The Big Bad Boss Page 10

  ‘Sounds perfect.’ They hadn’t done enough of that. But would Heath relax? Glancing across at him, Bronte felt her cheeks burn when Heath caught her staring at him. She could tell he was still buzzing after the signing—still high on adrenalin. She wondered where he’d take her next, and decided to find out—the roundabout way. ‘Am I dressed okay for wherever we’re going?’

  Heath glanced over. ‘So long as you think you’ll be warm enough.’

  ‘We’ll be outside?’ She had hinted that she would like to eat somewhere less stuffy than the upmarket restaurant, and there were plenty of hot-dog stands and fast food stalls around London.

  ‘We’ll be outside,’ Heath confirmed.

  ‘Will I like it?’

  ‘I know I will.’

  Heath looked worryingly pleased with himself. She hazarded a guess. ‘Why’s that? Is there a pool table?’

  ‘Better than that,’ Heath said, stopping at the traffic lights.

  Okay …

  ‘I hope it isn’t too noisy,’ she said as the lights turned to green.

  ‘Stop digging, Bronte. It’s somewhere you will have to relax—and when you do, maybe we can get a serious discussion going.’

  Fun and a serious discussion? How did that work? she wondered, falling silent.

  ‘Still hungry?’ Heath demanded, powering away from the traffic lights.

  Sadly, for all Bronte’s good intentions, she was starving—and not just for food.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE Lamborghini sliced through the congested traffic like a well-trained panther, sleek, fast-moving, and effortlessly responsive, while Heath’s mind was full of Bronte—the taste of her, her scent, her heat, the way she cried out with pleasure at the moment she let go. It was hard to concentrate with all that running through his head. He made a conscious effort to slow the car, to drive responsibly, to think of Bronte in a purely non-sexual way. He couldn’t remember anyone forcing him to look at things and people differently, but Bronte had. He should have known she would follow through with the job—and was glad she had. Bronte had turned out to be by far the best candidate with a wealth of experience, as well as local knowledge second to none. She was right about age having nothing to do with this. Had she been fifty years older he’d still have felt the same.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, knowing Bronte had a definite advantage that had nothing to do with professionalism or age. He came up with a suitably distracting reply: ‘I was just wondering how you’re going to take it when I tell you it will take a while to get where we’re going.’

  ‘I think I can hang on,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m not a baby who needs feeding on the hour.’

  ‘Or rocking to sleep?’ he suggested, his mind taking her back to bed again.

  ‘I prefer to keep my eyes open while you’re around.’

  She was sparking again. That was better. Banter between them was the best cure for tension he knew. Maybe it was time for him to wind down too.

  ‘We’ll get there,’ she soothed when they got snarled up in a jam.

  Driving was partly a distraction, but while they were stuck in traffic like this.

  Resting his chin on the back of his hand, he brooded. He could spend the rest of his life living in the past, telling himself he wasn’t worthy, but when they were sitting close like this—

  ‘See, we’re moving again,’ she said just as his thoughts were heating up.

  He should have laid everything on the line for her at Hebers Ghyll. He should have told Bronte the type of man he was—the type of man he couldn’t be. He should have made that break nice and clean while he’d had the chance—

  And then a vehicle swerved in front of them and Bronte exclaimed with fright. He’d avoided it, but it was close. ‘You okay?’ He reached over to reassure her.

  She was staring at his hand on her knee. ‘I think so,’ she said.

  He lifted his hand away. Touching her had fired him. He could only hope the inferno inside him hadn’t engulfed the next seat. ‘Who chose the outfit?’ he said to distract them both.

  ‘Quentin helped me pick it out.’

  Traitor, he thought. Quentin was supposed to be his friend. ‘You look good.’ No harm in telling the truth—though he put both hands firmly on the wheel. ‘Have to say, I pity those sales assistants.’

  ‘Quentin was very polite—and he knows all the best shops,’ Bronte protested.

  And she’s loyal to a fault, he thought. ‘I bet he does,’ he murmured.

  ‘Quentin was only trying to help, so don’t go after him,’ Bronte begged him.

  ‘Am I such a monster?’ He glanced her way. ‘I’m just saying dungarees would have been a better choice for where I’m taking you.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ she said dryly.

  Dipping his head, he scanned the traffic for the quickest way through, making Bronte exclaim a second time when he dropped a gear to overtake some slow-moving vehicles. ‘I didn’t mean to shake you up.’

  ‘But you have,’ she said, giving him the quake with fear routine. ‘You’re such a scary baddie in your powerful machine, and I’m such a little country innocent all alone in the big city.’

  He couldn’t have put it better himself. ‘So, where are you taking me, Heath?’ she probed.

  ‘Like I told you, somewhere fun—somewhere they won’t hear you scream when I really give you something to be scared about.’

  ‘Sounds … interesting,’ she said, pulling an uncertain face.

  ‘It will be,’ he promised.

  She shrieked his eardrums out on the big dipper, buried her face in his jacket and clung to him with claws of iron on the Plunge of Doom. She couldn’t have done that with anyone else, she assured him, after she’d made him queue for the ride a second time.

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t know any other adrenalin junkies,’ he said, wrapping her in his jacket when she shivered from a combination of freezing wind and her unbounded lust to ride the big wheel.

  ‘I don’t know anyone else who would brave my screams a second time,’ she said, jumping up and down to keep warm.

  The friction at such close range was … interesting. ‘I don’t mind you screaming, just so long as you don’t do it in my ear. The big wheel?’

  ‘Try and keep me off it.

  ‘This was an inspired choice, Heath,’ Bronte told him as she marched along, head down against the wind, ‘if not exactly what I was expecting as part of my job interview.’

  ‘Performance under stress? Surely, that’s a normal part of any interview process?’

  ‘Working for you, I’d say it’s an essential part.’

  ‘I aim to please.’

  ‘So screaming might get me brownie points?’

  ‘Screaming will get you all sorts of places, Bronte.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing her cheeks glow red.

  He gave her his jacket on the big wheel, wondering why he hadn’t noticed before how slight she was and how quickly she took cold.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’ she said as the wheel started turning.

  ‘It’s a little slow for me,’ he admitted, ‘though the view is good.’ London was unfolding in front of them like one of his fantasy panoramas; a magic carpet in colours of umber and ash, bustling with moving lights beneath a rapidly darkening indigo sky.

  ‘Can you see St Paul’s from here?’ she said, craning her neck to look round as their seat reached the highest point.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He was staring at Bronte when she asked the question.

  ‘Yes,’ she cried excitedly. ‘Look, Heath—over there.’

  Shimmering with light and unwritten stories, the sight of the city would have lifted anyone’s mood and Bronte’s excitement was infectious. ‘I see it.’ He sounded as excited as she was.

  ‘This is such an amazing view, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not bad,’ he admitted wryly. Bronte’s lips were red, her face was flushed and the tip of he
r pixie nose had turned crimson with cold.

  ‘It’s fun, Heath—admit it,’ she threatened, doing what he called her bite smile—the big, touching one where the pearly teeth bit down on the full swell of her bottom lip. And this was certainly something. Fun in his world was exploring new markets for his games—checking balance sheets, checking the bank—but Bronte had jolted him out of that perfectly designed world into a realm full of crazy adventure and emotional overspill.

  ‘So you see, you can spare the time,’ she told him triumphantly, sitting back against the padded vinyl seat.

  ‘Barely,’ he murmured as the wheel began its painfully slow descent.

  Bronte’s eyes were half shut against the wind, and her face was all screwed up against the biting cold, but even so she was beautiful … and vulnerable, and deserving of someone who would cherish her and focus his whole attention on her—someone who would give Bronte more than he ever could. She shivered again and this time he resisted the temptation to pull her close. Once had been an impulse, twice would make it usual between them, as if they were boyfriend and girlfriend, which they were not.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ she said as the wheel stopped to let them get off.

  He helped her out. ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you—within reason,’ she added quickly, shooting him a warning glance. ‘And we haven’t eaten yet,’ she reminded him.

  None of this had been planned. It had started out as one thing and ended up as something quite different—the need to talk, the need to get to know each other in the present and find out how they’d changed. The need to do something other than have sex and stalk round each other like two suspicious combatants in the ring. He didn’t want to talk about Hebers Ghyll, or business, or Bronte’s job. He wanted to do all the things they had never done together, things he’d dreamed about doing with Bronte all those years back—on the rare occasion when he had managed to lift his thoughts above his belt. This was a second chance—a voyage of discovery to find out whether his fantasies had legs.

  Guys had fantasies?

  Even tough guys like him had fantasies. You want to make something of it? he challenged his inner voice.

  ‘Brrh, it’s cold,’ Bronte said, shrinking deeper into his giant-sized jacket.

  ‘How about somewhere warm now?’ he suggested.

  ‘You read my mind.’ She laughed up at him. ‘Are you going to tell me where, or are you going to keep me hanging?’

  ‘I’m going to take you to see a small corner of my world.’

  ‘Will I need lifts in my shoes?’

  He glanced down at her flats and laughed. ‘I’ll make sure no one treads on you.’

  Bronte laughed. And now they were both laughing. And before he knew what he was doing he’d dragged her close.

  She hugged him hard. They broke away as if they both knew it was wrong, and could only lead them down the same blind alley. There was a certain amount of awkwardness between them until he said, ‘Can you dance?’

  Her face lit up. ‘What do you think, rubber legs? But I thought we were going somewhere to eat first.’

  ‘We are. Come on,’ he said, urging her towards the car.

  ‘You’re not taking me somewhere stuffy like that last place, are you?’ she said, looking up at him.

  He liked she’d got her confidence back. He was not quite so pleased when she raced ahead of him and started scampering backwards. He’d been down that road too many times. ‘Wait and see,’ he said, gathering her under his arm before they repeated their signature move.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, staring up at him as they strode along purposefully, side by side, keeping in step. ‘This sounds mysterious. Are you going to give me any clues?’

  ‘No.’

  And with that she had to be content.

  Why wouldn’t Heath tell her where they were going? Another small corner of his world, he’d said. Today was turning out to be like a jigsaw someone had tossed up in the air. Find the right pieces and you might see the picture clearly. But she liked a mystery. And she liked what she’d seen so far.

  Had she never dreamed that Heath was human? Bronte wondered, snuggling deeper into his jacket while he drove them to another part of the city. Heath had shown another side of himself tonight, and it was a side that she liked—a side that tempted her to forget all her warnings to self about not getting in any deeper than she already had. She jerked alert and looked around as he pulled the Lamborghini off the road and killed the engine. ‘You’re kidding me?’ she exclaimed softly as she peered out of the window. Of all the possible destinations, this was the very last place on earth she would have connected with the hard man at her side. A retro café complete with pink neon signs and garish orange paintwork. ‘You’re not short on surprises, Heath.’

  ‘I have connections here,’ he explained, only adding to the mystery. ‘Maybe it’s a little crazy.’

  ‘Lucky for you,’ Bronte admitted with a grin. ‘I love crazy.’

  Heath was one complex guy, Bronte thought as he opened the car door for her.

  ‘I trust this fits your brief for something different?’ Heath said, making her a mock bow as he helped her out of the car.

  ‘I can’t even imagine how you come to know about a place like this,’ she said, staring wide-eyed at the clientele flooding in.

  ‘My friend owns it,’ Heath explained.

  ‘Cool … I can’t wait to see inside.’ Though she was definitely underdressed for this gig. The girls she was following into the café were dressed in fifties outfits—high ponytails and bright red lipstick, their short flared skirts held out by yards of stiff net petticoats. They wore short white socks with high-heeled shoes, and wide, brightly coloured belts to emphasise their waists, while the men were boasting velvet-collared suits and winkle-picker shoes.

  ‘You do jive, I take it?’ Heath said dryly as he handed over the entrance fee for both of them.

  She frowned—and, only half joking, asked, ‘Is this part of my job interview?’

  ‘You should know. You have to be quick on your feet on a farm.’

  Bronte shook her head. ‘I guess I jive, then.’ She’d just have to get the hang of it in a hurry.

  ‘Great—then, let’s go,’ Heath said, brandishing their tickets.

  This certainly wasn’t the man she thought she knew. Heath had more facets than a hard black diamond and kept most of them under wraps. She was surprised he was sharing this much with her.

  Once bitten, Bronte reminded herself when she felt Heath’s hand come to rest in the small of her back as he guided her safely through the crowd. That touch was a timely, if unwelcome reminder that having fun together was one thing, but having sex—well, that was a whole world of difference. Fun she could bank and smile about when she got back to work. Sex was something you didn’t have with the boss—something that tore at your heart and left it in pieces.

  So why melt? Why long? Why ache? Why do any of those things? Take the evening for what it was, and then get on with your life, Bronte told herself firmly, glancing around with interest and anticipation.

  The beat was pounding inside an interior that faithfully recreated an authentic fifties coffee bar. There was a black and white tiled floor, Formica tables with lots of chrome around, and padded banquettes, covered in shiny red plastic that didn’t even pretend to be leather, and the most fantastic burnished wood panelling. ‘Carved by a regular customer,’ Heath said, pointing it out. He went on to explain that the café had recently been made a listed building, which meant it was destined to be preserved just as it was. He’d barely had chance to give her this potted history when a good-looking man spotted him and came over. ‘Heath—long time.’

  As the two men shared a man hug Bronte wondered about the connection between them.

  ‘Josh,’ Heath said, introducing his friend to Bronte. ‘Josh and I—we spent some time together when we were younger.’

  No further explanations necessary, Bront
e thought as Josh shook her hand. Josh was another bad boy made good.

  ‘I haven’t seen Heath for ages—you must be good for him,’ Josh said, an attractive crease appearing in his face as he searched out a table for them.

  ‘I think you’ll like the food here,’ Heath confided, dipping his head down to shout in Bronte’s ear above the music. He was guiding her through the danger zone of spinning couples to take the booth Josh had indicated. ‘It’s all home-cooking. Josh’s mother is in the kitchen making pasta, pies, bread pudding and custard, jam roly-poly—you name it.’

  ‘Fattening?’ she suggested wryly.

  ‘Delicious,’ Heath argued firmly with a smile that lit a bonfire in her heart.

  It was a revelation to discover Heath’s world wasn’t the soulless vacuum of cyberspace she’d imagined, but something far more diverse and interesting. And he was loyal too—something she had already seen in his relationship with Quentin. So the lone wolf did have friends. It made her optimistic, somehow—

  Irrelevant, Bronte told herself firmly as Heath sat down across the plastic table from her. This was a … business meeting? Heath’s stare was disturbingly direct. What did he expect her to say or do? She felt uncertain suddenly.

  And her heart?

  Didn’t stand a chance faced by this new understanding growing between them.

  Friendship, Bronte thought as Heath handed her the menu. This was friendship growing between them, and that was … that was nice.

  ‘Relax, Bronte—just choose something to eat and forget about everything else.’

  Sure. She could do that. Wasn’t living for the moment her speciality? Forget those thirteen years of longing, the trial relationships with other men—failures all of them, because all she had ever done was compare them with Heath, so every man had fallen short.

  So here she was again, back on that same old roller coaster, Bronte reflected—all that was missing was a platter on which to serve herself up—

  No. No! No! Being here with Heath didn’t mean she was going to have sex with him. It wasn’t compulsory. It didn’t come with the bill. They were having a meal together. What was wrong with that?