am prepared,’ Bronte lied as her heart went crazy, knowing she could never be prepared to see Heath again.
‘And you do understand that this is a high-powered office where we work at warp speed all the time?’
‘I do,’ Bronte confirmed, recalling the speed at which Heath could work.
‘I doubt Heath will expect anything less of his staff in the country—and if he does, let me know,’ Quentin added with an over-the-rim-of-his-glasses look. ‘I might want to try out for a job there. I’ve always thought I’d look rather good in plus fours…’
‘If I get the job I’ll let you know,’ Bronte promised as Quentin went off into his own private dreamworld. Heath definitely hadn’t let his PA into the full story at Hebers Ghyll. An outfit of plus fours—quaint knickerbockers—teamed with a beautifully tailored tweed jacket and possibly a deerstalker hat was the clothing of choice for another type of country estate altogether—one where the visitors would expect everything to be sanitised and mud-free.
Shrewd blue eyes, enhanced by the most discreet hint of grey eyeshadow, switched channels to Bronte. ‘From what I’ve seen of your CV you should be in with a serious chance for this job.’ But now Quentin grew concerned. ‘Are you sure that working for metrosaurus-man won’t be too traumatic for you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Bronte confirmed confidently. The work wouldn’t be too much for her. But Heath … Heath was another story, and one that had forbidden written all over it.
‘I wouldn’t normally put someone as young as you through, but your CV is so strong,’ Quentin observed.
‘Thank you.’ Why was Quentin looking at her like that? Bronte wondered, growing increasingly self-conscious. ‘I normally wear jeans or dungarees,’ she explained awkwardly, conscious that her borrowed outfit wasn’t up to Quentin’s standards.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Quentin said, confirming Bronte’s suspicions. ‘But Heath is all about the city. He’s tuned into the pace of life here. Naturally, Heath can set his own standards, but he expects—no,’ Quentin said frowning, ‘Heath takes for granted the fact that his employees will dress a certain way. I’m only trying to help,’ he defended when Bronte gave him a hard stare. ‘I just think you’d stand a much better chance of getting this job if you conform to the sort of look Heath will be expecting. That’s all I’m saying,’ he said, raising his hands.
And she should be grateful someone as savvy as Quentin was giving her advice. She liked him. And now it was time to place her trust in him. ‘I’ve never conformed,’ she explained. ‘So I’m not that sure how to do it—how to put a look together—if you know what I mean?’ Quentin’s interest sparked as she added, ‘I don’t suppose you could you help me …?’
Quentin’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked her over. ‘I could help,’ he said thoughtfully, chin in hand. ‘If you don’t mind missing lunch …’
Bronte was round the desk in a flash. Anything to take her mind off meeting Heath.
‘Heath has seen you in casual attire, I’ve no doubt,’ Quentin pondered out loud as he walked round Bronte like a sergeant major on parade. ‘It’s time for him to see you dressed as a professional—sharp, contemporary, and of the moment.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Sounds like a challenge,’ Quentin argued.
‘Well, if you’re up for it, I am.’
‘Budget?’ Quentin enquired discreetly.
‘Whatever it takes.’ She would just have to use plastic and hope her card didn’t self-combust.
‘Excellent.’ Quentin was already at the door. ‘Well, come on—what are you waiting for, girlfriend? Let’s go shopping.’
SOME hours later with her hair freshly shampooed at Quentin’s preferred salon and left to curl in wild disarray almost to her waist, dressed in a short black skirt, black opaque tights and flat Mary Janes, with a tight little top that clung like sticking plaster to her breasts, Bronte wasn’t totally convinced she looked like the archetypal interviewee for the post of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll, but more importantly Quentin was pleased with her appearance and declared her ready for her interview with Heath. ‘Wouldn’t I have been better buying a tweed jacket, or something?’ she said, feeling increasingly anxious as the moment of truth approached. Craning her neck, she stared at her bottom, which was very tightly clad indeed.
‘A tweed jacket?’ Quentin demanded as if she had suggested wearing a homespun jerkin. ‘Certainly not. Heath is not just the cutting edge, he is the leading edge—the spear, the arrow, the—’
‘Okay, okay, I’m happy,’ Bronte insisted, holding up her hands.
They returned to Heath’s building where Quentin told her to wait in the anteroom to Heath’s corner office.
She could do this, Bronte persuaded herself nervously, her knees jiggling up and down as she perched on the very edge of one of the smart black leather couches. Though why she was dressed as if to seduce the boss, when that was the last thing she wanted.
She was here to persuade Heath she could be a top drawer estate manager. She was not losing her nerve. She would not be fixated on how aroused she was at the thought of seeing him again. She would definitely not be scanning Heath’s office for likely trysting opportunities. She would forget how she had felt after sex when Heath pulled away, and how deep the feeling was that what they’d done hadn’t been wrong. She would be cool and professional. They had both moved to a new place. It was a good place. It was the right place for them to be—
And then the door swung open and the breath left her lungs in a rush. Had she really thought she was ready for this? Her heart was crashing against her ribs. Her awareness levels had soared beyond the possible. Heath stood framed in the doorway like a totem to all things sexual: a deity, a yoni god, a man with eyes of stone, wearing what, on the face of it, was a casual outfit—jeans and a top—but it was the kind of easy look that reeked of money and style.
For a moment her mind was wiped clean and her mouth refused absolutely to communicate with her brain. The last time she’d seen Heath he’d been groaning—She’d been screaming—They’d been—
Thankfully, she managed to summon up an autopilot voice—faint though it was. ‘Hello, Heath.’
‘Bronte,’ he said briskly. All business. All coldly assessing as he took in her new look.
She wasn’t sure whether to be glad of Quentin’s assistance or not now. Something more low-key—something more mouse-like—might have bought her enough time to state her case clearly. Heath could convey more in one sharp stare than most men could hope to communicate in a lifetime, and that wasn’t always a good thing. ‘I’m your three o’ clock,’ she said, standing before she had too much time to analyse Heath’s expression.
‘I’m running late—so we’ll have to make this quick.’
No, we won’t, Bronte thought, frowning even as her heart beat the retreat. ‘I’ve come all this way,
