flared skirts held out by yards of stiff net petticoats. They wore short white socks with high-heeled shoes, and wide, brightly coloured belts to emphasise their waists, while the men were boasting velvet-collared suits and winkle-picker shoes.
‘You do jive, I take it?’ Heath said dryly as he handed over the entrance fee for both of them.
She frowned—and, only half joking, asked, ‘Is this part of my job interview?’
‘You should know. You have to be quick on your feet on a farm.’
Bronte shook her head. ‘I guess I jive, then.’ She’d just have to get the hang of it in a hurry.
‘Great—then, let’s go,’ Heath said, brandishing their tickets.
This certainly wasn’t the man she thought she knew. Heath had more facets than a hard black diamond and kept most of them under wraps. She was surprised he was sharing this much with her.
Once bitten, Bronte reminded herself when she felt Heath’s hand come to rest in the small of her back as he guided her safely through the crowd. That touch was a timely, if unwelcome reminder that having fun together was one thing, but having sex—well, that was a whole world of difference. Fun she could bank and smile about when she got back to work. Sex was something you didn’t have with the boss—something that tore at your heart and left it in pieces.
So why melt? Why long? Why ache? Why do any of those things? Take the evening for what it was, and then get on with your life, Bronte told herself firmly, glancing around with interest and anticipation.
The beat was pounding inside an interior that faithfully recreated an authentic fifties coffee bar. There was a black and white tiled floor, Formica tables with lots of chrome around, and padded banquettes, covered in shiny red plastic that didn’t even pretend to be leather, and the most fantastic burnished wood panelling. ‘Carved by a regular customer,’ Heath said, pointing it out. He went on to explain that the café had recently been made a listed building, which meant it was destined to be preserved just as it was. He’d barely had chance to give her this potted history when a good-looking man spotted him and came over. ‘Heath—long time.’
As the two men shared a man hug Bronte wondered about the connection between them.
‘Josh,’ Heath said, introducing his friend to Bronte. ‘Josh and I—we spent some time together when we were younger.’
No further explanations necessary, Bronte thought as Josh shook her hand. Josh was another bad boy made good.
‘I haven’t seen Heath for ages—you must be good for him,’ Josh said, an attractive crease appearing in his face as he searched out a table for them.
‘I think you’ll like the food here,’ Heath confided, dipping his head down to shout in Bronte’s ear above the music. He was guiding her through the danger zone of spinning couples to take the booth Josh had indicated. ‘It’s all home-cooking. Josh’s mother is in the kitchen making pasta, pies, bread pudding and custard, jam roly-poly—you name it.’
‘Fattening?’ she suggested wryly.
‘Delicious,’ Heath argued firmly with a smile that lit a bonfire in her heart.
It was a revelation to discover Heath’s world wasn’t the soulless vacuum of cyberspace she’d imagined, but something far more diverse and interesting. And he was loyal too—something she had already seen in his relationship with Quentin. So the lone wolf did have friends. It made her optimistic, somehow—
Irrelevant, Bronte told herself firmly as Heath sat down across the plastic table from her. This was a … business meeting? Heath’s stare was disturbingly direct. What did he expect her to say or do? She felt uncertain suddenly.
And her heart?
Didn’t stand a chance faced by this new understanding growing between them.
Friendship, Bronte thought as Heath handed her the menu. This was friendship growing between them, and that was … that was nice.
‘Relax, Bronte—just choose something to eat and forget about everything else.’
Sure. She could do that. Wasn’t living for the moment her speciality? Forget those thirteen years of longing, the trial relationships with other men—failures all of them, because all she had ever done was compare them with Heath, so every man had fallen short.
So here she was again, back on that same old roller coaster, Bronte reflected—all that was missing was a platter on which to serve herself up—
No. No! No! Being here with Heath didn’t mean she was going to have sex with him. It wasn’t compulsory. It didn’t come with the bill. They were having a meal together. What was wrong with that?
She selected home-made cannelloni with spinach and ricotta and a tomato juice with the works to drink. Heath chose steak and chips, and a beer. ‘Dance while we wait for the food?’ he suggested with a glance at the whirling couples.
She drew a steadying breath before answering. Dancing was a kind of intimacy—there weren’t too many things a man and woman could do together in rhythm—
Hey … lighten up, she told herself, glancing down at her flat shoes. ‘Are you serious?’ She wanted to dance, really. It would be fun. She couldn’t jive, but what the heck?
‘Those shoes are perfect,’ Heath observed. ‘Anyone would think you knew you were coming here. Think of the steps you can do in those.’
‘I have thought,’ she assured him dryly. ‘And we both know my sense of balance isn’t up to much.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Heath said, ‘as I’m here to catch you.’ Standing up, he made it hard for Bronte to refuse.
‘I can’t … I really can’t,’ she said, changing her mind. How could she when her heart was going wild at the thought of dancing with Heath?
‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said. And when she still hung back, he grabbed her hand. ‘I never took you for a chicken, Ms Foster-Jenkins.’
‘Squawk squawk.’
‘You can move your hips, can’t you?’
Who knew that better than Heath? Standing hands on hips waiting for her to cave, Heath looked hot enough to fry a steak on. But this could end really badly, Bronte reasoned. Letting herself go with Heath was hardly sensible: hot, hectic movements—Heath’s firm hands directing her—staring into each other’s eyes—Hmm. When had she done that before?
And there was another issue. Most men couldn’t dance. Could Heath dance? Or would she soon be running for the exit?
Heath could dance. Why was she surprised? Heath was so brazenly male, so relentlessly sexy, he could make any move look cool—something that wasn’t lost on the women gathered round him. And he taught her to jive in the same effortless way in which he’d taught her to make love. And then the DJ changed the track and Heath’s mouth curved in a challenging grin.
‘Twist contest?’ Bronte asked, eyes widening in trepidation.
‘We have to,’ he said, kicking off
