Bronte,’ Heath observed in the laid-back husky voice that had always made her toes curl with excitement, ‘what can I do for you?’
She exhaled, refusing to think about it. ‘By the time I got back here, Heath, Uncle Harry was dead and everything was in a mess. No one on the estate or in the village had a clue what was going to happen—or whether they still had jobs—’
‘And your parents?’ Heath prompted.
She guessed Heath already knew the answer to that. The lawyers would have filled him in on what had happened to the staff at Hebers Ghyll. ‘I can only think Uncle Harry must have realised he was gravely ill, because he gave my parents some money before he died. He told them to take a break—to fulfil their lifetime’s ambition of travelling the world.’ She was hugging herself for reassurance, Bronte realised, releasing her arms. It was hard to launch a cogent argument in defence of the estate while Heath was staring at her so intently. He knew her too well. Even after all this time he could sense what she wasn’t saying. He could sense how she felt. They had always been uncannily connected, though when Heath had first arrived on the estate she’d been more concerned that the ruffian Uncle Harry was trying to tame would tear the head off her dolls. The feeling Heath inspired in her now was very different. ‘I can’t believe you’re the Master of Hebers Ghyll,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘And you don’t like the idea?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘You didn’t have to. Perhaps you think Uncle Harry should have left his estate to you—’
‘No,’ Bronte exclaimed indignantly. ‘That never occurred to me. You’re his nephew, Heath. I’m only the housekeeper’s daughter—’
‘Who walked in here and made herself at home.’ He glanced at her tent.
‘The gates were open. Ask your estate manager if you don’t believe me.’
‘That man was employed by Uncle Harry’s executors and no longer works for me.’
‘Well, whoever he was…’ Bronte’s voice faded when she realised Heath had only owned the estate five minutes and had already sacked one member of staff.
‘He was a waste of space,’ Heath rapped. ‘And replaceable.’
Heath unnerved her. Was everyone replaceable in Heath’s world?
‘If there are so many people clamouring for jobs in the area,’ he said, reclaiming her attention, ‘it shouldn’t take me long to find another man—’
‘Or a woman.’
Heath huffed a humourless laugh. ‘Still the same Bronte.’
The last time they’d had this sort of standoff she’d been twelve and Heath fifteen, difficult ages for both of them, impossible to find common ground. Those years had changed nothing, Bronte registered, conscious of her furiously erect nipples beneath the flimsy top. She casually folded her arms across her chest. ‘When can we meet for a proper talk?’
‘When you approach me through the proper channels.’
‘I tried to call you, but your PA wouldn’t put me through. I’m only here now because I was determined to talk to you.’
‘You? Determined, Bronte?’ The first glint of humour broke through Heath’s fierce façade.
‘Someone had to find out what was going on.’
‘And as usual that someone’s you?’
‘I offered to be a spokesperson.’
‘You offered?’ Heath pulled back his head to look at her through narrowed storm-grey eyes. ‘What a surprise.’
‘So, are you going to tell me what your plans are for the estate?’ Why wouldn’t her pulse slow down?
Because of that aura of bad-boy danger surrounding Heath, her inner voice supplied. The years hadn’t changed it—and they certainly hadn’t diminished it.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,’ Heath said.
‘Yes?’ She held her ground tensely as he strolled towards her.
‘This place is a mess,’ he said, his gesture taking in broken fences, crumbling walls and overgrown hedgerows, ‘and probate took time. But I’m here now. What happens next?’ She swallowed deep as he looked down at her. ‘I make an assessment.’
‘That’s it?’ she whispered, hypnotised by his eyes.
‘That’s it,’ Heath confirmed harshly, wheeling away. ‘You haven’t been inside the house yet, I take it?’
Bronte’s brave front faltered. ‘No. I came straight here.’ Now her imagination had raced into overdrive. The estate comprised a hall and a broken-down castle as well as a great deal of land. Uncle Harry had lived at the hall, and had always kept it as well as he could afford to—which wasn’t very well, but if anything was less than perfect it was only because Uncle Harry spent so much of his money helping others. The original stained-glass windows were beautiful, she remembered, and there was a wonderful woodpanelled library where the log fire was always burning, and a spotless, if antiquated, kitchen, which had been her mother’s domain. Was all that changed? ‘What’s happened, Heath?’ she said anxiously. ‘Can I help?’
‘What can you do?’ he said.
She was surprised he had to ask. And hurt that he had. It made her more determined than ever to find out what Heath’s true intentions were. ‘Rumours say you’ve already sold the Hebers Ghyll estate on—’
‘Anything else?’ Heath demanded, folding his powerful arms across his chest.
His eyes were every bit as beautiful as she remembered and just as cold. She shook herself round. ‘And bulldozers—I heard talk of bulldozers.’ There was no point sugar-coating this. She might just as well confront him with the lot. ‘One rumour said you were going to bring in a wrecking crew to knock everything down, and then you’d build a shopping centre—’
‘And what if I did?’
Panic hit her at the thought that he might— that he could—that he had every right to. ‘What about Uncle Harry?’
‘Uncle Harry’s dead.’
Heath might as well have stabbed a knife through her heart. Heath had always been closed off to feelings except on those rare occasions when he had lightened up in front of Bronte or Uncle Harry. Sometimes she wondered if they were the only people he had ever opened up to. And that was a memory so faint she couldn’t believe it had ever happened now. ‘For goodness’ sake, Heath, you’re his nephew—don’t you feel anything?’ To hell with the job she had intended to apply for. ‘Does Hebers Ghyll mean anything to you? Don’t you remember what Uncle Harry used to do—?’
‘For kids like me?’ Heath interrupted her coldly. She’d taken him back to the past, and his father, Uncle Harry’s wastrel brother—the poor relation with the taste for violence. Only at the court’s insistence had his father agreed to a period of rehabilitation for Heath at
