Working With the Enemy (13 page)

She took a long, warm bath, trying to convince herself that because this was such luxury it would somehow soothe her. It meant nothing. She would rather have slept on a park bench and remained friends with Heath than lie here in scented foam in the fabulous suite of rooms Heath had paid for because he wanted to keep her safe—because Heath had wanted to give her something nice, a treat, only for her to throw it back in his face. She’d get up early and go home, Bronte reflected as she climbed out and grabbed a towel. She could only wait and see if Heath’s personal feelings would negate the grilling he’d managed to slip in while they were both relaxed enough to talk frankly to each other during their crazy fun day out.

‘That was quite some interviewing technique, mister,’ she murmured wistfully, gazing at her shadowy reflection in the mirror on the wall. The suite was sumptuous, but the lights were cruel. Or maybe she had just aged. More likely, she’d had a shocking hold-the-mirror-up-to-yourself moment, and grown up.

All of the above, Bronte concluded.

She turned at a knock on the door.

Heath?

Heath was her first—her only thought.

Her heart was racing by the time she’d grabbed a robe and raced out of the bathroom, across the bedroom, to throw the lock, and opened the door.

On an empty corridor.

Glancing up and down, conscious she wasn’t dressed for public display, she retreated quickly and pressed the door to again, locking it securely. It was only when she calmed down she saw the note on the floor. Express checkout details?

It had to be …

But they wouldn’t call her Bronte, would they? The hotel wouldn’t write that on the front of the envelope in bold script, using a fountain pen.

She ripped the envelope apart and let it fall to the floor. Unfolding the single sheet of high quality notepaper, she read the brief message. Heath would like to see her in the morning, before she returned to the country…9 a.m., his house.

She scanned the letter again. It was more of a note—no flourishes, no personal asides, just Heath’s London address printed in raised script on the top right-hand corner. It was yet another kick-in-the-teeth reminder that Heath was in another place from the boy who had loved nothing more than a rough-house behind the stables with anyone foolish enough to take him on. Heath was a self-educated gentleman of culture and means these days, and it was Bronte who needed to get her head out of the sand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
HE
outside of Heath’s town house was a paean to elegance. Palladian pillars framed neatly trimmed bay trees either side of an imposing front door. The dark blue paintwork was so flawless it had the appearance of sapphire glass. The door knocker was a gleaming lion with bared teeth.

How appropriate, Bronte thought as her hand hovered over it. She was bang on time. She had made sure of it. As she waited on the neat, square mat she noticed the matching door knob was a smooth, tactile globe that would fit Heath’s hand perfectly. Imagining his hand closed around it, she drew a sharp breath as he opened the door.

‘Welcome to my home.’ Heath, tall, dark and frighteningly charismatic, held the door open for her.

There was nothing to suggest he bore a grudge, or that last night had been the blitz of emotions she remembered. Heath was all business this morning. ‘Thank you.’ She stepped past his powerful presence into the hall.

Having left the crisp air of early morning behind only one thought hit her and that was, Wow. The warmth and luxury of Heath’s home enveloped her immediately, as did the restrained décor in shades of cream, white, beige and ivory—the occasional blast of colour provided by vivid works of art hanging on flawless, chalky-white walls.

Everything was spotless, and in its place—but this wasn’t just a showpiece, she realised, gazing around, this was a home. A bolt of longing grabbed her when she took in all the personal touches. They were in an imposing square hall tiled in black and white marble. The lofty ceiling was decorated with beautifully restored plasterwork, and the doors were heavy, polished wood. How had she missed so much about Heath? She must have been wearing blinkers. Yes, he was the same warrior, as evidenced by his business prowess now, but he was a protector too, as she knew from his care of her in London, and he was fun and sexy, clever—and could be a regular pain in the neck, when he put his mind to it, she thought, smiling to herself as Heath drew her deeper into the house. And the more she saw, the more she realised she had imagined many things over the years about Heath, but she had never pictured him as a homemaker. There was mail waiting to be posted on the antique console table with the gilt-framed mirror over it, as well as a couple of recently delivered yachting magazines, still in their cellophane wrappers. There was even a high-tech racing bike propped beside the front door—

‘Bronte?’ Heath prompted.

She was turning full circle like a tourist at the Louvre, Bronte realised—probably with her mouth wide open. How rude! Red-cheeked, she followed Heath down the hallway. She spied a litter of books scattered across a squashy sofa through one open door—his living room, she presumed. Classical music was playing softly in the background, and a log fire was murmuring in the hearth. He must have been relaxing there, waiting for her to arrive.

Nice to know someone could relax, she thought wryly as they passed another door. This opened onto a cloakroom with a boot rack stacked with an assortment of footwear and rugged jackets slung on antique hooks. It was all rather bloke-ish, and yet reassuringly normal for such a wealthy man.

And welcoming. That was her overriding impression, Bronte realised. Whether Heath knew it or not he had absorbed everything Uncle Harry had created at Hebers Ghyll. This was a real home, where the original features of the house had been retained and married with practicality and luxury, she thought as Heath showed her into his study. Understated and original were the keynotes that distinguished Heath’s home—but then he was an artist too, she remembered. If Heath could be persuaded to work this type of magic on Hebers Ghyll, the estate really would live again.

And their friendship? What were the odds on that surviving? Bronte wondered as Heath invited her to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. There was nothing intimate in his tone of voice. It was all business for him now.

‘You know what this is?’ he said, pushing a sheaf of documents towards her.

She looked at him—looked into Heath’s deep, complex gaze. It sucked her in … and left her floundering. ‘A contract?’ she said, quickly gathering her scattered thoughts.

‘It’s a legal document setting out the terms for a six-month trial. Read it, and if you agree it, sign it.’ Uncapping the same fountain pen with which he must have written the brief note inviting her to his London home, he handed it to her. ‘I’ll leave you while you read and consider—and you don’t have to sign anything right away. You don’t have to sign it at all.’

‘But—’ She stood, wanting to thank him. This was everything she had ever dreamed of. And how flat dreams could feel when they came true, she thought as Heath left the room.

But this wasn’t just about her. There were others she had to think about. She sat down again and started to read, but all the time she was aware of the lovingly polished wood around her, and the warm, clean air, lightly fragranced with Heath’s shower soap—

Heath …

She’d pushed him away, shaking her head as if that could rid it of him—and was left with a contract.

He’d had a breakfast meeting with the lawyers to get the contract finalised—except he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and now he was hungry. He glanced at the cooker and the fridge—glanced at his wristwatch and thought of Bronte. He wanted her to be secure. He’d given her a cast-iron contract that protected her and gave her a pay-out if she changed her mind about working on the estate.

‘I can’t sign this, Heath.’

He turned to see her framed in the doorway. ‘Can’t or won’t?’ he said coolly.

‘You know what’s in here. It isn’t fair.’

‘No?’ His lips pressed down in a rueful smile as she walked across the room. ‘I thought it was very fair.’

‘But there’s nothing in it for you—no guarantees for you.’

‘It’s six months, Bronte.’ He shrugged. ‘You tell me how much I stand to lose.’

‘You stand to lose a lot,’ she insisted, coming close to make her point. ‘You know you do, Heath.’

‘Do I?’ As Bronte’s clean, wildflower scent invaded his senses he felt less than nothing about his losses—which was a first for him in business, he registered with wryly.

‘Look at this clause, as an example,’ she said, showing him the relevant passage. ‘This is ridiculous—I don’t need special treatment.’

‘Do you find it patronising?’ Heath asked as she turned her face up to him.

‘Well, yes, I do, actually,’ she said. ‘Would anyone else get this sort of contract? I doubt it, Heath.’

‘Does friendship count for nothing, Bronte?’

‘Friendship…’ She looked at him in something close to bewilderment.

Leaning back against the counter, he was acutely conscious of Bronte standing only inches away. ‘Sign or don’t sign,’ he said, shifting position and moving away.

‘I want to be the best person for the job, Heath.’ She frowned. ‘But you don’t seem to care what I do, which doesn’t fill me with confidence. I don’t want any special favours. I want you to take me on because I’m the best.’

‘You are the best candidate,’ he said evenly, meeting her gaze.

‘And the rest of it?’ she said.

He stared away into his thoughts. ‘I just want you to be happy, Bronte. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

How could she be? Bronte wondered as her fingers closed around the contract. Heath was right, this contract had been her goal, but wanting Heath eclipsed everything, which meant this piece of paper with its more than generous terms fell so far short of what she had hoped for, she could hardly raise the energy to sign it.

‘I’m not changing a word of it,’ Heath told her. ‘But I will give you a little more time to decide if you want to go ahead and sign it. In the meantime—’ his lips tugged up in a faint smile ‘—have you eaten anything this morning?’

‘No … have you?’

Their gazes held for a moment. If this was friendship—this feeling that survived everything—then she’d take it.

‘Are you hungry, Bronte?’

Heath’s question made her nose sting. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

‘Then let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make you something to eat.’

‘You cook?’

‘I cook,’ Heath confirmed.

He led the way into a large, airy kitchen. With its glass roof, and fabulous state-of-the-art appliances, it had the spacious feel of an orangerie. ‘Did you design it?’ she said, looking around.

‘I prepared the brief, did the drawings, and sourced the materials, so there could be no mistakes,’ Heath explained, reaching for a pan and turning on the cooker.

‘Did you do most of the work yourself?’ she said, admiring the way the original ornate plasterwork had been incorporated into the modern design.

‘Most of it—though I did allow the interior designers to plump the cushions when I’d finished.’

When Heath curved a smile it was like a light turning on, Bronte thought, but she mustn’t be dazzled by it.

‘Eggs Benedict?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely. I like eating—so it’s essential that I cook.’

She laughed, and finally relaxed.

He loved the sound of Bronte laughing. It was the only soundtrack he needed. He found a bowl and started whisking. ‘Why don’t you sit and read your contract? This will take a few minutes.’

As Heath got busy cracking eggs and reaching for the seasoning she laid the contract on the cool black granite, and signed it without another word.

Tipping buttery sauce onto the spinach, eggs and muffins, he came to sit next to her at the breakfast bar. ‘You signed it,’ he said, brow furrowing as he stared at the contract.

‘And here’s your copy,’ she said, handing him half the papers. ‘Eat. You must be hungry too. This is delicious, Heath,’ she commented after the first mouthful.

Their arms were almost touching. This was the closest they had come to relaxing together since—since she didn’t want to think about. She wanted to start over—this way—with a friendship between two adults—just see where it led. Nowhere, probably, but, hey—

‘Now you’re formally part of the team,’ Heath said as he forked up egg, ‘I’ll tell you my thoughts about Hebers Ghyll.’ Was that disappointment in Bronte’s eyes? Wasn’t this what she wanted? ‘If there’s something else you’d like to discuss first?’

‘Nothing,’ she protested, a little too vigorously, he thought. ‘I’d like to hear your plans, Heath.’

‘Okay.’ As he talked he wondered if she was listening. She looked intent, but she was looking
at
him rather than listening to what he was telling her. It could wait, he thought, starting to collect the plates up.

‘Is that it?’ she said.

‘For now.’

‘So you started off thinking, “What do I need this for?” when you inherited,’ she guessed, ‘and then found me camped out on your latest acquisition and discovered a sense of ownership.’

A grin creased his face. ‘That’s pretty much the version I remember.’

‘At least by camping out I got your interest.’

‘You got something,’ Heath agreed as they filled the dishwasher together, arms brushing, faces close. ‘And your campaign won through,’ he admitted tongue in cheek. ‘I’m going to keep the place, aren’t I?’ he said, straightening up. ‘And I want you to have the pleasure of telling everyone their jobs are safe.’

Her face brightened in a quick smile—a smile she found hard to sustain and so she turned away from him.

Everything would be all right now, Bronte told herself firmly. Heath would have to come down to visit. His visits would be formal affairs—but they’d be visits.

‘I thought I might open part of the house and grounds to the public.’

She turned. ‘But that’s a wonderful idea.’

‘It makes a certain amount of sense,’ Heath agreed.

As always, he was the one under control. ‘It makes more than sense,’ she couldn’t stop herself exclaiming. ‘Uncle Harry would have loved that idea—’

‘What you have to understand,’ Heath interrupted, ‘is that I own the estate now, Bronte.’

‘Of course I realise that—I do,’ she assured him, struggling to rein back her emotions. ‘And anything you want me to do when I go back—just add it to the list.’ She was ready to start work right away—this minute—but the look Heath was giving her was different from the way she felt inside. It was steadier—brooding, almost. ‘What?’ she said.

Heath’s powerful shoulders eased in a shrug. ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ll open an office there.’

Thank you, thank you …

Bronte’s lips pressed down in a good imitation of, okay, then—no big deal. And then Heath got into practical matters—bricks and mortar, balance sheets, and making the place pay for itself, while she told him everything she could remember that made Hebers Ghyll so special to her. All the little things that had coloured her childhood, like the lush tang of newly mown meadow grass—eating hazelnuts straight from the bush, if the squirrels hadn’t got to them first—blackthorn bushes heavy with purple sloe—