Working With the Enemy (3 page)

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

H
E 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.’