The Big Bad Boss Page 8

  But she couldn’t stand here for ever feeling sorry for herself, Bronte concluded. Her feet might appear to be superglued to the floor, but even she couldn’t live off emotion. It wouldn’t decorate the kitchen any more than it would save Hebers Ghyll—both would need more direct action. And at least with decorating there was more certainty of success, she thought, picking up her brush. Men could punch the wall when things went wrong, but she’d settle for prising open a new can of cream paint. If she finished the wall tonight then at least something would have reached a satisfactory conclusion.

  He didn’t go to the pub or anywhere near it. He got straight in the car and drove back to the city. When he reached the open road he stamped his foot down on the accelerator. The hunger to put miles between him and Bronte was as fierce as the hunger that had flared between them. She was like a wild green shoot that couldn’t survive his brand of tough. Beneath Bronte’s fire there was tenderness and vulnerability. He’d always known it and couldn’t forgive himself for what had happened. Bronte embraced life and all it had to offer, but her enthusiasm was coloured by the desperate hope that no one would hurt her—but they would. He would. And so he was leaving.

  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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  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 confir
med, 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 was her chance to prove she was as professional as Heath—and a chance to tilt at a job she desperately wanted. If she was lucky enough to land the job it would be the best chance she ever got to take Uncle Harry’s vision to the next level—and to prove she was more than Heath’s latest sex-starved admirer. She could do this.

  She must do this, Bronte determined, firming her jaw.

  ‘Did you call her?’ Heath’s tone was impatient. Almost as soon as he’d returned to London he’d had to fly to New York—one of his favourite cities, but waiting to get out of this meeting with his lawyers hadn’t helped to soothe his frayed temper.

  ‘Of course,’ Quentin confirmed. ‘I made it my first job—I even placed the call before I drank my coffee.’

  ‘I appreciate the sacrifice,’ Heath said dryly, but then the crease returned to his brow. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She’s coming.’

  Heath relaxed back on the sofa overlooking Central Park. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t even showered yet. It felt like he hadn’t slept for days. His emergency meeting had been called to sew up a deal that would take his company global. He’d texted Quentin to make the date with Bronte, thumbs racing beneath the table as he discussed figures the size of a roll-over lottery win at the same time. He had promised Bronte this chance, and he was a man of his word.

  And that was the only reason he’d called her to interview, he’d told himself sternly when he stood to shake hands with the other men. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that all he’d thought of since leaving England, in those moments when the business relaxed its hold on him, was Bronte—Bronte’s eyes, the swell of her mouth, the expression on her face, the sound of her voice when she was out of control with pleasure in his arms, or whispering to him in the aftermath. Most of all he wondered about the questions she never asked him, like, Why does it have to be like this, Heath? Why must the past always stand between us? Why can’t you and I be together like any other couple? We enjoyed the sex—we’re so good together, why can’t it go on? And then the lies she would tell him if he let things run on. He could hear her saying, sex doesn’t have to involve feelings, does it, Heath? Then she would look at him with those candid green eyes and they would both know she was lying. He couldn’t hurt her like that. Sex had to involve feelings for Bronte. Everything had to involve feelings for Bronte.

  When the lawyers from both sides shook hands and turned to congratulate him, he barely heard them. All he could think of was a long, reviving shower and the welcome journey home. For Bronte’s sake, he’d shave. Right now he looked more the barbarian than ever and he didn’t want to frighten her when she interviewed for the job—he owed her that much. The interview was all she had ever asked of him, and he wouldn’t let her down.

  It was just her bad luck that Heath’s office was located in the most fashionable part of the city, Bronte reflected, slipping on a robe after her shower at the cottage. And in a gleaming new building that had won style awards, for goodness’ sake.

  And look at me …

  So she would just have to smarten herself up, Bronte told herself firmly. It might have been a while, but she could do it. Taking a deep breath, she stopped pacing her bedroom to open the robe and take a critical look at herself in the full-length mirror. The bits that showed outside her dungarees were tanned to a nice healthy shade, but the rest of her was pale and freckled.

  And the tip of her nose was bright red.

  Great.

  Walking to the wardrobe, she opened the door and rooted inside. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to dress or what would be expected of her at a high-powered interview. She hadn’t dropped out of life completely, but she had gone country. There had been no reason to smarten up since she’d returned to Hebers Ghyll.

  There wasn’t time to buy a business suit, Bronte concluded, but appearances were everything if she wanted Heath to take her seriously. Appearances were important if she wanted to hold her head up high. Toe rings and braids she had down to a fine art, but a more sophisticated look might require a little help …

  ‘You’re going to Heath’s office for an interview?’ Colleen exclaimed, clearly impressed and excited for her. ‘That’s amazing. Heath must think a lot of you to invite you down to London.’

  ‘That’s where the interviews are being held,’ Bronte explained. ‘It’s nothing special. And it was his PA who invited me, not Heath.’

  ‘Whatever you say …’

  They were clearing out the old stables when Bronte shared her news. Colleen had picked up on her tension, Bronte realised.

  Leaning on her sweeping brush, Colleen stared directly at her equally dishevelled friend. ‘So, tell me—what can I do?’

  ‘I’m just worried that the job of estate manager suggests someone older than me—someone more staid.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Colleen said firmly. ‘You’re the new generation.’

  ‘But what if Heath’s PA doesn’t see it that way? What if I don’t get any further than him? He sounds so snooty, and appearances matter in the city. I don’t think my muck-spreading look is going to cut it.’

  ‘You might have a point,’ Colleen agreed with a laugh as she took in the state of Bronte’s dungarees. ‘So you really think you’ve got a chance of landing the job? It would be wonderful if you did—it would give everyone such a lift.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Bronte said, smiling ruefully. ‘I have to believe I stand a chance or I wouldn’t go to London. I’ve got the right qualifications—and the right practical experience too. And I’ve got local knowledge, which hopefully will give me an edge. So, logically, I should be in the running…’ Though whether Mr Logical would see it that way remained to be seen. ‘But I must look as professional as I can, which is where you come in.’

  ‘Whatever I can do,’ Colleen offered.

  ‘Well, I’ve been off the radar for a while—so I’ll need a suit.’

  ‘And there are so many shops round here,’ Colleen said dryly.

  ‘Exactly, and there’s no time to visit the local town before my interview.’

  ‘Well, you must look good for Heath.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with Heath,’ Bronte protested a little too hotly.

  ‘Okay,’ Colleen soothed, holding her hands up palms flat in surrender.

  ‘Heath needs to come back to oversee this project,’ Bronte said thoughtfully. ‘An absentee landlord is no good to Hebers Ghyll.’

  ‘And an absentee lover is even less use to you.’

  ‘Colleen—’

  ‘I’m just saying. If friends can’t be honest with each other. Yes, of course I’ll help,’ Colleen confirmed when Bronte gave her a look. ‘Do you really think you can persuade Heath to come back here?’

  ‘He has to—look how much got done on his last visit. We have to be positive, Colleen. What?’ she said when Colleen’s gaze slid away.

  ‘I just don’t want to see you getting hurt, Bronte.’

  ‘I’m not going to get hurt,’ Bronte said firmly. ‘I know what I’m doing. This is business. Let’s get back to work, shall we? I can raid your wardrobe later.’

  ‘You can take whatever you want,’ Colleen assured her.

  ‘Then that’s settled
,’ Bronte said cheerfully, but her friend’s concerned expression hadn’t changed.

  The trade journals had picked up on his coup and were going crazy. The office was going crazy—and more crazy was exactly what he didn’t need. ‘What do you mean, you can’t cope?’ Heath thundered to the only man who didn’t quail when he let rip.

  ‘If I didn’t work with a bloody genius, you’d know,’ Heath’s harassed PA informed him testily. ‘You think everyone can work at your speed, Heath—i.e. the speed of light. Well, I’ve got news for you—I’ve only got one pair of hands—’

  ‘And if you spent less time slathering hand cream on them you’d have more time to spare for work.’

  ‘Woo-hoo. Bitchee. Now who’s suffering from a bad dose of Not Getting Any?’

  ‘And since when is that your business?’

  ‘I’ve made it my business. I have to suffer the backlash every day.’

  ‘If you weren’t—’

  ‘The only gay male friend you’re ever likely to have?’ Quentin interrupted smoothly.

  ‘The only friend I’m likely to have,’ Heath confessed ruefully.

  Reaching up on tiptoe, Quentin threw a comforting arm around his boss’s powerful shoulders. ‘Take it from one who knows—you need to sort out that other problem first.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Good, then perhaps you’ll calm down and stop carrying on like a bull with a sore head and we can get some work done around here.’

  ‘Get some help.’

  Quentin pouted. ‘Now I’m offended.’

  ‘I mean, go get someone in to handle the interviews if you can’t cope.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Quentin smiled at the small victory as he examined his immaculately manicured nails. ‘Maybe a temp to handle some of the run-of-the-mill work, while I supervise the interviews. What?’ he protested. ‘Did you seriously think I’d allow anyone but me to start the interview process for such a vital position on your lordship’s new estate?’