The Big Bad Boss Page 9

  ‘Firstly, I’m not a lord—and believe me,’ Heath added dryly, ‘Hebers Ghyll is not the dream property you seem to imagine, Quentin. I’ve seen better slums in my time.’

  ‘And you’ve handled that sort of renovation perfectly. You’ll handle this,’ Quentin said, refusing to be dismayed.

  ‘Maybe,’ Heath growled. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.’

  Quentin gave him a mock bow. ‘The master speaks and I obey.’

  Heath cracked a smile. ‘Now find me an estate manager who thinks the same way you do.’

  Quentin pulled a hurt face. ‘I can assure you, I am a one-off.’

  ‘And I couldn’t do without you,’ Heath admitted.

  ‘But I know what I’d do without you,’ Quentin shot back. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Save money at the salon—the stress lines I’ve developed since I started working for you—’

  ‘And no, you can’t charge your treatments to expenses.’

  Quentin sulked for around a second. ‘I’ll get that temp in, then.’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Heath advised, returning to his screen.

  She had never been put through such a gruelling grilling. Heath’s PA, a man who went by the name of Quentin Carew, turned out to be the most formidable style maven Bronte had ever encountered, and he would be conducting the first screening process, Quentin had informed her.

  Then she was out, Bronte thought. She didn’t stand a chance. Quentin was infinitely better groomed than she would ever be, and Heath’s offices far surpassed anything that even Bronte’s lively imagination could have conjured up. A celebration of steel and glass, they were formidably smart, as was Quentin, whereas she—even with Colleen’s best and kindest efforts—wasn’t. But for some reason, Quentin seemed to like her. It was possible he could see right through her carefully subdued grooming and controlled manner to something quirky underneath. Perhaps it was the small heart tattoo on her wrist—something she had hoped her respectable shirt cuff would cover, but hadn’t, and she had caught Quentin staring at it.

  ‘I’m putting you through,’ he announced.

  ‘You are?’ She couldn’t have been more surprised, or more delighted. This was everything she had ever wanted—and was nothing at all to do with seeing Heath again, Bronte told her racing heart firmly.

  ‘Heath could arrive at any time this afternoon,’ Quentin explained, ‘and as you probably know by now he can be a little … unpredictable? With a certain type of volatile…’

  ‘Temperament?’ Bronte supplied innocently.

  ‘You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Quentin remarked, picking imaginary lint off the lapels of his immaculate jacket.

  The lengths some PAs will go to in order to protect the boss, Bronte thought wryly. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for giving me this opportunity.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re thanking me,’ Quentin exclaimed, confiding, ‘Working here must have put at least ten years on me.’

  ‘And you’re looking great on it,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Yes, well …’ Quentin’s beautifully etched lips tightened in a pout. ‘That’s no thanks to the man I work for.’

  ‘Heath …’ Bronte floated off into her favourite dream, and just as quickly dragged herself back again. She had to. There was a dangerous little capsule living in her mind that threatened to explode into infinite pieces of lust, self-reproach, and longing, given half a chance. And that would be too distracting when she wanted to concentrate on landing this job.

  ‘Yes, Heath,’ Quentin agreed, looking at Bronte closely. ‘I should warn you that when he arrives it will be like a force ten storm hitting. You’d do well to be prepared.’

  ‘I am prepared,’ Bronte lied as her heart went crazy, knowing she could never be prepared to see Heath again.

  ‘And you do understand that this is a high-powered office where we work at warp speed all the time?’

  ‘I do,’ Bronte confirmed, recalling the speed at which Heath could work.

  ‘I doubt Heath will expect anything less of his staff in the country—and if he does, let me know,’ Quentin added with an over-the-rim-of-his-glasses look. ‘I might want to try out for a job there. I’ve always thought I’d look rather good in plus fours…’

  ‘If I get the job I’ll let you know,’ Bronte promised as Quentin went off into his own private dreamworld. Heath definitely hadn’t let his PA into the full story at Hebers Ghyll. An outfit of plus fours—quaint knickerbockers—teamed with a beautifully tailored tweed jacket and possibly a deerstalker hat was the clothing of choice for another type of country estate altogether—one where the visitors would expect everything to be sanitised and mud-free.

  Shrewd blue eyes, enhanced by the most discreet hint of grey eyeshadow, switched channels to Bronte. ‘From what I’ve seen of your CV you should be in with a serious chance for this job.’ But now Quentin grew concerned. ‘Are you sure that working for metrosaurus-man won’t be too traumatic for you?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Bronte confirmed confidently. The work wouldn’t be too much for her. But Heath … Heath was another story, and one that had forbidden written all over it.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally put someone as young as you through, but your CV is so strong,’ Quentin observed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Why was Quentin looking at her like that? Bronte wondered, growing increasingly self-conscious. ‘I normally wear jeans or dungarees,’ she explained awkwardly, conscious that her borrowed outfit wasn’t up to Quentin’s standards.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Quentin said, confirming Bronte’s suspicions. ‘But Heath is all about the city. He’s tuned into the pace of life here. Naturally, Heath can set his own standards, but he expects—no,’ Quentin said frowning, ‘Heath takes for granted the fact that his employees will dress a certain way. I’m only trying to help,’ he defended when Bronte gave him a hard stare. ‘I just think you’d stand a much better chance of getting this job if you conform to the sort of look Heath will be expecting. That’s all I’m saying,’ he said, raising his hands.

  And she should be grateful someone as savvy as Quentin was giving her advice. She liked him. And now it was time to place her trust in him. ‘I’ve never conformed,’ she explained. ‘So I’m not that sure how to do it—how to put a look together—if you know what I mean?’ Quentin’s interest sparked as she added, ‘I don’t suppose you could you help me …?’

  Quentin’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked her over. ‘I could help,’ he said thoughtfully, chin in hand. ‘If you don’t mind missing lunch …’

  Bronte was round the desk in a flash. Anything to take her mind off meeting Heath.

  ‘Heath has seen you in casual attire, I’ve no doubt,’ Quentin pondered out loud as he walked round Bronte like a sergeant major on parade. ‘It’s time for him to see you dressed as a professional—sharp, contemporary, and of the moment.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Sounds like a challenge,’ Quentin argued.

  ‘Well, if you’re up for it, I am.’

  ‘Budget?’ Quentin enquired discreetly.

  ‘Whatever it takes.’ She would just have to use plastic and hope her card didn’t self-combust.

  ‘Excellent.’ Quentin was already at the door. ‘Well, come on—what are you waiting for, girlfriend? Let’s go shopping.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOME hours later with her hair freshly shampooed at Quentin’s preferred salon and left to curl in wild disarray almost to her waist, dressed in a short black skirt, black opaque tights and flat Mary Janes, with a tight little top that clung like sticking plaster to her breasts, Bronte wasn’t totally convinced she looked like the archetypal interviewee for the post of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll, but more importantly Quentin was pleased with her appearance and declared her ready for her interview with Heath. ‘Wouldn’t I have been better buying a tweed jacket, or something?’ she said, feeling increasingly anxious as
the moment of truth approached. Craning her neck, she stared at her bottom, which was very tightly clad indeed.

  ‘A tweed jacket?’ Quentin demanded as if she had suggested wearing a homespun jerkin. ‘Certainly not. Heath is not just the cutting edge, he is the leading edge—the spear, the arrow, the—’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m happy,’ Bronte insisted, holding up her hands.

  They returned to Heath’s building where Quentin told her to wait in the anteroom to Heath’s corner office.

  She could do this, Bronte persuaded herself nervously, her knees jiggling up and down as she perched on the very edge of one of the smart black leather couches. Though why she was dressed as if to seduce the boss, when that was the last thing she wanted.

  She was here to persuade Heath she could be a top drawer estate manager. She was not losing her nerve. She would not be fixated on how aroused she was at the thought of seeing him again. She would definitely not be scanning Heath’s office for likely trysting opportunities. She would forget how she had felt after sex when Heath pulled away, and how deep the feeling was that what they’d done hadn’t been wrong. She would be cool and professional. They had both moved to a new place. It was a good place. It was the right place for them to be—

  And then the door swung open and the breath left her lungs in a rush. Had she really thought she was ready for this? Her heart was crashing against her ribs. Her awareness levels had soared beyond the possible. Heath stood framed in the doorway like a totem to all things sexual: a deity, a yoni god, a man with eyes of stone, wearing what, on the face of it, was a casual outfit—jeans and a top—but it was the kind of easy look that reeked of money and style.

  For a moment her mind was wiped clean and her mouth refused absolutely to communicate with her brain. The last time she’d seen Heath he’d been groaning—She’d been screaming—They’d been—

  Thankfully, she managed to summon up an autopilot voice—faint though it was. ‘Hello, Heath.’

  ‘Bronte,’ he said briskly. All business. All coldly assessing as he took in her new look.

  She wasn’t sure whether to be glad of Quentin’s assistance or not now. Something more low-key—something more mouse-like—might have bought her enough time to state her case clearly. Heath could convey more in one sharp stare than most men could hope to communicate in a lifetime, and that wasn’t always a good thing. ‘I’m your three o’ clock,’ she said, standing before she had too much time to analyse Heath’s expression.

  ‘I’m running late—so we’ll have to make this quick.’

  No, we won’t, Bronte thought, frowning even as her heart beat the retreat. ‘I’ve come all this way, Heath, and I know you’re going to treat me with the same consideration you’ve treated all the other interviewees.’

  Heath’s expression didn’t change. He wore a brooding look Bronte found impossible to interpret, other than to say it didn’t fill her with confidence. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong?’ she said pleasantly, determined not to be fazed. ‘I guessed these interviews mean your attitude towards the country has mellowed—’

  ‘Mellowed,’ Heath cut across her, raising a brow.

  ‘Okay, not mellowed,’ Bronte conceded, but to hell with trying to phrase her words carefully. They’d known each other too long for that. She had to be candid even if their relationship had been somewhat turbulent lately. ‘Finding time for Hebers Ghyll can’t be easy for you, but I can take those concerns away—’ The flexing of a muscle in Heath’s cheek made her pause. His dangerous appeal was working its magic. Steeling herself, she pushed on. ‘Give me a chance, Heath. Put everything else that’s happened between us since I … since you—’

  ‘Since we?’ Heath angled his chin.

  He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. ‘Since we had sex,’ she said flatly, pressing her hands out to the side as if she were pushing the memory away. ‘I’m the best person for this job. All I ask is the chance to prove that to you, Heath.’

  ‘Go on, then, tell me why.’ He leaned back against the door, drinking her in as she spoke about her experience and outlined her plans for Hebers Ghyll. She was even younger than he remembered and more innocent than he cared to think about. The fiery episode in the kitchen seemed all at odds with the girl standing in front of him now. Bronte had always led with her heart, but there was something different about her today.

  He had felt energy blaze between them the moment he walked into the room, but Bronte was cool now. If anything, she was cooler than he’d ever seen her. She had moved to a new level, where ironically she was almost as unreachable as he was. She intrigued him even more. She presented more of a challenge. And she might well be the right candidate for the job. He’d made enquiries in advance of this interview—taking up her references at her old college, as well as talking to people she’d worked with. Bronte was outstanding, he’d been told. She was a terrific catch for any landowner, people in the know had assured him.

  Catch was about right, he thought as he stared at her. They’d known each other for what felt like for ever—they knew each other intimately, yet they didn’t know each other at all. She was certainly qualified, he just wished there had been more time to get to know what really made Bronte tick. He glanced at his wristwatch. There wasn’t time. There was never time.

  Then perhaps he should make time

  Bronte took a breath and waited. She didn’t know how long she could keep up this cool act with him towering over her like some feudal warlord—and one who had pleasured her with the utmost skill.

  Forget that!

  Forget that how? Heath’s blatant masculinity blazed in the frame of the intricate graphics framed in his office. He was both an artist and a warrior—and as hard as nails. She could forget those romantic notions she’d been nursing for the past thirteen years. Heath had no intention of softening towards her—towards anything.

  ‘Is it that time already?’ he said, glancing at his watch.

  Her shoulders slumped. She’d barely been in his office ten minutes. Was that it?

  ‘Shall we go?’ he said, staring directly at her.

  We? ‘Go?’ Bronte frowned. ‘Go where, Heath?’

  ‘As I told you, I’m running late, and I have an appointment I can’t break. We can talk on the way.’ He held the door for her.

  She let out a tense breath. ‘Of course.’ It was an unusual interview, but it was an interview.

  The Lamborghini was waiting at the steps of Heath’s office building. They climbed in and shot away at speed. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t like Heath’s decisive manner or that the electricity between them hadn’t increased in the confines of his car. ‘Where are we going? she said casually.

  ‘To the launch of one of my games.’

  ‘Great.’ Hmm. Okay. Not an interview opportunity—perhaps that would come later, but interesting all the same.

  The grand reveal took place in London’s most prestigious store. People had been queuing round the block all night in the hope of securing the latest in the long line of hits, and now Heath had explained his premise to her Bronte could understand the enthusiasm that greeted this new game. The little guy putting one over on the bad guys would be a winner every time. And who knew better than Heath about the bad guys? Bronte mused as he escorted her inside the building with a light touch on her arm.

  Heath and his team received ear-splitting applause when they took the rostrum. They looked more like a cool rock band than anything else in their motley tops and well worn jeans, fists raised to acknowledge their fans. Heath stayed on to give autographs until Bronte was sure his hand would seize up. He shot her a look halfway through that could be interpreted as: This is my home. This is where I belong—here in London with my team. It was a reminder that the only thing Heath was capable of feeling passion for was his business empire. Sex was a sporting activity like running, or sparring, or working out at the gym—something he enjoyed and was very good at, but realistically sex was only one more way to work off Heath’s excess ene
rgy.

  Which didn’t prove to be nearly enough to wipe out how she felt about him.

  When the signing was over they said brief goodbyes and Heath escorted her back to the car. She thought he might go back to the office, but their next stop was an upscale restaurant. Good venue to talk, she thought, initially approving Heath’s choice. But seeing him again and spending time with him had shaken her up, and she wasn’t sure she could relax in such refined surroundings. ‘Must we?’ She bit her lips, but it was too late. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Heath asked. ‘I know I am.’

  Did Heath’s stare have to be quite so direct? ‘Well, yes, I am,’ she said honestly, finding it impossible to think up an excuse while Heath was raiding her thoughts. She glanced up at the chi-chi sign. Heath had brought her to one of the most famous restaurants in London. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate this…’

  ‘But?’ he said, angling his chin.

  ‘It’s just a little stuffy. I don’t know if I could be myself.’ As she answered he hit the hazards and left the car. She watched him walk towards the restaurant. Not that Heath walked anywhere—he struts, he strolls, he strides, hummed through her head. Mostly, he moved as he was doing now with that confident, sexy swagger.

  But it was a relief not to be entering the hallowed portals, Bronte reflected as Heath disappeared inside. Her emotions were red raw, and she didn’t fancy putting them on show for the other diners. She sat forward as Heath breezed out. ‘Well?’ she demanded as he swung back into the car.

  ‘I cancelled the table.’

  ‘I’m sorry—I hope it wasn’t a problem?’ Nothing was a problem for Heath, she thought as the Lamborghini roared. ‘So where to now?’

  ‘Somewhere I hope you like better—somewhere fun, where you can relax and we can talk.’