Working With the Enemy (9 page)

Dealing with Bronte on a professional basis would be different, Heath convinced himself as industrial units encroached on the fields, reminding him that his journey was coming to an end. He would be in control if and when she worked for him. Emotion had no part to play. Poverty had made him a stickler for control dating back to when he’d made his first big money and realised the changes he could make. He had controlled the spending to make sure not a penny of his hard-earned cash was wasted. He couldn’t delegate. He had never learned to relax.

More reasons why he could never be the man Bronte wanted him to be. She wasn’t even his type, Heath reasoned, stamping down on the accelerator as the lights changed. Her dress sense alone was bad enough—

To keep the thought of yanking Bronte’s clothes off her at the forefront of his mind at all times.

He curved a smile—and then reminded himself about his good intentions. They were soon dispatched. But then there was The Temper. Wasn’t that just what he needed? Why couldn’t he meet some nice, compliant girl?

Because they bored him, Heath reasoned, swinging the wheel as he turned onto the six-lane highway leading into the city. That certainty only grew when he remembered the squads of eager candidates with their porcelain smiles and improbably inflated breasts. It made him smile to think those flutterbys had been effortlessly eclipsed by a tiny, passionate girl—so real, so true, he doubted he could ever go back to plastic.

She usually woke up and leapt out of bed at the cottage full of bounce because there was so much to do at Hebers Ghyll, and she so wanted to get there and do it—but not this morning. This morning she felt flat.

Because there was a whole world of beating herself up to do, Bronte realised as she crawled out of bed. She was still aching from Heath’s spectacular attentions, and only wished she could feel differently about what had happened. But she couldn’t. It still felt so right to her, though clearly Heath hadn’t felt the same.

Heath was right. Get on with your life, Bronte reasoned as she walked down the now neatly manicured drive towards the hall. It was such a beautiful morning she wouldn’t let anything get her down—

Where was Heath’s truck?

Bronte’s heart plummeted as she quickly raced through all the possibilities, ending in the feeble: perhaps Heath had left early to get some supplies.

That wasn’t the answer. She was just putting off the moment when she had to face the truth. Lifting her chin, she took a moment to steel herself before facing the others. She was her old self again by the time she let herself into the house—as far as anyone else could tell.

The kitchen was empty.

So empty.

With just a faint smell of non-smell paint. The first thing she did was open the window to let some fresh air in.

What had she expected, Bronte asked herself, gripping the edge of the table—Heath waiting with a bunch of flowers and a cheesy grin? Did that sound like Heath? He had never planned to stay long. And he had never misled her. If anything, she was surprised he had stayed in the countryside as long as he had. Heath ran a highly successful business in the city. Hebers Ghyll was just a hobby for him. He’d come down when he could spare the time, he’d said.

If all those elegant women queuing up to go to bed with him could spare him—

She mustn’t think like that, Bronte scolded herself fiercely. What had happened last night was nothing more than the result of working in close proximity with a very attractive man. It was normal—natural. She was a free agent—she could do what she liked. And she liked what had happened last night. A lot. And what Heath chose to do in his own time was Heath’s business. And—

And, damn it, she was crying.

CHAPTER NINE

D
ASHING
her tears away impatiently, Bronte got the morning underway—putting the kettle on, slicing bread for toast. She had breakfast to cook, thank goodness. There was so much she had to do that would take her mind off Heath.

The laugh she gave now was poor competition for the whistling kettle. It was a horrid, weak, sniffly sort of laugh. She couldn’t forget him. She couldn’t let it lie here. As soon as everyone had finished breakfast she was going to ring Heath’s PA and ask about the interviews. The job of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll was going begging, and no one else was going to muscle in while she was mooching around here feeling sorry for herself.

Bronte was stunned when Heath’s PA rang her first. She was still tidying the kitchen, and had to sit down on a chair to take the call. Shocked? She was incredulous he’d even remembered her. Interviews for the post of estate manager had been arranged for the following week in their London offices, the posh guy called Quentin told her, and he was calling to make sure she was still interested.

‘Absolutely,’ she confirmed, branding the date and time of the interview on her mind.

Getting up, she paced the room. What did this mean? Did Heath miss her? Did he want her back?

Desperate twit, she thought, drawing to a halt to stare out of the window at the yard where Heath had put on his spectacular wet torso display. This wasn’t about Bronte and Heath. This was about the job of estate manager. Heath had promised her this chance to attend a formal interview—why would he take that away? What would be the point? She was well qualified—a good contender; she had to hope the best. The fact that Heath had asked his PA to call her rather than doing it himself only proved that he wanted to keep things on a strictly business footing. It was the right thing to do. It was what she would have done had their roles been reversed, she told herself firmly. This was her chance to prove she was as professional as Heath—and a chance to tilt at a job she desperately wanted. If she was lucky enough to land the job it would be the best chance she ever got to take Uncle Harry’s vision to the next level—and to prove she was more than Heath’s latest sex-starved admirer. She could do this.

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

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

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

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

‘She’s coming.’

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

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

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

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

And look at me …

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

And the tip of her nose was bright red.

Great.

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

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

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

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

‘Whatever you say …’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Whatever I can do,’ Colleen offered.

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

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

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

‘Well, you must look good for Heath.’

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

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

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

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

‘Colleen—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And since when is that your business?’

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

‘If you weren’t—’

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

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

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

‘I’m working on it.’

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

‘Get some help.’

Quentin pouted. ‘Now I’m offended.’

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

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

‘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.