are you made of?’ she demanded when he didn’t yield. ‘Kryptonite?’
‘Flesh and blood the same as you.’
‘Not a bit like me,’ Bronte argued primly.’ I have manners.’
‘And a naked bottom,’ Heath commented mildly as she struggled to cover herself with an impossibly shrunken pair of leggings.
‘You’re such a barbarian.’
‘Come on—get dressed.’ As Heath sprang up he dragged her with him. ‘This has gone on long enough, Bronte. You’re still a trespasser with a lot of explaining to do.’
Snatching her hands free, she was crouched down in a ball again. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now.’
‘Oh, can I?’ Heath demanded, planting his hands on his hips.
‘Honestly,’ she flared—though flaring was difficult from a crouching position. ‘I really can’t believe your ingratitude. We cleared your house—your grounds—’
‘And if a wall had fallen on your head?’
‘I already told you, we haven’t been anywhere dangerous.’
‘You’ve been back to the hall,’ said Heath, who showed no sign of going anywhere.
‘Do you seriously think I’d take the girls into a dangerous situation?’
‘No, but you’d walk blindly in,’ Heath argued. ‘And you’d probably be hit by falling masonry before you got halfway through the door.’
‘There’s no need to sound quite so thrilled by the prospect.’
‘Leaving me to clear up the mess,’ he finished, talking over her. ‘When I say don’t do something, there’s a very good reason for it.’
Oh, why wouldn’t her clothes co-operate on damp skin? Her leggings had twisted round like a self-imposed chastity belt. All she could do was crunch over with her arms covering her chest as Heath threw her her top.
‘When were you going to tell me about the window, Bronte?’
She froze mid-pulling it on.
‘What?’ Heath barked. ‘You thought I wouldn’t notice?’
She hadn’t meant to do it and felt terrible. When she had forced the upstairs window to break into the hall the handle had come away in her hand. ‘Oh, Heath, I’m really sorry—’
‘Are you?’ he said impassively. His hands on his hips, he confronted her with a stony gaze.
Displaying a truly magnificent chest, Bronte registered with a sharp intake of breath. She had forgotten how tall Heath was, how impossibly fit. And with nothing to cover those massive blacksmith’s arms, or his powerful torso—
‘Have you done staring?’ he snapped.
‘I’m going home,’ Bronte announced in exasperation. ‘I need to wash this mud off.’
‘I’d say be my guest,’ Heath observed sardonically, ‘but as you have already made yourself at home.’
‘I prefer to use my own shower, thank you,’ she snapped back.
‘As you wish.’
But now Heath stood in her way. Feinting past him, she snatched up the last of her clothes. ‘I don’t need anything from you, Heath.’
‘Except a job, presumably?’ She froze.
‘You’re not going the right way about it, are you?’ Heath pointed out. ‘You broke into my house. You brought your friends along too.’
‘This has nothing to do with Maisie or Colleen,’ Bronte interrupted, rushing to her friends’ defence. ‘This is all my fault, Heath. Blame me, if you must. I was just trying to help. I thought that if we.’
‘You didn’t think,’ Heath interrupted her sharply. ‘You went straight into an old building without a safety review—just as you swam solo in the lake. I could forgive that, but you got your friends involved and that was irresponsible. Or had you conveniently forgotten that breaking and entering is a criminal offence? Go home, Bronte,’ he rapped when she tried to defend her decision. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious about applying for a job here. If that’s still the case, you’ve made one hell of a start. I can’t imagine how you’re going to climb back from this.’
And neither could she. Heath’s tone of voice made it clear that playtime was well and truly over.
She had alienated Heath. She had forfeited her chance of getting the job. She had lost the girls their promised pay-off—the Christmas party—which meant that all their hard work was wasted.
Things couldn’t be worse, Bronte mused back at the cottage, where she was sitting on the sofa with her head buried in her hands.
So she’d just have to make it right, she determined, springing to her feet.
Heath couldn’t possibly have appeared less thrilled when she turned up at the hall with Colleen and Maisie in tow.
‘What do you want, Bronte?’ he rapped, while she stood and stared. Heath in hard hat, steel-capped boots, and a high-vis’ jacket, was a fantasy yet to be explored.
‘We’re here to help,’ she said, conscious of Maisie and Colleen skulking behind her. The girls hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic when she had sold them this idea over a drink at the pub.
‘Help?’ Heath demanded, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘We’re on the roof, Bronte. How can you help?’
‘Has the fresh air given you an appetite, possibly?’ she enquired pleasantly.
‘Why? Did you bring pizza?’ Heath looked behind her to see if the girls were carrying anything.
‘No.’ Bronte shook her head. ‘I’d only serve pizza if I’d made it myself. I was merely suggesting I could cook supper for you—but if you’d rather we left—’
‘You cook?’ Heath interrupted.
‘Of course I cook. My mother was the housekeeper here,’ she reminded him with a frown. ‘And as you pointed out,’ she added innocently, ‘I have a great line in jam tarts. But don’t stereotype me. I mend engines too.’
Heath hummed. ‘I suppose the men will need feeding when they knock off, so if you’re offering to cook supper for nine—’
‘Twelve,’ Bronte said, turning to look at the girls. ‘I’ll get started, shall I?’
With some reluctance, it seemed to Bronte, Heath stepped aside. The way to a man’s heart would always be by the same route—something women knew and had used shamelessly across the ages. She was hardly a trailblazer in that regard, Bronte reflected as she led her troops towards the kitchen.
