chi-chi sign. Heath had brought her to one of the most famous restaurants in London. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate this…’
‘But?’ he said, angling his chin.
‘It’s just a little stuffy. I don’t know if I could be myself.’ As she answered he hit the hazards and left the car. She watched him walk towards the restaurant. Not that Heath walked anywhere—he struts, he strolls, he strides, hummed through her head. Mostly, he moved as he was doing now with that confident, sexy swagger.
But it was a relief not to be entering the hallowed portals, Bronte reflected as Heath disappeared inside. Her emotions were red raw, and she didn’t fancy putting them on show for the other diners. She sat forward as Heath breezed out. ‘Well?’ she demanded as he swung back into the car.
‘I cancelled the table.’
‘I’m sorry—I hope it wasn’t a problem?’ Nothing was a problem for Heath, she thought as the Lamborghini roared. ‘So where to now?’
‘Somewhere I hope you like better—somewhere fun, where you can relax and we can talk.’
‘Sounds perfect.’ They hadn’t done enough of that. But would Heath relax? Glancing across at him, Bronte felt her cheeks burn when Heath caught her staring at him. She could tell he was still buzzing after the signing—still high on adrenalin. She wondered where he’d take her next, and decided to find out—the roundabout way. ‘Am I dressed okay for wherever we’re going?’
Heath glanced over. ‘So long as you think you’ll be warm enough.’
‘We’ll be outside?’ She had hinted that she would like to eat somewhere less stuffy than the upmarket restaurant, and there were plenty of hot-dog stands and fast food stalls around London.
‘We’ll be outside,’ Heath confirmed.
‘Will I like it?’
‘I know I will.’
Heath looked worryingly pleased with himself. She hazarded a guess. ‘Why’s that? Is there a pool table?’
‘Better than that,’ Heath said, stopping at the traffic lights.
Okay …
‘I hope it isn’t too noisy,’ she said as the lights turned to green.
‘Stop digging, Bronte. It’s somewhere you will have to relax—and when you do, maybe we can get a serious discussion going.’
Fun and a serious discussion? How did that work? she wondered, falling silent.
‘Still hungry?’ Heath demanded, powering away from the traffic lights.
Sadly, for all Bronte’s good intentions, she was starving—and not just for food.
THE Lamborghini sliced through the congested traffic like a well-trained panther, sleek, fast-moving, and effortlessly responsive, while Heath’s mind was full of Bronte—the taste of her, her scent, her heat, the way she cried out with pleasure at the moment she let go. It was hard to concentrate with all that running through his head. He made a conscious effort to slow the car, to drive responsibly, to think of Bronte in a purely non-sexual way. He couldn’t remember anyone forcing him to look at things and people differently, but Bronte had. He should have known she would follow through with the job—and was glad she had. Bronte had turned out to be by far the best candidate with a wealth of experience, as well as local knowledge second to none. She was right about age having nothing to do with this. Had she been fifty years older he’d still have felt the same.
‘Why are you laughing?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ he said, knowing Bronte had a definite advantage that had nothing to do with professionalism or age. He came up with a suitably distracting reply: ‘I was just wondering how you’re going to take it when I tell you it will take a while to get where we’re going.’
‘I think I can hang on,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m not a baby who needs feeding on the hour.’
‘Or rocking to sleep?’ he suggested, his mind taking her back to bed again.
‘I prefer to keep my eyes open while you’re around.’
She was sparking again. That was better. Banter between them was the best cure for tension he knew. Maybe it was time for him to wind down too.
‘We’ll get there,’ she soothed when they got snarled up in a jam.
Driving was partly a distraction, but while they were stuck in traffic like this.
Resting his chin on the back of his hand, he brooded. He could spend the rest of his life living in the past, telling himself he wasn’t worthy, but when they were sitting close like this—
‘See, we’re moving again,’ she said just as his thoughts were heating up.
He should have laid everything on the line for her at Hebers Ghyll. He should have told Bronte the type of man he was—the type of man he couldn’t be. He should have made that break nice and clean while he’d had the chance—
And then a vehicle swerved in front of them and Bronte exclaimed with fright. He’d avoided it, but it was close. ‘You okay?’ He reached over to reassure her.
She was staring at his hand on her knee. ‘I think so,’ she said.
He lifted his hand away. Touching her had fired him. He could only hope the inferno inside him hadn’t engulfed the next seat. ‘Who chose the outfit?’ he said to distract them both.
‘Quentin helped me pick it out.’
Traitor, he thought. Quentin was supposed to be his friend. ‘You look good.’ No harm in telling the truth—though he put both hands firmly on the wheel. ‘Have to say, I pity those sales assistants.’
‘Quentin was very polite—and he knows all the best shops,’ Bronte protested.
And she’s loyal to a fault, he thought. ‘I bet he does,’ he murmured.
‘Quentin was only trying to help, so don’t go after him,’ Bronte begged him.
‘Am I such a monster?’ He glanced her way. ‘I’m just saying dungarees would have been a better choice for where I’m taking you.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ she said dryly.
Dipping his head, he scanned the traffic for the quickest way through, making Bronte exclaim a second time when he dropped a gear to overtake some slow-moving vehicles. ‘I didn’t mean to shake you up.’
‘But you have,’ she said, giving him the quake with fear routine. ‘You’re such a scary baddie in your powerful machine, and I’m such a little country innocent all alone in the big city.’
He couldn’t have put it better himself. ‘So, where are you taking me,
