The Big Bad Boss
Susan Stephens
Fresh, flirty and stylish – sexy stories for the modern woman who loves to live life to the full!Heath Stamp was a very bad boy growing up. If there was a fight, he fought. If there was a woman, he took her to bed. If there was a sweet, innocent girl with big doe eyes – he ran a mile. Bronte Foster-Jenkins sure as hell isn’t looking at him with big doe eyes any more. Instead she’s shooting daggers in his direction.All grown-up, Heath is rich, arrogant and ready to raze his family estate to the ground – even if Bronte will do anything to stop him. He’ll do it with a glint in his eye and happily take her down with him. For, make no mistake, Heath Stamp has gone from bad…to irresistible!
Praise for Susan Stephens
‘Stephens’ terrific story shows how love can be transforming. The marvellous hero looks beyond the surface and frees the heroine to open up about her biggest fears.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Italian Boss, Proud Miss Prim
‘Effortless chemistry and vulnerable characters make this novel a pleasure to read.’
—RT Book Reviews on
Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress
‘The hero literally and figuratively lives in the dark until the headstrong heroine forces him into the light to face his demons. This touching and emotional romance will have readers believing in happily ever after.’
—RT Book Reviews on
The Ruthless Billionaire’s Mistress
‘Hilarious, romantic and irresistible, Housekeeper at his Beck and Call is another keeper by a writer who just keeps on getting better and better!’ —www.cataromance.com on Housekeeper at his Beck and Call
About the Author
About Susan Stephens
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern™ Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday, and were married three months after that. Almost thirty years and three children later, they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story, as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)
Susan had written several non-fiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an afterdinner auction. One of the lots, ‘Spend a Day with an Author', had been donated by Mills & Boon® author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot, and Penny was to become not just a great friend but a wonderful mentor, who encouraged Susan to write romance.
Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends, and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel, and going to the theatre. She reads, cooks, and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside.
Visit Susan’s website: www.susanstephens.net—she loves to hear from her readers all around the world!
Also by Susan Stephens
Maharaja’s Mistress
Master of the Desert
Ruling Sheikh, Unruly Mistress
Sheikh Boss, Hot Desert Nights
Italian Boss, Proud Miss Prim
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Big Bad Boss
Susan Stephens
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘DAWN.and in front of us the idyllic English country scene. Smell that grass. Look at that thin stream of sunlight driving night-shadows down the velvet hills—’
How long did he have to stay here?
With an exasperated roar, Heath flipped channels, silencing the farming programme. All he’d smelled so far was cow dung. And it was raining.
Resting his chin on one arm, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The Lamborghini roared drowning out the bird-song. Perfect. He missed the concrete jungle—no smells, no mud, no cranky plumbing. Why Uncle Harry had left him a run-down country estate remained a mystery. Heath was allergic to the country—to anything that didn’t come with dot-com attached. His empire had been built in a bedroom. What did he need all this for?
And it was only after asking himself that question that he spotted the tent someone had erected on a mossy bank just inside the gates … spotted the small pink feet sticking out of the entrance. Forget hating the place. He felt proprietorial suddenly. What would he do if someone pitched a tent outside the front door of his London home?
Stopping the car, he climbed out. Striding up to the tent, he unzipped it.
A yelp of surprise ripped through the steady drum of falling rain. Standing back, he folded his arms, waiting for developments. He didn’t have long to wait. A strident pixie crawled out, screaming at him that it was the middle of the night as she sprang to her feet. Red hair flying, she stood like an irate stick insect telling him what she thought of him in language as colourful as the clothes she was frantically tugging on—a camouflage top, and shot-off purple leggings that displayed her tiny feet. One furious glance at his car and he was responsible for everything from frightening the local wildlife to global warming, apparently, until finally, having got over the shock of being so rudely awakened, she gulped, took a breath, and exclaimed, ‘Heath Stamp…’ Clapping a hand to her chest, she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘Bronte Foster-Jenkins,’ he murmured, taking her in.
‘I’ve been expecting you—’
‘So I see,’ he said, glancing at the tent.
Expecting Heath to arrive? Yes, but not her reaction to it. He wasn’t supposed to arrive at dawn, either. Around midday, the postmistress in the village had suggested. Heath Stamp, hip, slick, rugged, tough, and even better looking than his most recent images in the press suggested. This was a vastly improved version of someone she’d dreamed about for thirteen years, two months, six hours, and—
‘You do know you’re trespassing, Bronte?’
And as delightful as ever.
The years melted away. They were at loggerheads immediately. She had to remind herself Heath was no longer a wild youth who’d been locked up for bare-knuckle fighting, and who used to visit Hebers Ghyll on a release programme, but a successful Internet entrepreneur and the new owner of Hebers Ghyll, the country estate where Bronte had grown up, and where her mother had been the housekeeper and her father the gamekeeper. ‘The estate has been deserted for weeks now—’
‘And that’s an excuse for breaking in?’
‘The gates were open. Everything’s gone to pot,’ she told him angrily.
‘And that’s my fault?’
‘You own it. You tell me.’ Heath’s inheritance had a special hold on her heart for all sorts of reasons, not least of which she considered the estate her second home.
While Heath had gained nothing in charm, Bronte registered as he turned his back, he clearly still couldn’t care less what people thought of him. He never had.
He’d walked off to give them both space. Seeing Bronte again had floored him. Since the first time he had visited the estate—where ironically his real-life uncle Harry had used to run a rehabilitation centre for out-of-control youths—there had been something between him and Bronte, something that drew the good girl to the dark side. He’d tried to steer clear, not wanting to taint her. But he would think about her when he sat alone and stared at his bruised knuckles. She was light to his darkness. Back then Bronte had represented everything that was pure, fun and happy, while he was the youth from the gutter who met every challenge with his fists. He’d worshipped her from afar, had she only known it. That buzz between them surely should have died by now.
‘That tree was struck by lightning, and no one’s moved it,’ she said, reclaiming his attention.
He hadn’t even realised he’d been staring at the old tree, but now he remembered Uncle Harry telling him that it had stood on the estate for centuries.
‘It’ll stay there until it rots, I suppose,’ she flared.
‘I’ll have it moved.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe have something planted in its place.’
‘It would mean more if you did it.’
He threw her a glance, warning her not to push it. But she would. She always had. Bronte loved a campaign whether it was free the chickens, or somewhere for the local youth to hang out.
‘And just think of all the free firewood,’ she said casually.
She was working on him. When hadn’t she? And now it all came flooding back—what she’d done for him—and how he used to envy Bronte her simple life on the estate with her happy family. He’d felt a hungry desperation to share what they had but had never allowed them to draw him in, in case he spoiled it. He’d spoiled everything back then.
And now?
He was still hard and contained.
And Hebers Ghyll?
Was in the pending file.
And Bronte?
Heath raked his hair with impatience.
This was all happening too fast, way too fast. She hadn’t expected to feel as shaken as this when she saw Heath again. Heading for the shelter of some trees where the thick green canopy acted like a giant umbrella, she sucked in some deep steadying breaths. She had to remind herself why she was here—to find out what Heath’s plans for the estate were. ‘I heard the new owner was going to break up the estate—’
‘And?’
‘You can’t.’ Bronte’s heart picked up pace as Heath came to join her beneath the branches. ‘You don’t know enough about the area as it is today. You don’t know how desperate people are for jobs. You haven’t been near the place for years—’
‘And you have?’
Bronte’s cheeks flared red. Yes, she’d been away, but her travels had been geared towards putting what she had learned at college into practice. As a child she had dogged Uncle Harry’s footsteps, trying to be useful and asking him endless questions about Hebers Ghyll. He’d said she was a good lieutenant and might make a decent estate manager one day if she worked hard enough. When she left school Uncle Harry had paid for her to go to college to study estate management. ‘I’ve been away recently,’ she conceded, ‘but apart from that I’ve lived on the estate all my life.’
‘So, what are you saying, Bronte? You’re the only one who cares about Hebers Ghyll?’ Heath’s chin dipped a warning.
‘Well, do you care,’ Bronte exclaimed with frustration, ‘beyond its value?’
‘I’d be foolish not to care about its value.’
‘But there’s so much more than money here.’ And she had been prepared to camp out on the road leading up to the old house for as long as it took to prove that to him. ‘Why else do you think I scrabbled round my parents’ attic to find the old tent?’ Heath’s dark gaze flashed a warning, which she ignored. ‘Do you think I like camping out in the rain?’
‘I don’t know what you like.’
The gulf between them yawned. It might have been easier to explain and convince Heath if she had seen him recently. The shock of seeing him again after all these years was something she hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t how tall he was, or how good-looking—it was the aura of danger and unapologetic masculinity she found so unnerving.
‘So, Bronte,’ Heath observed in the laid-back husky voice that had always made her toes curl with excitement, ‘what can I do for you?’
She exhaled, refusing to think about it. ‘By the time I got back here, Heath, Uncle Harry was dead and everything was in a mess. No one on the estate or in the village had a clue what was going to happen—or whether they still had jobs—’
‘And your parents?’ Heath prompted.
She guessed Heath already knew the answer to that. The lawyers would have filled him in on what had happened to the staff at Hebers Ghyll. ‘I can only think Uncle Harry must have realised he was gravely ill, because he gave my parents some money before he died. He told them to take a break—to fulfil their lifetime’s ambition of travelling the world.’ She was hugging herself for reassurance, Bronte realised, releasing her arms. It was hard to launch a cogent argument in defence of the estate while Heath was staring at her so intently. He knew her too well. Even after all this time he could sense what she wasn’t saying. He could sense how she felt. They had always been uncannily connected, though when Heath had first arrived on the estate she’d been more concerned that the ruffian Uncle Harry was trying to tame would tear the head off her dolls. The feeling Heath inspired in her now was very different. ‘I can’t believe you’re the Master of Hebers Ghyll,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘And you don’t like the idea?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘You didn’t have to. Perhaps you think Uncle Harry should have left his estate to you—’
‘No,’ Bronte exclaimed indignantly. ‘That never occurred to me. You’re his nephew, Heath. I’m only the housekeeper’s daughter—’
‘Who walked in here and made herself at home.’ He glanced at her tent.
‘The gates were open. Ask your estate manager if you don’t believe me.’
‘That man was employed by Uncle Harry’s executors and no longer works for me.’
‘Well, whoever he was…’ Bronte’s voice faded when she realised Heath had only owned the estate five minutes and had already sacked one member of staff.
‘He was a waste of space,’ Heath rapped. ‘And replaceable.’
Heath unnerved her. Was everyone replaceable in Heath’s world?
‘If there are so many people clamouring for jobs in the area,’ he said, reclaiming her attention, ‘it shouldn’t take me long to find another man—’
‘Or a woman.’
Heath huffed a humourless laugh. ‘Still the same Bronte.’
The last time they’d had this sort of standoff she’d been twelve and Heath fifteen, difficult ages for both of them, impossible to find common ground. Those years had changed nothing, Bronte registered, conscious of her furiously erect nipples beneath the flimsy top. She casually folded her arms across her chest. ‘When can we meet for a proper talk?’
‘When you approach me through the proper channels.’
‘I tried to call you, but your PA wouldn’t put me through. I’m only here now because I was determined to talk to you.’
‘You? Determined, Bronte?’ The first glint of humour broke through Heath’s fierce façade.
‘Someone had to find out what was going on.’
‘And as usual that someone’s you?’
‘I offered to be a spokesperson.’
‘You offered?’ Heath pulled back his head to look at her through narrowed storm-grey eyes. ‘What a surprise.’
‘So, are you going to tell me what your plans are for the estate?’ Why wouldn’t her pulse slow down?
Because of that aura of bad-boy danger surrounding Heath, her inner voice supplied. The years hadn’t changed it—and they certainly hadn’t diminished it.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ Heath said.
‘Yes?’ She held her ground tensely as he strolled towards her.
‘This place is a mess,’ he said, his gesture taking in broken fences, crumbling walls and overgrown hedgerows, ‘and probate took time. But I’m here now. What happens next?’ She swallowed deep as he looked down at her. ‘I make an assessment.’
‘That’s it?’ she whispered, hypnotised by his eyes.
‘That’s it,’ Heath confirmed harshly, wheeling away. ‘You haven’t been inside the house yet, I take it?’
Bronte’s brave front faltered. ‘No. I came straight here.’ Now her imagination had raced into overdrive. The estate comprised a hall and a broken-down castle as well as a great deal of land. Uncle Harry had lived at the hall, and had always kept it as well as he could afford to—which wasn’t very well, but if anything was less than perfect it was only because Uncle Harry spent so much of his money helping others. The original stained-glass windows were beautiful, she remembered, and there was a wonderful woodpanelled library where the log fire was always burning, and a spotless, if antiquated, kitchen, which had been her mother’s domain. Was all that changed? ‘What’s happened, Heath?’ she said anxiously. ‘Can I help?’
‘What can you do?’ he said.
She was surprised he had to ask. And hurt that he had. It made her more determined than ever to find out what Heath’s true intentions were. ‘Rumours say you’ve already sold the Hebers Ghyll estate on—’
‘Anything else?’ Heath demanded, folding his powerful arms across his chest.
His eyes were every bit as beautiful as she remembered and just as cold. She shook herself round. ‘And bulldozers—I heard talk of bulldozers.’ There was no point sugar-coating this. She might just as well confront him with the lot. ‘One rumour said you were going to bring in a wrecking crew to knock everything down, and then you’d build a shopping centre—’
‘And what if I did?’
Panic hit her at the thought that he might— that he could—that he had every right to. ‘What about Uncle Harry?’
‘Uncle Harry’s dead.’
Heath might as well have stabbed a knife through her heart. Heath had always been closed off to feelings except on those rare occasions when he had lightened up in front of Bronte or Uncle Harry. Sometimes she wondered if they were the only people he had ever opened up to. And that was a memory so faint she couldn’t believe it had ever happened now. ‘For goodness’ sake, Heath, you’re his nephew—don’t you feel anything?’ To hell with the job she had intended to apply for. ‘Does Hebers Ghyll mean anything to you? Don’t you remember what Uncle Harry used to do—?’
‘For kids like me?’ Heath interrupted her coldly. She’d taken him back to the past, and his father, Uncle Harry’s wastrel brother—the poor relation with the taste for violence. Only at the court’s insistence had his father agreed to a period of rehabilitation for Heath at Hebers Ghyll under Uncle Harry’s direction. And how he’d fought it. Heath had thrown Uncle Harry’s kindness back in his face. A fact he’d spent his adult life regretting.
‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ Bronte assured him. ‘Uncle Harry loved having you around. You must have known you were the son he never had?’
‘Don’t use those tactics on me, Bronte.’
‘Tactics?’ she exploded. ‘I’m not using tactics. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t pretend you don’t care, Heath. I know you better than that—’
‘You know me?’ he snarled, dipping his chin.
‘Yes. I know you,’ she argued stubbornly, refusing to back down.
‘You knew me then,’ he said. And he didn’t like reminders of then.
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Heath.’
Her voice had turned softer. Bronte backing down? That had to be a first. Had the years smoothed her out? Remembering her welcome, he guessed not. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. But even as their eyes met and held he knew this small concession was the first step on the road to damnation, the first nod to his libido. Bronte was still as attractive as ever—more so, when she was all fired up.
‘It’s important Uncle Harry’s work here continue,’ she told him, her brow creasing with passion. ‘And with you at the helm, Heath,’ she added with less conviction.
His senses stirred. She was magnificent with those green eyes blazing and that dainty jaw jutting. She was unflinching. Boudicca of the Yorkshire moors. But she was also uneasy and unsure of him. She was unsure of what he’d do. Thinking back to what seemed like another life to him now, he couldn’t blame her. ‘You’ll be the first to know when I make my decision. But know this: I don’t do weekends. I don’t do holidays. And I don’t need a country house. You work it out.’
‘I think that answers my question,’ The green gaze remained steady on his face.
‘If you care so much about Hebers Gyll, what are you going to do about it?’ he said, turning the tables on her.
‘I won’t walk away without a fight.’
He didn’t doubt it. ‘And in practical terms?’
She tilted her chin at a determined angle. ‘Whether or not you keep the estate, I’m going to apply for the job of estate manager.’
He laughed out loud. She really had surprised him now. ‘Making jam tarts with your mother at the kitchen table hardly qualifies you for that.’
‘You’re not the only one to have made something of yourself, Heath,’ she fired back. ‘I have qualifications in estate management—and I’ve travelled the world, studying how vast tracts of land and properties like this can be managed successfully.’
Now she had his interest.
‘It’s only natural I want to know what your plans are,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t want to be wasting my pitch on the wrong man.’ Out came the chin.
‘My plans are no business of yours.’ He stopped admiring her when it occurred to him that Bronte wanted something that belonged to him. Or at least, she wanted control of Hebers Ghyll, which amounted to the same thing. It was a challenge he couldn’t ignore. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since he’d been a hard, fighting, rebellious youth and Bronte the housekeeper’s prim little daughter sneaking out to see him, hiding in the shadows, thinking he didn’t know she was there, but he hadn’t changed when it came to protecting what was his. ‘If you want me to make time to see you, clear up this mess and get off my property.’ He pointed to the area around her tent, which, in fairness, was neat. Bronte had always respected the countryside.
‘You promised we’d talk.’
‘I’ll make a start, shall I?’ he said, losing patience.
She exclaimed with surprise when he swooped on a tent peg and jerked it out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, launching herself at him.
‘I wouldn’t advise you do that again.’ Seizing hold of her wrists, he held her in front of him. His gaze slipping to her parted lips. The urge to ravage them overwhelmed him.
‘Let go of me, Heath,’ she warned him. Her voice was shaking. Her eyes were dark. Her lips were parted—
Control kicked in. He lifted his hands away. ‘Remove the tent,’ he said.
‘You don’t frighten me,’ she muttered, rubbing her wrists as she pulled away.
But he had frightened her. Bronte had feared her reaction to him. The snap of static between them had surprised him. This was no ordinary reunion, he reflected as she began bringing her tent down. The redhead tomboy and the bad boy from the city had enjoyed some high voltage scraps in the past, and it appeared that passion hadn’t abated. But it had changed, Heath reflected. Bronte had felt slight and vulnerable beneath his hands. She was all grown-up now, and her scent of soap and damp grass had grazed his senses, leaving an impression he would find hard to shake off.
CHAPTER TWO
HEATH STAMP was back. She kept repeating the mantra in her head as if that were going to make it easier for her to be close to him without quivering like a doe on heat. She had been expecting Heath, and had thought she was well prepared for this first encounter, but nothing could have prepared her for feeling so vulnerable, so aware and aroused.
‘Get a move on, Bronte.’
‘I’m moving as fast as I can.’
‘Good, because some of us have work to do.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Bronte muttered tensely. She had sorted herself out with a part-time office job in the area while she was still away on her travels—it was just sheer luck Heath had chosen to arrive at the weekend.
‘Come on, come on,’ he urged impatiently. ‘I have to get back to London—’
‘We all have things to do, Heath.’
The rain had stopped and Heath was pacing. He had always suffered energy overload and that force was pinging off him now. She wouldn’t be taking so long if he didn’t look so good. Fantasies she could handle, but this much reality was a problem. Heath’s hair had always been thick and strong, but he’d grown it longer and it caressed his strong, tanned neck, curling over the collar of his shirt, and was every bit as wayward as she remembered. Waves caught on his sharply etched cheeks where his black stubble had won the razor war, and, though he might not have fought with his fists for many years, Heath was still built, still tanned, and, apart from the car, he didn’t flash his wealth, which she liked. His clothes were designed for practicality rather than to impress—banged-up jeans worn thin and pale over the place where a nice girl shouldn’t look, and boots comfortably worn in. Heath had sexy feet, she remembered from those times years back when she had spied on him swimming in the lake—
‘Have you turned into a pillar of salt? Or is there a chance we might get out of here today, Bronte?’
‘Are you still there?’ she retorted, lavishing what Heath used to call her paint-stripping stare on him. The old banter starting up between them had stirred her fighting spirit—
Until Heath reminded her why she was here.
‘Are you serious about trying out for the job of estate manager?’
‘Of course I am.’ She shot to her feet, realising how slender a thread her hopes were pinned on. ‘And if you decide not to keep the property I hope you’ll put in a good word for me with the new owner.’
‘Why would I do that when I don’t even know what you can do? Okay, I admit I’m intrigued by what you told me about your training and your travels. But what makes you think you’re the right person for this job?’
‘I know I am,’ she said stubbornly. ‘All I’m asking for is a fair hearing.’
‘And if I give you one?’
‘You can make up your mind then. Maybe give me a trial?’ She knew she was pushing it, but what the hell?
Heath said nothing for a moment, and then his lips tugged in a faint, mocking smile. ‘If I keep the estate I’ll bear your offer in mind.’
It was enough—it was something. Heath never made an impulsive decision, Bronte remembered—that was her department.
‘Go home now, Bronte. You’ve still got your parents’ cottage to go to, I take it?’
‘They wouldn’t sell that.’ There was an edge of defiance in her voice. ‘Thank goodness they owned it—I heard you bought out all the tenancies.’
‘Another of those rumours?’ Heath’s eyes turned black. ‘It didn’t occur to you people might want to sell to me? Or that this was their opportunity to do something new with their lives—like your parents?’
‘And you wanted a fresh page?’
Heath didn’t even try to put a gloss on what he’d done. ‘No,’ he argued. ‘I wanted a clear field so there wouldn’t be any complications if and when I choose to sell. What’s the matter with you, Bronte?’ His face had turned coolly assessing. ‘Can’t you bear to think of me living at the hall?’
‘That’s not it at all.’
‘Then why don’t you smile and be happy for me?’
‘I am happy for you, Heath.’
‘And you think we could work together?’ he said with a mocking edge to his voice.
‘I’d find a way.’
‘That’s big of you,’ he said coolly. Most people would be champing at the bit for a chance to work with Heath Stamp, Bronte realised, turning her back on him as she returned to her packing. She could only hazard a guess at the number of applications Heath would receive if he decided to keep the estate on and threw a recruitment ad out there. Everyone loved a success story in the hope that some of the gold dust would rub off on them—and Heath had gold dust to spare. His story read like a film—the poor boy rejecting a hand up from a well-meaning uncle who just happened to be one of England’s biggest landowners, only for the boy to achieve success in his own right and then go on to inherit the uncle’s estate anyway. No wonder it had made the headlines. But was she the only one out of step here? Heath had always been open about his dislike of the countryside—everything moved too slowly for him and things took too long to grow, she remembered him snarling at her when she had begged him to stay.
So, could she work with him?
Good question. The thought of seeing Heath on a regular basis might send a warm dart of honey to her core, but when her imagination supplied the fantasy detail, which included a doting lover called Heath and a compliant young girl called Bronte, she knew it was never going to happen, so she just said coolly, ‘I’ll stay in touch.’
Heath Stamp, Master of Hebers Ghyll? However much Heath teased her with the prospect, she just couldn’t see it.
The years had moulded and enhanced Bronte—brought her into clearer focus. She was still the same dreamer who steadfastly refused to learn the meaning of the word no. She was every bit as stubborn and determined as he remembered—if not more so. Only Bronte could come up with the crazy notion that by camping inside the gates she could scope out the new owner of the estate—potentially waylay the new owner, and then insist they consider her for the job of estate manager. Nerve? Oh, yes. Bronte had nerve—and she had never been short of ideas, or the brio to back them up.
‘Go away, Heath,’ she snapped when he went to give her a hand with the groundsheet. ‘I can do this by myself.’
‘I don’t doubt it. I just want to make sure you don’t leave anything behind.’
‘So I have no excuse to come back?’
Looks clashed. Eyes darkened. Something else for him to think about. ‘Just do it, will you?’
‘Don’t worry—I’ve got no reason to hang around here.’ She threw him a disdainful look. ‘Why on earth would I?’
A million and one reasons, Bronte thought, feeling all mixed up inside. She didn’t want to go—she didn’t want to stay. It didn’t help she’d brought so much stuff and it was taking so long to fit it back in her rucksack. She could feel the heat of Heath’s stare on her back. And low in her belly the dreamweaver was working—
‘Come on. Get a move on, Bronte.’
‘Yes, master—’
‘Less of it—and more packing,’ Heath snapped.
She was seething with frustration. Was this the same girl who had the right training for this job, as well as great qualifications? The girl who had worked her way round the world to make doubly sure she would be ready to apply for a job on the estate when she got back? And with the biggest job of all on offer, was she going to blow it now because she couldn’t see further than Heath? Bite your lip, Bronte, was the best piece of advice to follow. There was too much at stake to do anything else. She should have rung the lawyers the moment she was back in the country and avoided this meeting. She should have approached things in the usual way.
Could anything be usual where Heath was concerned?
If she had given him warning of her intentions, her best guess was Heath wouldn’t have turned up—or he’d make sure to be permanently unavailable at his office. But Hebers Ghyll needed him—needed Heath’s golden touch and his money. She had to put her personal feelings to one side and persuade him to keep the estate together and not to sell or demolish any of the old buildings in the ‘so called’ name of progress.
‘You won’t be very comfortable without this,’ he observed, toeing the edge of her groundsheet.
As she started to roll it up the scent of damp earth stirred her memories. Her parents had met and fallen in love at Hebers Ghyll, which gave it a sort of magic. The freedom of the fields when she’d been a child—somewhere to curl up with a book and lose herself—all the things that had made her feel safe and secure had gone, because every last inch of this damp, sweet-smelling ground belonged to Heath now, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
‘Why did you bring all this?’ Heath had come to stand very close.
She lifted her head and stared into the critical gaze, wishing there were some warmth in it—some recognition that they had been friends once. ‘I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for you,’ she said truthfully.
‘You were only sure that you would,’ Heath commented without expression.
‘That’s right,’ she said, blazing defiance into his eyes.
‘Nothing changes, does it, Bronte?’
‘Some things do,’ she said. Let him know how she felt. ‘With the future of the village at stake I had no alternative, Heath. No one sleeps on the ground out of choice.’
She could have bitten off her tongue. Heath’s success had been forged out of a combustible mix of fiery determination and uncompromising poverty. He knew very well what it was like to sleep on the ground. Uncle Harry had told her once his parents used to lock him out when he was a child while they went to the pub, and if they were home late or not at all Heath had to do the best he could to find shelter. ‘Heath, I’m sorry—’
With a shake of his head he closed the subject.
Sleeping on park benches to escape the violence at home had done nothing to soften him, Bronte reflected, returning to her packing. And that stint in jail must have knocked all human feeling out of him. Yes, and what would a man like that know or care about the countryside—or the legacy he had inherited? ‘Heath,’ she pleaded softly, sitting back on her haunches. ‘You will give this place a chance, won’t you?’
He surveyed her steadily through steel-grey eyes. ‘I’m here to see what can be done, Bronte. And if I want to do it.’
‘That’s not enough.’
Heath huffed. ‘It’s all you’re getting.’
‘If you even think of turning your back on Hebers Ghyll I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’
‘Bare knuckle or Queensberry Rules?’
She stared at him intently for a moment. She hardly dared to hope that was a flicker of the old humour, but in the unlikely event that it was she wasn’t going to cause a storm and blow it out.
‘What about those cooking pots, Bronte?’ Heath demanded. ‘Am I supposed to clear them up? If you don’t get a move on I’ll fetch the tractor and shift them myself.’
‘The tractor?’ she repeated witheringly. ‘Here is a man,’ she informed the trees, ‘whose knowledge of the countryside would fit comfortably on the head of a pin with room for angels to dance in a ring. Heath Stamp—’ she introduced him with a theatrical gesture ‘—creator of imaginary worlds contained in neat square boxes—computers that can be conveniently switched off, and don’t have to be milked twice a day.’ She turned to Heath. ‘What would you know about driving a tractor?’
‘More than you know.’
‘It would have to be more than I know—’ But now Heath’s hand was in the small of her back and everything dissolved in a flood of sensation. Jerking away, she bent down to pick up the overloaded pack.
‘Let me help you—’
‘Go away.’
‘Bronte—’
Heath waited a moment and then he strode off.
She turned to watch him go, still heated and furious—desperate for him to go, and longing for him to stay. She couldn’t believe how badly this much-longed-for reunion had gone. Heath, and that firm mouth—how she hated it. She hated the confident swagger of his walk, and those taut, powerful hips. She hated his manner, which was both cool and hot, and infinitely disturbing, as well as blatantly unavailable—at least, to her. Heath might have his own brand of rugged charm, but according to the press he attracted glamorous, elegant women—women who decorated Heath’s life without ever becoming part of it—
She nearly jumped out of her skin when he reappeared through the trees.
‘Okay,’ he said curtly, ‘I can’t abandon you here. Give me that pack.’
Heath didn’t wait for her reply. Wrestling the pack from her shoulders, he stalked off with it, leaving her stunned by the brief and definitely unintentional brushing of their bodies. ‘Hey—come back here,’ she yelled, coming to as Heath and her backpack disappeared through the trees.
She might as well have been talking to herself. Grinding her jaw, she started after him. Heath had never been a man to mess about with, but she wasn’t a girl to back down. Mud sucked at her trainers as she started to run. Wet leaves slapped at her face. Who could keep up with Heath? Bronte reasoned when she was forced to stop and catch her breath. Heath had always been a one-man powerhouse since the day he sewed the seeds of his empire on a computer he’d hidden in his bedroom, where damp dappled the walls and the only green Heath ever saw was the mould that flourished there. Bad start in life, maybe, but this city boy was fit—fitter than she was. Catching sight of Heath through the trees, she found a fresh burst of energy. He had always moved fast. The first time Heath had hit the headlines was because of the speed with which he had turned his old family home into an Internet café for the whole neighbourhood to use. The reporters had latched onto the fact that, far from turning his back on his miserable start in life, when Heath made money he celebrated his background, using his story to inspire others to follow his example and make the best of what they had. Leaning one hand against a tree trunk, she took another breather. So Heath Stamp was a saint, but right now that didn’t make her like him any better.
But if he could be persuaded to do the same for Hebers Ghyll the estate might stand a chance …
With this thought propelling her forward she got a rush of energy—right up to the moment when Heath yelled, ‘I’m dumping this pack on the road, Bronte. After that, you’re on your own.’
So much charm in one man. Blowing out an angry breath, she wiped the mud off her face with the back of her hand and pushed on. When she finally caught up to him Heath was the epitome of cool. He hadn’t even broken sweat.
‘I’d give you a lift …’ His sardonic gaze ran over her mud-blackened clothes.
‘Save it, Heath. You wouldn’t want to dirty your car.’
Heath threw her one of his looks. ‘Your rucksack wouldn’t fit in the boot.’
‘Lucky you.’ Heath’s sexy mouth was mocking her. His eyes were too. Hefting the pack up, she turned her back on him and marched away.
CHAPTER THREE
HE COULDN’T believe how screwed up inside Bronte made him feel. And this didn’t help. Heath was staring at the old hall, seeing it for the first time through adult eyes. He had thought he knew it well, and that he remembered every detail. But he hadn’t bargained for the memories flooding in.
Thankfully, he was alone. There had been a moment just then when, despite priding himself on his fitness. It had felt as if his chest were in a vice. He could hear police sirens in his head. He could hear his mother screaming at his father not to hit her. He could see a small boy locked out of the house until his parents got home late at night, relieving himself against the back wall, the neighbours shouting at him. And he could feel the difference here at Hebers Ghyll all over again: the stability; the kindness shown to him; the patience that people had given a boy who believed he deserved none, the care he had so badly needed. He felt that same hunger again—not just the hunger for food, but the hunger for something different. He hadn’t even known what was driving him back then. But he did know that here at Hebers Ghyll was where anger had started to grow like a weed twining round him as he turned from bewildered child into disaffected youth. The anger had been thick and fast and ugly, and he had expressed it with his fists.
If he stayed very still the echoes of those years were stronger—the first time he’d been to Hebers Ghyll he’d felt resentful and out of place. Seeing Bronte again had rubbed salt in that wound. The first time he’d seen her, his jaw had dropped to think such innocence existed—it was the first time he realised not every family was at war.
But however much Bronte wanted him to come back to Hebers Ghyll and work some sort of miracle—and she did—he couldn’t shake off that old certainty that he didn’t belong here. Who would want to be reminded of his past—of what he’d been—of what he could be? Back then there had only been one certainty—one overriding conviction. He could never be good enough for Bronte.
And now?
She had taught him to read, for God’s sake.
Shame washed over him as he remembered. It made him want to jump in the car, drive home to London and never come back. Why shouldn’t he do just that? He’d put this place on the market—leave the past where it belonged, buried deep in the countryside at Hebers Ghyll.
Decision made, he headed back to the car, but then a sound stopped him dead in his tracks. It jerked him back into the present even as it threw him into the past. He turned and stared at the old bell Uncle Harry had hung outside the front door so he could call the bad boys in for supper. Heath’s mouth twisted as he shook his head. Whatever he thought about it, the past wasn’t ready to let him go yet. Leaving the bell to its capricious dance, he jogged up the steps to the front door and let himself in.
He felt a sort of grief mixed up with guilt land heavily inside him as he stared around the entrance hall. How could this have happened so quickly?
What had he expected? A log fire blazing, the smell of freshly baked bread? There was no one living here—no one had been living here for months. The scent of pine and wood-smoke he remembered belonged to another, happier era. The air was stale now, and cold, and stank of damp. He walked around—touching, listening, remembering …
If there was one thing Uncle Harry had insisted on, it was that the log fire was kept burning so that visitors felt welcome. And the table where his uncle had taught him the fundamentals of chess before Heath crossed over to the dark side—where was that? Where was the board? Where were the chess pieces?
Melancholy washed over him and it was an emotion he had never thought to feel here. Bronte was right to think he had arrived with the sole intention of developing the property and selling it on to make a quick profit—until she had planted that seed of doubt in his head, reminding him of the old man who had done so much for both of them. Credit for his artistic flair and business savvy, Heath could claim, but the fuel that had fired his hunger to do better had been all Uncle Harry.
Raking his hair as he looked around, he thought the word dilapidation didn’t even begin to cover this. Bottom line? He didn’t have time for Hebers Ghyll. His life, his work—everything—was in London. His impressive-sounding inheritance was little more than a ruin—a hall, with a tumble-down castle in the grounds, whose foundations had been laid in Norman times, and whose structure had been added to over the years with a mixed degree of success.
Make that heavy on the failure, Heath thought as he leaned his shoulder against a wall and heard it grumble. He had to wonder what Uncle Harry had been thinking on the day the old man had written his will. It was common knowledge Heath hated the countryside. Even as a youth he’d scorned the idea that owning a castle was grand; it was just a larger acreage of slum to him—still was. There was nothing here but rotten wood and cracks and holes, and leaking radiators.
But at least he was no stranger to this sort of mess.
His talent was in inventing computer games and running a company soon to go global, but his hobby was working with his hands. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d called a team together to work on the renovation of an ancient building.
Yes, but this was a huge project. He gave himself a reality check as he continued his inspection. Rubbing a pane of glass with his sleeve, he peered through an upstairs window … and thought about the dormitory Uncle Harry had set up in the barn for Heath and the other boys from the detention centre. They’d had fun—not that Heath would have admitted it at the time. They’d told ghost stories late into the night, trying to spook each other—and during the day they’d ridden bareback on the ponies, or risked their lives wrestling bullocks. The space and silence had got to him, but the village hadn’t been without its attractions. A challenge from the leader of the country lads with their burnished skin and glossy hair had led to a fight and Heath had established quite a reputation for himself. When he returned to the city he took things one disastrous step further, fighting for cash in dank, dark cellars—until the authorities caught up with him. After a chase the police had arrested him here, of all places—at Hebers Ghyll. He’d returned like a homing pigeon, he realised now. He’d gone back to the detention centre for a longer stretch.
It was only in court that he discovered Uncle Harry had shopped him. To save him, the old man said. The memory of how he’d hated Uncle Harry for that betrayal came flooding back—as did the follow-up, which made him smile. The old man had sent him a computer—'courtesy of his conscience', the greeting card had said. Heath had left it unpacked in his cell until one day curiosity got the better of him—and the rest was history.
His stint inside had left him wiser. He could make money, but not with his fists. Uncle Harry’s computer was the answer. On his release he set up an office in his bedroom where no one could see him or judge him, and no one knew how young he was, or how poor. All he had to do was click a mouse and the world came to him. And the world liked his games.
Heath moved on as the wall he’d been leaning against shuddered a complaint. He was stronger than he knew—which was more than could be said for the fabric of this place. One good shove and the whole lot would come tumbling down. It would be easier to flatten it and start again—
Since when had he embraced easy?
His fingers were already caressing the speed dial on his phone to call his architect when thoughts of plump pink lips and lush pert breasts intruded. Another pause, another memory—the last time he’d seen Bronte at Hebers Ghyll she’d been trying to save him from the police. She’d overheard Uncle Harry on the phone, and had run down the drive to warn him they were coming. When that had failed, she’d kissed him goodbye. He shook his head as he tried to blank the kiss. He’d better check she’d reached home safely.
He found Bronte still at the side of the road where she was having a bit of a disaster. The strap on her rucksack had given way and she was kneeling on the rolled-up groundsheet, lashing it into submission with a yard of rope and a clutch of nifty knots. Drawing the car to a halt, he leapt out. ‘Wouldn’t a regular buckle make things easier for you?’
‘The buckles broke in Kathmandu.’
He curbed a grin. ‘Of course they did.’
‘No, really, they did,’ she insisted, lifting her head. Then, remembering they weren’t quite friends, she lowered it again, by which time her cheeks were glowing red.
‘Want some help?’ he offered.
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Play me a different tune, Bronte.’ Having nudged her out of the way, he attached the rolled groundsheet to the top of her knapsack and started carrying it towards the car.
‘We already know it won’t fit in that ridiculous boot,’ she yelled after him.
‘Then I’ll carry it home for you.’
‘There’s no need.’ Racing up to him, she tried to pull it out of his hands.
‘Do you want that interview or not?’ he demanded, lifting it out of her reach.
‘Does this mean you’re keeping Hebers Ghyll?’ she demanded, staring up at him.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘Give.’ She growled.
His lips curved as he looked down at her. ‘Is that pleasant tone of voice supposed to entice me to hand it over?’
‘Give, please,’ she said with a scowl.
‘Okay.’ He helped her to hoist the rucksack onto her back again, careful not to let his fingers do any more work than strictly necessary.
Hefting the pack into a more comfortable position, she wobbled a little as she grew accustomed to the weight and then tottered off in the direction of home. He stayed close to make sure she was safe.
‘I’m fine, Heath,’ she called back to him over her shoulder, breaking into an unsteady jog.
‘Watch out—the ground slopes away there—’
Too late. As Bronte stumbled on the treacherous bank he dived to save her. Catching his foot under a tree root, he took her with him, tumbling down the slope bound together as closely as two people could be.
‘Bloody idiot!’ she raged with shock as they thundered to a halt.
‘Thank you would do it for me,’ he observed mildly, noting the jagged rock he’d saved them from as well as the comfortable tangle of limbs.
‘Thank you,’ she huffed, snapping her hips away from his. ‘The townie who thinks he can run Hebers Ghyll can’t even keep his footing on a mossy bank,’ she observed with biting relish.
‘Is that dialect for welcome?’ he said mildly.
‘More like shove off.’
But she was in no hurry to move away. Lust. The desire to have, to possess, to inhabit, to pleasure and be pleasured sprang between them like a bright, hot flame. Bronte was shocked by the intensity of it. Her eyes blazed emerald fire into his and her lips had never been more kissable. She was aroused. And so was he.
Closing her eyes briefly, Bronte ground out a growl of impatience. She could of course slip back into her fantasy world and stay here wrapped around Heath—or she could get real and go home. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said as politely as she could.
Heath yanked her to her feet. No courtesy involved. She let go of his hands. Fast—but not fast enough. Her body sang from his touch in three part harmony with baroque flourishes. She didn’t argue this time when he offered to walk her home.
‘Something funny?’ Heath demanded when she looked at him and shook her head.
‘The way you look?’
‘That good?’ He curved a smile.
‘If camouflage is fashionable this season, you look great.’
‘I heard mud, leaves and twigs are huge this year.’ He brushed himself down.
She laughed. She couldn’t help herself—just as she couldn’t stop herself following Heath’s hands jealously with her eyes. They were almost communicating again, Bronte realised—and that was dangerous. This was getting too much like the old days when her heart had been full of Heath.
So she’d hide how she felt about him—what was so hard about that?
They walked along in silence until Heath lobbed a curving ball. ‘If I decide to keep the estate and call interviews, are you ready?’
‘If you’re serious, Heath, I’m ready now,’ she exclaimed. ‘That is if the new estate manager isn’t just part of some lick of paint project to tart the place up so you can maximise your profit and get rid of it faster,’ she added as common sense kicked in.
‘Since when has profit been a dirty word?’ Heath demanded.
‘People are more important.’
‘Which is why I’m the businessman and you’re the dreamer, Bronte. Without profit there can be no jobs—no people living in Hebers Ghyll. And I won’t be rushed into this. I never make a decision until I know all the facts.’
‘Then know this,’ she said as their exchange heated up. ‘You and I could never work in any sort of team.’
‘No,’ Heath agreed. ‘I’d always be the boss.’
‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘So they tell me.’
With an incredulous laugh Bronte tossed her burnished mane and quickened her step to get ahead of him. He kept up easily. ‘If I do decide to do anything it won’t be half-hearted. It will be all about renewal and regeneration.’
‘Sounds impressive,’ she said. ‘Almost unbelievable.’
Bronte had always scored a gold star for sarcasm. She was paying him back for doubting her. And why was he even discussing something that was barely a glimmer of an idea? ‘My hobby’s building things—I’ve carried out restoration work in the past so I know what’s involved.’ And now defending it?
He got what he deserved.
‘Get real, Heath,’ Bronte flashed. ‘This isn’t cyberspace. You can’t conjure up an idyllic country scene on your screen complete with a fully restored castle, click your mouse and wipe out years of under-investment.’
‘No, but I can try. I might not be the countryside’s biggest fan, but I’m not known for running out.’
‘And neither am I,’ she shot back.
‘Are we agreed on something?’
She huffed.
‘The only way Hebers Ghyll can survive is for people like you to get involved, Bronte.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘People like me do all the hard work while you direct us from your city desk? Unless you’re going to live here, Heath, which I doubt.’
‘Do you want Hebers Ghyll to have a future or not? Yes or no, Bronte? If you’re serious about trying to get people to come back here there has to be something for them to come back to.’
‘So now you’re a visionary?’
‘No. I’m a realist.’ And he liked a challenge —especially when there was a woman involved.
‘This is nothing like the city, Heath.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he fired back. ‘The air might be polluted with pollen instead of smoke, but, like you said, jobs are just as hard to find. So you go right ahead and walk away, Bronte. Let Hebers Ghyll slide into a hole. Or you can stay and fight.’
‘With you? What changed your mind, Heath?’
Heath’s face closed off. Why didn’t she know when to keep quiet? She could only guess how he must have felt coming back here. She returned to the fray to divert him. ‘You can’t just plonk down a couple of computers in the village hall, maintain a cyber presence and think that’s enough, Heath. People need proper work—and a proper leader on site to direct them.’
‘Are you saying you wouldn’t be up to that?’
‘I’d do whatever was expected of me, and more, if I were lucky enough to get the job,’ Bronte countered, rejoicing in Heath’s attack. The way he was talking could only mean he was seriously interested in keeping the estate.
‘Judging by your enthusiasm you’d work happily alongside anyone who does get the job?’
He’d got her. Damn it. Heath had always been a master tactician. She threw him a thunderous look.
He was all logic while Bronte was the flip side of the coin—all that passion with so little curb on it made it so easy to outmanoeuvre her, it was hardly fair. He hadn’t made a final decision yet. The problems at Hebers Ghyll were nothing new for him. There had been no work in his old neighbourhood, but he had known that if there was enough money for tools and equipment there would be more than enough jobs for everyone. ‘There’s only one problem,’ he said, reeling her in.
‘Which is?’ she demanded on cue.
‘You.’ He stared directly at her. ‘You’re the problem, Bronte. If I consider you for the job I have to bear in mind you took off once and went travelling. How do I know you won’t do that again?’
‘Because my travels had a purpose and now I’m home to put what I’ve learned into practice.’
‘That’s good,’ he agreed, ‘but if I take this on there will be nothing but hard work ahead, and a lot of difficult decisions to be made. I need to be sure that whoever I employ as estate manager has both the staying power and the backbone for what needs to be done.’
‘What are you implying, Heath?’
He lifted the latch on the wooden gate that led through to her parents’ garden. ‘I’m saying I don’t know you, Bronte. I only know what you’re telling me. It’s been a long time.’
‘For both of us,’ she reminded him tensely.
He propped her rucksack against the front door.
‘Hey,’ she said when he turned to leave. ‘Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a conversation.’
‘We’ll continue it another time. I have to get back now.’
‘Can’t we talk first? What’s the hurry?’
Strangely, it pleased him that she wanted to keep him back. ‘I have appointments I can’t break. My work is in London, remember? It’s where I make the money that might just keep this place alive.’ He stopped at the gate and turned to face her. ‘Just promise me one thing before I go.’
‘What?’
‘Parts of Hebers Ghyll aren’t safe, Bronte, so please stay away.’
‘The Great Hall’s safe,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘Uncle Harry was living there up to a few months ago.’
‘And I’m telling you not to go near it until I get back.’
‘So you are coming back?’
As her eyes fired he propped a hip against the garden wall. ‘You’ll be telling me how much you’ll miss me next.’
‘Ha! Don’t hold your breath.’
‘If you need me you’ve got my number.’
‘What use is that when your PA won’t put me through?’
‘You give up too easily, Bronte.’ Raising his hand in a farewell salute, he thought himself lucky to be out of range of any missiles she might have to hand.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN Heath left her Bronte was still high on adrenalin hours later. She needed action. Lots of it. She went back to Hebers Ghyll and broke in. Maybe this was the craziest idea she’d had yet, but she wasn’t prepared to be run off a property she had always thought of as her second home. The moment Heath’s car roared away she made some calls to girls in the village—girls who’d been friends for life. The chance to do a little exploring was right up their street.
How dangerous could the Great Hall be? It had only stood empty for a couple of months. She wouldn’t take any chances, Bronte determined as she led her troops beneath a moody sky down the long overgrown drive. Everyone knew the castle was ready to fall down, but the hall where her mother had been housekeeper, and the rooms where Uncle Harry had used to live, they were safe. Heath was overreacting—or, more likely, trying to keep her away. She had explained to her friends, Maisie and Colleen, that there were no-go areas and that they mustn’t go off exploring on their own.
‘This is spooky,’ Colleen said, echoing Bronte’s thoughts as they all flashed an anxious glance into the impenetrable undergrowth.
They could speed-walk to international standards by the time they reached the open space where a dried-up moat circled the ruined castle. The castle was a heap of blackened stone, lowering and forbidding beneath boiling storm clouds, and the ugly gash around it was full of brambles and leaves. ‘Nice,’ Colleen murmured.
It needed clearing—needed filling—needed ducks, Bronte thought. She wouldn’t have trusted the drawbridge—most of the planks were missing, and a glance at the rusty portcullis hanging over it confirmed that Heath was right to warn her to stay away. But even the old castle could be transformed like one she’d seen in France. The fortress of Carcassonne had been faithfully restored and was now a World Heritage site. But that was for another day. ‘We’ll go straight to the Great Hall,’ she told the girls, leading them swiftly past the danger zone.
Excitement started to bubble inside Bronte the moment she stood in front of the old hall. The sun had made a welcome return, burning through the clouds, and the warmth and light changed everything. It raised her spirits and softened the blackened stone, turning it rosy. This could all be so romantic, if it weren’t so run-down. Her plan had been to bring the girls along to enthuse them, but she clearly had a long way to go. They had gone quiet, which was a bad sign. ‘Come on,’ she said in an attempt to lift their spirits. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got round the back.’
More decay. Dried-up fountains. Tangled weeds. Crumbling stone.
For a moment she felt overwhelmed, defeated, but then she determined that she would find a way. Scrambling through an upstairs window, she brushed herself down. The echoing landing smelled musty and dust hung like a curtain in the shadowy air. She could hardly expect Heath to feel enthusiastic about this, Bronte mused as she walked slowly down the stairs, let alone spend his hard-earned money putting it right.
She could only hope the girls would stick with her, Bronte concluded as she picked her way across the broken floor tiles in the hall. How depressing to see how quickly everything had deteriorated. It didn’t help to know she had only added to the destruction. She’d tried her mother’s door key, only to discover that the one useful thing the previous estate manager had done before Heath sacked him was to change the locks. Adapting her plans accordingly, she had shinned up a drainpipe, forced a window and climbed in. And this was not the testimony to Uncle Harry’s generosity that he deserved. Plants had withered and died, while chairs had mysteriously fallen over, and plaster was falling off the walls faster than the mice could eat it.
Shouldn’t Heath be here doing something about this?
And why was she thinking about Heath when she could just as easily do something about it? She had already established that Heath’s interest in his inheritance was mild at most. Heath only cared about the profit he could make when he sold it on. He’d made that clear enough. He could barely spare the time for this weekend’s flying visit. Heath’s life was all about making money in London now.
With a frustrated growl, she scraped her hair back into a band ready for work—only to be rewarded by an image of Heath in her mind, standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall looking like a conquering hero as he fixed her with his mocking stare. Why did it always have to come back to Heath?
Because Heath was blessed with such an overdose of darkly brooding charisma it was impossible not to think about him, Bronte concluded. But a man like Heath could hardly be expected to hang around when there were so many people waiting to admire him—and she was hardly the swooning type. So, who needed him? There was nothing here she couldn’t handle.
Having convinced herself that she had ejected Heath from her thoughts, she now had to confront all the other impressions crowding in. ‘I’m going to change this,’ she murmured, staring round.
‘Talking to yourself, Lady Muck?’ Colleen called down to her from the upstairs landing.
Bronte’s heart leapt. So the girls had decided to join her. ‘You made it,’ she called back. ‘Come and join me. We’ve got the place to ourselves.’
‘No boarders to repel?’ Maisie demanded, sounding disappointed as she clattered down the stairs in a cloud of cheap scent and good humour. ‘I thought there’d be at least one hunky ghost for me to deal with.’
Or Heath in full battle armour with a demolition ball at his command, Bronte mused—that was one boarder she wouldn’t have minded repelling. Or, better still—half-naked Heath, muscles bulging, on his knees in front of her. Much better. She’d keep that one—as well as the quiver of awareness that accompanied it. Enough! she told herself firmly as a puff of plaster dust landed on her shoulder. Heath had gone back to London, and there was work to be done here. ‘There should be life at Hebers Ghyll,’ she announced to the girls. ‘We can’t let it crumble to dust and do nothing about it.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’
The girls delivered a mock-salute as Bronte warmed to her theme. ‘There should be life and warmth and music—and there will be again.’
The girls whooped and cheered. ‘How about we help you after work and at weekends?’ Colleen suggested when they’d all calmed down.
Bronte was moved by the offer. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘Why not?’ Maisie demanded. ‘It could be fun.’
‘Spiders are fun?’ Bronte seemed doubtful.
‘Well, we can’t leave you here on your own, can we?’ Colleen pointed out. ‘If you’re going to be battling ghosts and spiders, we want to be part of it, don’t we, Maisie?’
‘I’ll trade you my most excellent work with a broom and a ghost-busters kit, for a drink at the pub,’ Maisie suggested. ‘How about that?’
‘Deal,’ Bronte agreed. ‘Let’s get to it,’ she announced, leading the way to the storeroom where the cleaning equipment was kept.
‘Working party present and correct,’ Colleen confirmed once they were armed with brushes and bin liners. ‘Where would you like us to start?’
‘Not with mouse droppings or spiders’ webs,’ Maisie protested, wielding her dustpan. ‘The only thing I’m prepared to scream for is a man.’
I wish, Bronte thought, imagining she was in a clinch with Heath. ‘The best I can offer you is a good scrumping in the apple orchard.’
‘I think Maisie had something more hands on in mind than that,’ Colleen suggested dryly.
‘You do surprise me. Why don’t we clear up as much as we can in here and then reward ourselves with a swim in the lake?’
‘Skinny-dipping?’ Her friends shrieked, hugging themselves in anticipation.
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