mean that,’ Bronte assured him. ‘Uncle Harry loved having you around. You must have known you were the son he never had?’
‘Don’t use those tactics on me, Bronte.’
‘Tactics?’ she exploded. ‘I’m not using tactics. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t pretend you don’t care, Heath. I know you better than that—’
‘You know me?’ he snarled, dipping his chin.
‘Yes. I know you,’ she argued stubbornly, refusing to back down.
‘You knew me then,’ he said. And he didn’t like reminders of then.
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Heath.’
Her voice had turned softer. Bronte backing down? That had to be a first. Had the years smoothed her out? Remembering her welcome, he guessed not. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. But even as their eyes met and held he knew this small concession was the first step on the road to damnation, the first nod to his libido. Bronte was still as attractive as ever—more so, when she was all fired up.
‘It’s important Uncle Harry’s work here continue,’ she told him, her brow creasing with passion. ‘And with you at the helm, Heath,’ she added with less conviction.
His senses stirred. She was magnificent with those green eyes blazing and that dainty jaw jutting. She was unflinching. Boudicca of the Yorkshire moors. But she was also uneasy and unsure of him. She was unsure of what he’d do. Thinking back to what seemed like another life to him now, he couldn’t blame her. ‘You’ll be the first to know when I make my decision. But know this: I don’t do weekends. I don’t do holidays. And I don’t need a country house. You work it out.’
‘I think that answers my question,’ The green gaze remained steady on his face.
‘If you care so much about Hebers Gyll, what are you going to do about it?’ he said, turning the tables on her.
‘I won’t walk away without a fight.’
He didn’t doubt it. ‘And in practical terms?’
She tilted her chin at a determined angle. ‘Whether or not you keep the estate, I’m going to apply for the job of estate manager.’
He laughed out loud. She really had surprised him now. ‘Making jam tarts with your mother at the kitchen table hardly qualifies you for that.’
‘You’re not the only one to have made something of yourself, Heath,’ she fired back. ‘I have qualifications in estate management—and I’ve travelled the world, studying how vast tracts of land and properties like this can be managed successfully.’
Now she had his interest.
‘It’s only natural I want to know what your plans are,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t want to be wasting my pitch on the wrong man.’ Out came the chin.
‘My plans are no business of yours.’ He stopped admiring her when it occurred to him that Bronte wanted something that belonged to him. Or at least, she wanted control of Hebers Ghyll, which amounted to the same thing. It was a challenge he couldn’t ignore. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since he’d been a hard, fighting, rebellious youth and Bronte the housekeeper’s prim little daughter sneaking out to see him, hiding in the shadows, thinking he didn’t know she was there, but he hadn’t changed when it came to protecting what was his. ‘If you want me to make time to see you, clear up this mess and get off my property.’ He pointed to the area around her tent, which, in fairness, was neat. Bronte had always respected the countryside.
‘You promised we’d talk.’
‘I’ll make a start, shall I?’ he said, losing patience.
She exclaimed with surprise when he swooped on a tent peg and jerked it out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, launching herself at him.
‘I wouldn’t advise you do that again.’ Seizing hold of her wrists, he held her in front of him. His gaze slipping to her parted lips. The urge to ravage them overwhelmed him.
‘Let go of me, Heath,’ she warned him. Her voice was shaking. Her eyes were dark. Her lips were parted—
Control kicked in. He lifted his hands away. ‘Remove the tent,’ he said.
‘You don’t frighten me,’ she muttered, rubbing her wrists as she pulled away.
But he had frightened her. Bronte had feared her reaction to him. The snap of static between them had surprised him. This was no ordinary reunion, he reflected as she began bringing her tent down. The redhead tomboy and the bad boy from the city had enjoyed some high voltage scraps in the past, and it appeared that passion hadn’t abated. But it had changed, Heath reflected. Bronte had felt slight and vulnerable beneath his hands. She was all grown-up now, and her scent of soap and damp grass had grazed his senses, leaving an impression he would find hard to shake off.
HEATH STAMP was back. She kept repeating the mantra in her head as if that were going to make it easier for her to be close to him without quivering like a doe on heat. She had been expecting Heath, and had thought she was well prepared for this first encounter, but nothing could have prepared her for feeling so vulnerable, so aware and aroused.
‘Get a move on, Bronte.’
‘I’m moving as fast as I can.’
‘Good, because some of us have work to do.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Bronte muttered tensely. She had sorted herself out with a part-time office job in the area while she was still away on her travels—it was just sheer luck Heath had chosen to arrive at the weekend.
‘Come on, come on,’ he urged impatiently. ‘I have to get back to London—’
‘We all have things to do, Heath.’
The rain had stopped and Heath was pacing. He had always suffered energy overload and that force was pinging off him now. She wouldn’t be taking so long if he didn’t look so good. Fantasies she could handle, but this much reality was a problem. Heath’s hair had always been thick and strong, but he’d grown it longer and it caressed his strong, tanned neck, curling over the collar of his shirt, and was every bit as wayward as she remembered. Waves caught on his sharply etched cheeks where his black stubble had won the razor war, and, though he might not have fought with his fists for many years, Heath was still built, still tanned, and, apart from the car, he didn’t flash his wealth, which she liked. His clothes were designed for practicality rather than to impress—banged-up jeans worn thin and pale over the place where a nice girl shouldn’t look, and boots comfortably worn in. Heath had sexy feet, she remembered from those times years back when she had spied on him swimming in the lake—
‘Have you turned into a pillar of salt? Or is there a chance we might get out of here today, Bronte?’
‘Are you still there?’ she retorted, lavishing what Heath used to call her paint-stripping stare on him. The old banter starting up between them had stirred her fighting spirit—
