on it. ‘You know my only interest in being here is the future of Hebers Ghyll.’
‘Liar,’ Heath said softly.
‘Could you put these bowls out for me, please?’ She plonked them in his hands. Anything to keep Heath’s hands occupied and give herself space to think.
‘I have made you feel better, haven’t I?’ Heath sounded pleased with himself as he came back to prop a hip against the side.
‘So good I hardly know what to do with myself,’ Bronte agreed, sticking the salt pot and pepper grinder in his hands. ‘Now move. You definitely can’t stand this close to the heat without—’
‘Without both of us getting burned?’ Heath suggested.
‘Without the soup getting burned,’ she corrected him. ‘Excuse me please…’ Would her heart stop thundering? Hands on hips, she waited for Heath to move. Her only alternative was to stretch across him—and risk rubbing some already highly aroused and very sensitive part of her body against him? Not even remotely sensible to try.
‘I’m still wondering what you came back for,’ he said, ‘and I mean the real reason.’
‘Okay,’ she said, staring him in the eyes. ‘I’m serious about wanting the job and I thought if I came here and made myself useful—doing anything I could to help—you might remember me when it came to handing out interview times.’
Leaning back against the Aga rail, Heath crossed his arms and gave her one of his looks. ‘So you’re here so you can keep on reminding me how good you’d be?’
That wasn’t quite the way she would have put it, but yes. ‘I thought cooking supper for you would be a start.’
‘And you’re not a conniving woman?’
Heath’s face was very close—close enough to see how thick his lashes were, and how firm his mouth. ‘On the contrary,’ Bronte argued, ‘I am a conniving woman. And I know what I want.’
‘And so do I,’ Heath assured her as he straightened up.
‘Well, seeing as you’ve shown willing.’ Heath laughed.
And now he was standing in her way again. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said politely.
What was she supposed to do with a man who took up every inch of vital cooking space and who showed no sign of moving—a man who was staring down at her now with a look in his darkening eyes that suggested he would very much like a practical demonstration of just how badly she wanted to work for him? ‘You’re in my way, Heath.’
‘Am I?’
He didn’t move so she tried a firmer approach. ‘If you want feeding you’d better get out of my way now.’
‘I love it when you talk tough.’
She drew in a great, shuddering gust of relief when Heath finally straightened up and moved away. Fantasies were safe, warm things, but the reality of Heath’s hard, virile body so close to hers was something else again. He hadn’t even touched her yet and every part of her was glowing with lust—and she couldn’t blame the Aga for that.
‘Don’t burn my supper,’ Heath warned. ‘If you do I shall have to punish you.’
Bronte drew in a sharp, shocked breath. The images that conjured up didn’t even bear thinking about. Rallying, she turned to face Heath with her chin tilted at a combative angle, only to find a slow-burning smile playing around his lips. He was enjoying this. Heath was the master of verbal seduction and she was his willing partner in crime. Lucky for her, the girls chose that moment to return from the herb garden—if she counted luck in heated aches and screaming frustration, that was, Bronte mused, adopting an innocent expression by the cooker.
‘Thyme?’ Colleen held out a thick bunch of fragrant herbs.
‘Bad time,’ Heath commented dryly. Then pointing a finger at Bronte as if to say they had unfinished business, he left the kitchen to call the men.
She couldn’t think of anything else all through supper. What had Heath meant by that pointing finger? If Heath meant what she thought he meant her fantasies were out of a job. Heath gave nothing away during the meal—he barely looked at her. She had cooked her heart out, silently thanking her mother for all those hours they’d spent together preparing food. She had everything she needed in the restored garden—and more eggs than she knew what to do with, thanks to the chickens being of too little value for Uncle Harry’s executors to chase them down. Tonight’s menu included minestrone soup, and a huge Spanish omelette, full of finely chopped seasonal vegetables and crispy potatoes, which she had browned beneath the grill until the cheese on top was crunchy. To complement this there was a bowl of crispy salad, along with some freshly baked bread and newly churned butter from a nearby farm. Then there was beer, wine and soft drinks from the local shop to satisfy twelve hungry mouths around the supper table. She loved doing this, Bronte reflected with her chin on the heel of her hand as the chatter continued abated—especially feeding Heath, who seemed to relish every mouthful.
‘The country’s not so bad, is it, Heath?’ She couldn’t resist saying when he dived in for second helpings.
‘I’ll freely admit it gives me a healthy appetite.’
And how was she supposed to take that? She drew a deep, steadying breath, but the tension between them remained electric. It was the same between Heath’s men and Bronte’s friends, she noticed. The village was severely depleted when it came to good-looking guys, as most had gone to work in the city, so this was an interesting occasion for everyone, to say the least.
‘This is a real feast,’ Colleen observed, passing the bread round.
Indeed it was, Bronte thought, glancing at Heath.
‘Here’s that cheese we bought to go with the bread,’ he said, passing the cheese board round to an appreciative roar.
Bronte’s glance yo-yoed between Colleen and Heath. They had walked to the farm together, which meant they must have talked. And Colleen was hardly noted for holding back. She must have said something about Bronte’s feelings for Heath.
Well, it was too late to do anything about that now, Bronte thought, putting an Eton mess on the table for pudding—easy. fresh whipped and sweetened cream, thick Greek yoghurt, strawberries, raspberries, and crumbled chunks of home-made meringue. ‘Please, tuck in,’ she announced brightly, swallowing back her embarrassment at the thought that her feelings for Heath must have been aired extensively at some point today.
‘This pudding is delicious,’ Heath said, looking up.
His eyes held all sorts of thoughts that went beyond pudding—none of which Bronte trusted herself to examine too closely. How would Heath’s energy translate if they were left alone together for any length of time? Perhaps he had better install a sprinkler system along with all his other DIY improvements.
‘We’re going to be here for the best part of six months according to the boss,’ one of the men said, directing this comment at Bronte. ‘I hope you’ll be staying on?’
‘She’ll be here,’ Heath confirmed.
‘Oh, will I?’ Bronte
