh herbs for the soup, which Colleen and Maisie had offered to go and pick for her while Bronte kept an eye on things on the cooker. It was Colleen who drew Bronte’s attention to the tableau being played out in the yard outside the kitchen window.
There was no harm in looking, was there? She joined her friends on the pretext of opening the window to let the steam out from her soup.
Heath, dressed just in jeans, was sluicing down in the yard.
Oh, yes, he was …
And very nice he looked too …
As he slowly tipped a bucket of water from the well over his head drops of water glittered in the last rays of the sun and flew from his hair as he raked it back with big, rough hands. She felt rather than heard him sigh with pleasure. And then those hands continued on as Heath slid the last of the water from his hard-muscled chest …
‘Oh, my God—you could have an orgasm just watching him,’ Colleen breathed, leaning over Bronte’s shoulder.
‘Shh! He’ll hear us.’ Bronte held her breath.
‘I didn’t even know men came built like that,’ Maisie confided.
‘They don’t,’ Colleen assured her. ‘You want to get stuck in there, Bronte.’
‘Me?’ Bronte pretended innocence as she pressed a hand against her chest. ‘Heath isn’t interested in me.’
‘Not much,’ Colleen murmured, still avidly watching.
‘Well, even if he was—’
‘He is,’ Colleen assured her with the resulting impact on Bronte’s pulse.
‘Well, let’s get on,’ she said, sounding rather like her mother, Bronte thought.
Inwardly, she was anything but. Her mother was calm and logical, while Bronte was a dreamer on a roller-coaster ride out of control. Her heart refused to stop thumping as Colleen and Maisie, having put Heath out of their minds, started laying up the long, scrubbed table. Then another horrible thought occurred—if her fantasies were an open book to her friends, they must be clear to Heath as well!
‘Why wouldn’t you be interested in a man like that?’ Colleen demanded, doggedly returning to the subject as she came back for the spoons. ‘You haven’t been putting bromide in your tea, have you, Bronte?’
‘Just sugar,’ Bronte murmured distractedly, jumping back from the window too late to stop Heath seeing her.
Holding onto Bronte’s shoulders so she could stare over them, Colleen observed, ‘Licking that chunky-hunk is all the sugar I’d ever need.’
‘Supper’s in ten,’ Bronte pointed out briskly, ‘and I need those herbs before I serve up.’
‘On it,’ Colleen promised. Grabbing Maisie by the wrist, she left Bronte to her own devices in the kitchen.
Heath came into the room moments later. He grunted. She grunted. She didn’t trust herself to turn around. She could hear him moving around behind her—hanging up his jacket, putting his hard hat on the side, taking off his boots and leaving them on the mat by the door.
Had her senses ever been this keen before? Warm man … a little ruffled, a little windswept, his hair a little damp—his jeans definitely wet, and clinging lovingly—
‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ she said, jumping with alarm as Heath brushed past her.
‘Stealing soup,’ he said. ‘It smelled so good—’
‘Hands off,’ she said, smacking his hand away. ‘And there’s no need to sound so surprised.’
Heath’s expression was deceptively sleepy, Bronte thought, with his face so close, and his eyes… ‘Must you creep up on me?’ Must you look so sexy? she thought, taking in the damply dangerous man who looked exactly like the answer to her every sex-starved dream.
‘I didn’t creep.’ The sexy mouth tugged up in a grin. ‘I think you’ll find on closer acquaintance that I never creep.’
No, he never did, and that sluice-down in the yard had really intensified the scent of warm, clean man. And what did he mean by closer acquaintance? As she tried to work it out she dragged in greedy lungfuls of Heath’s delicious scent when what she should be doing was watching the food on top of the cooker to make sure it didn’t burn.
Her gaze started at ground level with Heath’s sexy feet, and then rose steadily to take in the hard thighs stretching the seams on his damp jeans. She resolutely refused to notice the button open at the top of his zipper, or the belt hanging loose—and moved on swiftly to Heath’s impressive chest, which was currently clad in the deep blue heavy-knit sweater he’d pulled on at the door—
She yelped with shock when he took hold of her elbows and lifted her aside. Heath shrugged. ‘I’d hate you to burn that soup. And I owe it to the men to make sure you know what you’re doing,’ he added, stealing another spoonful. ‘What?’ he said, angling his chin as Bronte planted her hands on her hips. ‘You didn’t think I’d give you a completely free rein, did you?’
‘You don’t frighten me, Heath Stamp. Now, get out of my way—’
‘Not before I’ve had another spoonful. This soup isn’t bad,’ Heath admitted. His amused glance made Bronte wonder if he was remembering her naked.
‘If you want to catch your death in those wet jeans go right ahead,’ she said.
‘They’re not drying as I’d hoped,’ Heath said, his lips pressing down. ‘Why don’t you sling them over the Aga rail for me?’
‘Like I want your wet clothes hanging in my kitchen? And don’t even think of lounging round in your boxers while I’m making a meal.’
‘You’re making two assumptions there,’ Heath told her, ‘both of which are wrong.’ One: it wasn’t her kitchen, it was Heath’s. And two?
Don’t even go there, Bronte thought, noting the humour in Heath’s eyes. ‘I was merely suggesting you might want to change into some dry clothes before supper,’ she told him primly.
‘And if I had some dry clothes with me, I might do that.’
Heath had lightened up. Maybe breaks in the country were good for him, Bronte reasoned. Pity they weren’t good for her composure.
And while she was musing on this Heath stole some more soup from the pot. ‘There’ll be none left,’ she protested spreading out her arms to take command of the Aga. ‘Here,’ she said, opening the oven door. ‘Why don’t you stick your butt in there? You’ll soon dry off.’
‘That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?’ Heath observed.
‘It’s an accepted method of warming up.’
‘Really?’ Heath said, making her wish she hadn’t spoken. Folding her arms, she angled her chin as she waited for him to take her advice.
‘Thank you, but no,’ he said, allowing her a small mocking bow. ‘I’m sure my body heat will take care of it.’
It was certainly taking care of her.
‘Do I make you nervous, Bronte?’
‘As if,’ she scoffed. ‘Though you do make me a bit nervous,’ she said on reflection.
‘Oh?’ Heath’s gaze flared with interest.
‘You’re eating all the soup,’ she told him deadpan. ‘Now clear off—’
She exhaled sharply as Heath caught hold of her arm as he brushed past. ‘Why did you really come back to the hall, Bronte?’
‘Why did you come back?’ she said, feeling unusually flustered as she stared up at him.
‘I asked you first.’
‘I took pity on you—and, okay, I made a fuss about you doing something with your inheritance. I could hardly sit at home twiddling my thumbs after that.’
‘To think, I almost drove you away,’ Heath said, heaving a heavy sigh. ‘Where did I go wrong?’
‘I don’t know, Heath.’ She met the humorous gaze head on—and wished she hadn’t. Hadn’t she made enough mistakes for one day?
‘Let me repeat myself,’ Heath said, ‘What are you really doing here, Bronte?’
‘I couldn’t stay away from you,’ she said in her most mocking tone. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
‘At least you’re being honest,’ Heath said.
‘You’re so modest,’ Bronte countered, stirring the soup as if her life depended on it. ‘You know my only interest in being here is the future of Hebers Ghyll.’
‘Liar,’ Heath said softly.
‘Could you put these bowls out for me, please?’ She plonked them in his hands. Anything to keep Heath’s hands occupied and give herself space to think.
‘I have made you feel better, haven’t I?’ Heath sounded pleased with himself as he came back to prop a hip against the side.
‘So good I hardly know what to do with myself,’ Bronte agreed, sticking the salt pot and pepper grinder in his hands. ‘Now move. You definitely can’t stand this close to the heat without—’
‘Without both of us getting burned?’ Heath suggested.
‘Without the soup getting burned,’ she corrected him. ‘Excuse me please…’ Would her heart stop thundering? Hands on hips, she waited for Heath to move. Her only alternative was to stretch across him—and risk rubbing some already highly aroused and very sensitive part of her body against him? Not even remotely sensible to try.
‘I’m still wondering what you came back for,’ he said, ‘and I mean the real reason.’
‘Okay,’ she said, staring him in the eyes. ‘I’m serious about wanting the job and I thought if I came here and made myself useful—doing anything I could to help—you might remember me when it came to handing out interview times.’
Leaning back against the Aga rail, Heath crossed his arms and gave her one of his looks. ‘So you’re here so you can keep on reminding me how good you’d be?’
That wasn’t quite the way she would have put it, but yes. ‘I thought cooking supper for you would be a start.’
‘And you’re not a conniving woman?’
Heath’s face was very close—close enough to see how thick his lashes were, and how firm his mouth. ‘On the contrary,’ Bronte argued, ‘I am a conniving woman. And I know what I want.’
‘And so do I,’ Heath assured her as he straightened up.
‘Well, seeing as you’ve shown willing.’ Heath laughed.
And now he was standing in her way again. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said politely.
What was she supposed to do with a man who took up every inch of vital cooking space and who showed no sign of moving—a man who was staring down at her now with a look in his darkening eyes that suggested he would very much like a practical demonstration of just how badly she wanted to work for him? ‘You’re in my way, Heath.’
‘Am I?’
He didn’t move so she tried a firmer approach. ‘If you want feeding you’d better get out of my way now.’
‘I love it when you talk tough.’
She drew in a great, shuddering gust of relief when Heath finally straightened up and moved away. Fantasies were safe, warm things, but the reality of Heath’s hard, virile body so close to hers was something else again. He hadn’t even touched her yet and every part of her was glowing with lust—and she couldn’t blame the Aga for that.
‘Don’t burn my supper,’ Heath warned. ‘If you do I shall have to punish you.’
Bronte drew in a sharp, shocked breath. The images that conjured up didn’t even bear thinking about. Rallying, she turned to face Heath with her chin tilted at a combative angle, only to find a slow-burning smile playing around his lips. He was enjoying this. Heath was the master of verbal seduction and she was his willing partner in crime. Lucky for her, the girls chose that moment to return from the herb garden—if she counted luck in heated aches and screaming frustration, that was, Bronte mused, adopting an innocent expression by the cooker.
‘Thyme?’ Colleen held out a thick bunch of fragrant herbs.
‘Bad time,’ Heath commented dryly. Then pointing a finger at Bronte as if to say they had unfinished business, he left the kitchen to call the men.
She couldn’t think of anything else all through supper. What had Heath meant by that pointing finger? If Heath meant what she thought he meant her fantasies were out of a job. Heath gave nothing away during the meal—he barely looked at her. She had cooked her heart out, silently thanking her mother for all those hours they’d spent together preparing food. She had everything she needed in the restored garden—and more eggs than she knew what to do with, thanks to the chickens being of too little value for Uncle Harry’s executors to chase them down. Tonight’s menu included minestrone soup, and a huge Spanish omelette, full of finely chopped seasonal vegetables and crispy potatoes, which she had browned beneath the grill until the cheese on top was crunchy. To complement this there was a bowl of crispy salad, along with some freshly baked bread and newly churned butter from a nearby farm. Then there was beer, wine and soft drinks from the local shop to satisfy twelve hungry mouths around the supper table. She loved doing this, Bronte reflected with her chin on the heel of her hand as the chatter continued abated—especially feeding Heath, who seemed to relish every mouthful.