FIVE
SHE’D got trapped in the weeds. She’d been so traumatised by the truck invasion she’d blundered about in the water wondering what to do next and had got her leg caught. Throwing her arms around as she struggled to free herself, Bronte had attracted the very type of attention she had been trying to avoid. The long line of wagons and builders’ vans, led by a rugged Jeep with blacked-out windows, had parked up in front of the hall. Her heart jolted painfully to see Heath spring down from the lead vehicle. Having spoken to the girls, he turned to look at the lake at the precise moment she started thrashing about. Impossibly bronzed and muscular, Heath, having tossed his shirt away as he ran, was clearly intent on launching a one-man rescue. The only option left to her was to swim as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
Forget it, Bronte concluded, treading water. Her best effort wasn’t nearly good enough. Heath was streaking towards her with a strong, fast stroke and had soon cut off her escape route. Before she had chance to change direction he gathered her up like a rugby ball and kicked for shore.
‘Put me down!’ she shrieked the instant Heath found his feet and started wading. ‘I’m warning you, Heath—let me go. There’s no need for this.’
‘There’s every need for this.’ Heath sounded less than amused. Dumping her on her feet on the middle of the lawn, he stood back.
She had never seen anyone quite so furious. She hunched over, acutely conscious of her nakedness.
Heath seemed disappointingly unaware of it. ‘What did I tell you before I left?’ he demanded.
Bronte’s face flushed red. ‘I haven’t been near the old buildings—’
‘So you swim in the lake on your own? Brilliant.’
Heath’s expression was thunderous. All male. All disapproval. And the sight of his naked torso—powerful beyond belief, wet, tanned and gleaming in the sun—was an unnerving distraction. She jumped alert the moment she realised Heath’s narrowed gaze was roving freely over her naked body as if it were his to inspect. ‘Do you mind?’ she flared, covering herself as best she could.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing in the lake?’ Heath snapped as if they were both fully clothed.
‘Swimming,’ she said as if that were obvious. ‘And I know what I’m doing.’
Heath took one look at her. ‘That would be a first.’
‘Can’t you turn your back or something?’ He ignored this remark. ‘Never swim in the lake again on your own. Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly.’ She was trying to edge towards her clothes, which wasn’t easy with her legs crossed. At last she managed to snag her leggings with the thong still tangled inside them. Snatching them up with relief, she held them in front of her. However ridiculous she looked, it was some sort of shield. All she could do now was to start moving backwards, away from him.
She should have seen the tree root coming. She should have known that lightning did sometimes strike the same place twice. The breath flew from her lungs as Heath dived to save her—by some miracle he managed to swing her around before she hit the ground, cushioning her fall with his body. She was too shocked by the impact to do anything but yell, ‘Get off me!’ And scowl down.
Heath grinned up. ‘I think you would have to get off me,’ he pointed out.
Oh, great. She was straddling him, and Heath was clearly enjoying every moment of it—as well he might, with his great big hands firmly attached to her backside. ‘Let me go,’ she insisted, wriggling furiously. But the moment Heath lifted his hands away she missed them and wanted them back again. Fortunately for her, common sense kicked in.
‘You don’t really want to do that, do you, Bronte?’
She turned to look back over her shoulder at Heath.
‘Seriously, it’s not your best look,’ he assured her as she continued to crawl away.
All she cared about was reaching a covey of trees over to her left where there were bushes to hide in while she sorted out her clothes. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she shrieked with surprise.
Heath had grabbed her and trapped her beneath him on the ground. ‘Preserving your dignity,’ he said calmly, ‘or what little remains of it.’
She followed his gaze. And groaned. Maisie, Colleen, and all of Heath’s men had gathered at a safe distance to watch their little drama play out.
‘Don’t say it,’ Heath warned her in a low growl. ‘I can’t bear to hear a woman swear.’
‘Swear? I can barely draw enough breath to speak with you on top of me. Well—get up,’ she insisted, only to be rewarded by a wolfish grin. ‘Get off me, please,’ she said reluctantly as their audience scattered. ‘We weren’t expecting visitors,’ she said, acutely conscious of her naked body pressed into Heath’s naked chest.
‘Clearly,’ he murmured, gazing down at her.
He seemed in no hurry to move away. ‘Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’ she said, thinking it best to make conversation in a position like this.
‘Warn a squatter the owner’s on his way?’
‘I’m not a squatter,’ Bronte argued. Her gaze slipped from Heath’s mocking eyes to his sexy mouth, where it lingered. ‘We’re not even staying at the hall,’ she protested faintly.
‘And I should be grateful for that?’
She should be grateful for this, Bronte reflected, telling herself to relax and enjoy—would this moment ever come again?
‘When will you get it through your head that Hebers Ghyll is not yours to do with as you like, Bronte?’
Nor was Heath’s magnificent body, unfortunately. ‘We were only trying to help.’
‘Against my express instructions.’
‘We stayed away from the castle.’
‘Next time, do me the courtesy of asking if you can visit my property first. This obviously comes as a surprise to you, but this is my land, and safety is an overriding concern of mine.’
How could it be when Heath’s chest hair was tormenting her nipples? The men she met on her travels were too busy fretting about their skin care regime or whether or not to wax their chest. Heath clearly suffered no such dilemmas.
‘Well, this is nice,’ he remarked, easing his position, which made her blink. ‘I never took you for a nudist, Bronte.’
‘And I never took you for Genghis Khan,’ she fired back in an attempt to blank the sensation currently flooding her veins.
‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Heath growled softly.
Was it safer to stare into his eyes and see what he was thinking, or at Heath’s firm mouth and long to kiss him? She was in trouble whatever she did, Bronte concluded, while Heath was hot-wired to all her erotic pressure points. She took the only option left open to her, and closed her eyes, shutting
