I don’t think my muck-spreading look is going to cut it.’
‘You might have a point,’ Colleen agreed with a laugh as she took in the state of Bronte’s dungarees. ‘So you really think you’ve got a chance of landing the job? It would be wonderful if you did—it would give everyone such a lift.’
‘Thanks,’ Bronte said, smiling ruefully. ‘I have to believe I stand a chance or I wouldn’t go to London. I’ve got the right qualifications—and the right practical experience too. And I’ve got local knowledge, which hopefully will give me an edge. So, logically, I should be in the running…’ Though whether Mr Logical would see it that way remained to be seen. ‘But I must look as professional as I can, which is where you come in.’
‘Whatever I can do,’ Colleen offered.
‘Well, I’ve been off the radar for a while—so I’ll need a suit.’
‘And there are so many shops round here,’ Colleen said dryly.
‘Exactly, and there’s no time to visit the local town before my interview.’
‘Well, you must look good for Heath.’
‘This has nothing to do with Heath,’ Bronte protested a little too hotly.
‘Okay,’ Colleen soothed, holding her hands up palms flat in surrender.
‘Heath needs to come back to oversee this project,’ Bronte said thoughtfully. ‘An absentee landlord is no good to Hebers Ghyll.’
‘And an absentee lover is even less use to you.’
‘Colleen—’
‘I’m just saying. If friends can’t be honest with each other. Yes, of course I’ll help,’ Colleen confirmed when Bronte gave her a look. ‘Do you really think you can persuade Heath to come back here?’
‘He has to—look how much got done on his last visit. We have to be positive, Colleen. What?’ she said when Colleen’s gaze slid away.
‘I just don’t want to see you getting hurt, Bronte.’
‘I’m not going to get hurt,’ Bronte said firmly. ‘I know what I’m doing. This is business. Let’s get back to work, shall we? I can raid your wardrobe later.’
‘You can take whatever you want,’ Colleen assured her.
‘Then that’s settled,’ Bronte said cheerfully, but her friend’s concerned expression hadn’t changed.
The trade journals had picked up on his coup and were going crazy. The office was going crazy—and more crazy was exactly what he didn’t need. ‘What do you mean, you can’t cope?’ Heath thundered to the only man who didn’t quail when he let rip.
‘If I didn’t work with a bloody genius, you’d know,’ Heath’s harassed PA informed him testily. ‘You think everyone can work at your speed, Heath—i.e. the speed of light. Well, I’ve got news for you—I’ve only got one pair of hands—’
‘And if you spent less time slathering hand cream on them you’d have more time to spare for work.’
‘Woo-hoo. Bitchee. Now who’s suffering from a bad dose of Not Getting Any?’
‘And since when is that your business?’
‘I’ve made it my business. I have to suffer the backlash every day.’
‘If you weren’t—’
‘The only gay male friend you’re ever likely to have?’ Quentin interrupted smoothly.
‘The only friend I’m likely to have,’ Heath confessed ruefully.
Reaching up on tiptoe, Quentin threw a comforting arm around his boss’s powerful shoulders. ‘Take it from one who knows—you need to sort out that other problem first.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Good, then perhaps you’ll calm down and stop carrying on like a bull with a sore head and we can get some work done around here.’
‘Get some help.’
Quentin pouted. ‘Now I’m offended.’
‘I mean, go get someone in to handle the interviews if you can’t cope.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Quentin smiled at the small victory as he examined his immaculately manicured nails. ‘Maybe a temp to handle some of the run-of-the-mill work, while I supervise the interviews. What?’ he protested. ‘Did you seriously think I’d allow anyone but me to start the interview process for such a vital position on your lordship’s new estate?’
‘Firstly, I’m not a lord—and believe me,’ Heath added dryly, ‘Hebers Ghyll is not the dream property you seem to imagine, Quentin. I’ve seen better slums in my time.’
‘And you’ve handled that sort of renovation perfectly. You’ll handle this,’ Quentin said, refusing to be dismayed.
‘Maybe,’ Heath growled. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.’
Quentin gave him a mock bow. ‘The master speaks and I obey.’
Heath cracked a smile. ‘Now find me an estate manager who thinks the same way you do.’
Quentin pulled a hurt face. ‘I can assure you, I am a one-off.’
‘And I couldn’t do without you,’ Heath admitted.
‘But I know what I’d do without you,’ Quentin shot back. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Save money at the salon—the stress lines I’ve developed since I started working for you—’
‘And no, you can’t charge your treatments to expenses.’
Quentin sulked for around a second. ‘I’ll get that temp in, then.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ Heath advised, returning to his screen.
She had never been put through such a gruelling grilling. Heath’s PA, a man who went by the name of Quentin Carew, turned out to be the most formidable style maven Bronte had ever encountered, and he would be conducting the first screening process, Quentin had informed her.
Then she was out, Bronte thought. She didn’t stand a chance. Quentin was infinitely better groomed than she would ever be, and Heath’s offices far surpassed anything that even Bronte’s lively imagination could have conjured up. A celebration of steel and glass, they were formidably smart, as was Quentin, whereas she—even with Colleen’s best and kindest efforts—wasn’t. But for some reason, Quentin seemed to like her. It was possible he could see right through her carefully subdued grooming and controlled manner to something quirky underneath. Perhaps it was the small heart tattoo on her wrist—something she had hoped her respectable shirt cuff would cover, but hadn’t, and she had caught Quentin staring at it.
‘I’m
