The Big Bad Boss Page 6

  ‘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.

  ‘The country’s not so bad, is it, Heath?’ She couldn’t resist saying when he dived in for second helpings.

  ‘I’ll freely admit it gives me a healthy appetite.’

  And how was she supposed to take that? She drew a deep, steadying breath, but the tension between them remained electric. It was the same between Heath’s men and Bronte’s friends, she noticed. The village was severely depleted when it came t
o good-looking guys, as most had gone to work in the city, so this was an interesting occasion for everyone, to say the least.

  ‘This is a real feast,’ Colleen observed, passing the bread round.

  Indeed it was, Bronte thought, glancing at Heath.

  ‘Here’s that cheese we bought to go with the bread,’ he said, passing the cheese board round to an appreciative roar.

  Bronte’s glance yo-yoed between Colleen and Heath. They had walked to the farm together, which meant they must have talked. And Colleen was hardly noted for holding back. She must have said something about Bronte’s feelings for Heath.

  Well, it was too late to do anything about that now, Bronte thought, putting an Eton mess on the table for pudding—easy. fresh whipped and sweetened cream, thick Greek yoghurt, strawberries, raspberries, and crumbled chunks of home-made meringue. ‘Please, tuck in,’ she announced brightly, swallowing back her embarrassment at the thought that her feelings for Heath must have been aired extensively at some point today.

  ‘This pudding is delicious,’ Heath said, looking up.

  His eyes held all sorts of thoughts that went beyond pudding—none of which Bronte trusted herself to examine too closely. How would Heath’s energy translate if they were left alone together for any length of time? Perhaps he had better install a sprinkler system along with all his other DIY improvements.

  ‘We’re going to be here for the best part of six months according to the boss,’ one of the men said, directing this comment at Bronte. ‘I hope you’ll be staying on?’

  ‘She’ll be here,’ Heath confirmed.

  ‘Oh, will I?’ Bronte challenged.

  ‘Where else would you go?’ Heath demanded.

  Everyone went silent and turned to look at them.

  ‘We definitely can’t let a cook as good as you go,’ the first man said politely to break the standoff.

  ‘We won’t let her go,’ Heath assured him while Bronte frowned. It wasn’t just that she didn’t like to be told what she was going to do—she was beginning to wonder if she had blown the bigger job. Not that she didn’t enjoy cooking, but her mother was the one trained in household management, while Bronte’s training had been geared towards managing the estate.

  Don’t make a fuss, her inner voice warned … softly, softly catchee monkey.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed cooking for you all,’ she said honestly, thinking it best to leave it there.

  ‘If you do stay on and work here,’ Colleen piped up, ‘I’m sure Heath will pay excellent wages.’

  ‘We definitely need to talk terms,’ Heath agreed above the laughter.

  Great wages and impossible terms? Bronte smiled and kept on smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But when everyone started getting up from the table and she noticed Heath was looking at her, her senses sharpened. After what Heath had described as her less than promising start, she hoped she had gone some way to making amends tonight. But she still needed clarification about a formal interview—that was if Heath’s offer still stood.

  Her first thought was, what would the position be?

  Missionary? Or up against a wall—Stop! Stop!

  Estate manager, or housekeeper, Bronte told herself firmly, wiping her overheated forehead on the back of her hand. She’d settle for either—though of course she would hand over the housekeeper’s position to her mother, with Heath’s agreement, the moment her parents returned from their trip.

  She was so busy clearing the table and trying to see into the future that she managed to crash into Heath. ‘Well?’ he demanded, steadying her, his firm hands so warm and strong on her arms. ‘I’m still waiting for your answer, Bronte.’

  ‘Wages?’

  ‘Terms,’ he murmured.

  ‘And is that look supposed to encourage me to accept?’ His gaze was currently focused on her lips.

  ‘I haven’t offered you anything yet,’ he pointed out. ‘Is this a better look?’

  His face was so close she could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. ‘Barely,’ she said.

  Her body disagreed. Her body liked Heath’s brooding look very much indeed. ‘You can let me go now,’ she said, staring pointedly at his hand on her arm.

  Heath hummed as he lifted it away, leaving behind him an imprint of sensation that it would take more than a shower to wash off.

  This was everything she’d ever dreamed of, Bronte reflected as she cleared the table—Heath back at Hebers Ghyll, picking up almost, but not quite, where they’d left off, flirting with him.

  Flirting with Heath was a very bad idea indeed. It put her heart at risk, while his was in no danger at all. And she didn’t kid herself where this was heading, if she let it. Heath had a healthy appetite, and it was up to her to decide yes or no and then take the consequences for her decision whatever it might be.

  Everyone else had left the kitchen to return to work. No one stopped until a job was done now, Bronte had noticed, even thought it was quite late. Heath’s influence, she supposed. He never seemed to tire. She had asked him to mend a fuse for her before he went back to join the others. ‘Seems I can’t get rid of you now,’ she teased him as he straightened up.

  ‘Isn’t that what you want?’ he said.

  She was staring at his lips again, Bronte realised, shifting her gaze to Heath’s work-stained top. ‘Do you really think I find the scent of spark plugs and engine oil irresistible?’

  ‘I think you love a bit of rough.’

  ‘I—’

  Before she had chance to deny it, Heath had dragged her into his arms.

  ‘It might have escaped your notice,’ she told him, coolly, ‘but I’m in no danger of falling over at the moment.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Heath agreed, lips pressing down. ‘You’re in no danger at all.’ He lifted his hands away.

  The master tactician was at it again, Bronte suspected, feeling the loss of him before Heath had even left the room. There was more to foreplay than she had ever realised. Turned out Heath was master of that too. Still, he’d gone now, which would give her chance to cool down. She’d clear up the kitchen—and then, as she’d announced over supper, she would paint the wall Heath had plastered. The plaster had dried out now, and she didn’t feel like going down to the pub. Sometimes she liked to be alone with her thoughts—though where that would get her tonight was anyone’s guess.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EVERYONE was going down to the pub in the village after work. Heath wasn’t and neither was Bronte. She was still fixing up the kitchen. Having cooked and cleaned and cleared, she had declared her intention to paint the wall. He could hardly leave her to it.

  Stubborn as ever, he thought, catching sight of her through the kitchen window. It looked cosy and welcoming inside with the lights casting a warm glow, and something Bronte had prepared for tomorrow bubbling away quietly on the Aga. She was up a ladder with her hair tied back beneath a bright emerald-green scarf—and she was wielding a roller—

  God help them all. Cream paint extended down to her elbow, and there was a smudge of it on her nose. He’d better get in there before she painted herself to the wall.

  ‘Knock it off now, Bronte,’ he said as he walked into the room. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’

  ‘Past your bedtime?’ she teased him.

  He wasn’t even remotely tired.

  Turning, she planted her hands on her hips, daubing her jeans with another generous lashing of paint.

  ‘I hope that paint washes off.’

  ‘You know something, Heath,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You said I’d made a bad start. Well, now I’m wondering if I want a job here at all. The thought of you bossing me around all day and all night—’

  ‘Is irresistible,’ he said, easing onto one hip to stare up at her. ‘You know you’d love it. Just think—you’d be able to argue with me nonstop.’

  She sighed. ‘Sadly, I don’t have your stamina.’

  Something he’d like to put to the test. But shouldn’t. Mustn
’t. ‘Now I know you’re joking. I’ve seen that tongue of yours do the marathon. And, didn’t I just tell you to stop?’

  Her jaw dropped in mock shock. ‘I obey you now?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you that’s part of the job description?’ Cupping his chin, he pretended to think about it—and cursed himself for forgetting to shave. Barbarian? She was right.

  She hummed. ‘We may have a serious problem, in that case. Unless…’

  ‘Unless?’ he prompted.

  ‘Unless you’re offering to make me a drink?’ she said perkily.

  ‘Gin and tonic?’

  ‘Coffee,’ she said in a reproving tone.

  Coffee won. Climbing down the ladder, she tried to muscle him out of the way when he took over the cooker. No contest. He was skipper of the Aga tonight. ‘You can’t stand the fact that I’m in charge,’ he said as she bumped against him one last time and finally gave up. ‘You’ve grown wild on your travels—uncontrollable—you’ve got no discipline—you’re answerable to no one—’

  ‘But you love me,’ she said, adding quickly in her sensible voice to cover for her gaffe. ‘I’m answerable to myself, Heath. And I learned a lot while I was away.’

  He didn’t doubt it, and while she took the pan off the cooker and washed out the paintbrushes he encouraged her to tell him something about her extended trip. So much of it turned out to be relevant to the job of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll, he couldn’t help but put his baser instincts on the back burner as he listened. It was fascinating to hear how she’d gone from naïve, untried miss, to Capability Bronte, building fences, birthing animals, and helping to construct artesian wells along the way. He revised his opinion of her upwards another good few notches when she told him, ‘Life’s easy when there’s no responsibility attached. I needed to get out there, Heath. I had to get away from this small village—not just to find out what I was missing, but to test myself and find out what I’m made of.’

  ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice?’

  ‘Now, you know that’s not true,’ she told him, smiling.