else had ever done, brought another side of him into existence—a side he had kept buried for most, if not all of his adult life. Emotions, inconvenient and dangerously distracting. He buried them. Bronte rooted them out, forcing him to confront his feelings and challenging his famous self-control.
And what had he done for Bronte?
He had made her face reality instead of blurring the lines between that and the fantasies she liked to weave.
So what was he saying? They completed each other?
He had thought the only thing that could touch him was business, but if those weren’t feelings they’d been expressing tonight, he didn’t know what they were. And if Bronte’s face hadn’t reflected her shock when she realised there was more to this association of theirs than pick-and-mix dreams, then that big dose of reality really had passed her by.
Turning back to his desk, he fingered the contract he’d had drawn up by his lawyers, itemizing the formal conditions for a six-month trial of the new estate manager at Hebers Ghyll. It was something he had intended to raise with Bronte, but they had both needed cooling-down time, and space from each other so they could rejig their thoughts. Bronte would leave London tomorrow. She was safer in the country—safe in the city too, so long as he stayed away. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow it would be all about business.
She took a long, warm bath, trying to convince herself that because this was such luxury it would somehow soothe her. It meant nothing. She would rather have slept on a park bench and remained friends with Heath than lie here in scented foam in the fabulous suite of rooms Heath had paid for because he wanted to keep her safe—because Heath had wanted to give her something nice, a treat, only for her to throw it back in his face. She’d get up early and go home, Bronte reflected as she climbed out and grabbed a towel. She could only wait and see if Heath’s personal feelings would negate the grilling he’d managed to slip in while they were both relaxed enough to talk frankly to each other during their crazy fun day out.
‘That was quite some interviewing technique, mister,’ she murmured wistfully, gazing at her shadowy reflection in the mirror on the wall. The suite was sumptuous, but the lights were cruel. Or maybe she had just aged. More likely, she’d had a shocking hold-the-mirror-up-to-yourself moment, and grown up.
All of the above, Bronte concluded.
She turned at a knock on the door.
Heath?
Heath was her first—her only thought.
Her heart was racing by the time she’d grabbed a robe and raced out of the bathroom, across the bedroom, to throw the lock, and opened the door.
On an empty corridor.
Glancing up and down, conscious she wasn’t dressed for public display, she retreated quickly and pressed the door to again, locking it securely. It was only when she calmed down she saw the note on the floor. Express checkout details?
It had to be …
But they wouldn’t call her Bronte, would they? The hotel wouldn’t write that on the front of the envelope in bold script, using a fountain pen.
She ripped the envelope apart and let it fall to the floor. Unfolding the single sheet of high quality notepaper, she read the brief message. Heath would like to see her in the morning, before she returned to the country…9 a.m., his house.
She scanned the letter again. It was more of a note—no flourishes, no personal asides, just Heath’s London address printed in raised script on the top right-hand corner. It was yet another kick-in-the-teeth reminder that Heath was in another place from the boy who had loved nothing more than a rough-house behind the stables with anyone foolish enough to take him on. Heath was a self-educated gentleman of culture and means these days, and it was Bronte who needed to get her head out of the sand.
THE outside of Heath’s town house was a paean to elegance. Palladian pillars framed neatly trimmed bay trees either side of an imposing front door. The dark blue paintwork was so flawless it had the appearance of sapphire glass. The door knocker was a gleaming lion with bared teeth.
How appropriate, Bronte thought as her hand hovered over it. She was bang on time. She had made sure of it. As she waited on the neat, square mat she noticed the matching door knob was a smooth, tactile globe that would fit Heath’s hand perfectly. Imagining his hand closed around it, she drew a sharp breath as he opened the door.
‘Welcome to my home.’ Heath, tall, dark and frighteningly charismatic, held the door open for her.
There was nothing to suggest he bore a grudge, or that last night had been the blitz of emotions she remembered. Heath was all business this morning. ‘Thank you.’ She stepped past his powerful presence into the hall.
Having left the crisp air of early morning behind only one thought hit her and that was, Wow. The warmth and luxury of Heath’s home enveloped her immediately, as did the restrained décor in shades of cream, white, beige and ivory—the occasional blast of colour provided by vivid works of art hanging on flawless, chalky-white walls.
Everything was spotless, and in its place—but this wasn’t just a showpiece, she realised, gazing around, this was a home. A bolt of longing grabbed her when she took in all the personal touches. They were in an imposing square hall tiled in black and white marble. The lofty ceiling was decorated with beautifully restored plasterwork, and the doors were heavy, polished wood. How had she missed so much about Heath? She must have been wearing blinkers. Yes, he was the same warrior, as evidenced by his business prowess now, but he was a protector too, as she knew from his care of her in London, and he was fun and sexy, clever—and could be a regular pain in the neck, when he put his mind to it, she thought, smiling to herself as Heath drew her deeper into the house. And the more she saw, the more she realised she had imagined many things over the years about Heath, but she had never pictured him as a homemaker. There was mail waiting to be posted on the antique console table with the gilt-framed mirror over it, as well as a couple of recently delivered yachting magazines, still in their cellophane wrappers. There was even a high-tech racing bike propped beside the front door—
‘Bronte?’ Heath prompted.
She was turning full circle like a tourist at the Louvre, Bronte realised—probably with her mouth wide open. How rude! Red-cheeked, she followed Heath down the hallway. She spied a litter of books scattered across a squashy sofa through one open door—his living room, she presumed. Classical music was playing softly in the background, and a log fire was murmuring in the hearth. He must have been relaxing there, waiting for her to arrive.
Nice to know someone could relax, she thought wryly as they passed another door. This opened onto a cloakroom with a boot rack stacked with an assortment of footwear and rugged jackets slung on antique hooks. It was all rather bloke-ish, and yet reassuringly normal for such a wealthy man.
And welcoming. That was her overriding impression, Bronte realised. Whether Heath knew it or not he had absorbed everything Uncle Harry had created at Hebers Ghyll. This was a real home, where the original features of the house had been retained and married with practicality and luxury, she thought as Heath showed her into his study. Understated and original were the keynotes that distinguished Heath’s home—but then he was an artist too, she remembered. If Heath could be persuaded to work this type of magic on Hebers Ghyll, the estate really would live again.
