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 Hebers Ghyll under Uncle Harry’s direction. And how he’d fought it. Heath had thrown Uncle Harry’s kindness back in his face. A fact he’d spent his adult life regretting.
‘You know I didn’t 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
