she protested, a little too vigorously, he thought. ‘I’d like to hear your plans, Heath.’
‘Okay.’ As he talked he wondered if she was listening. She looked intent, but she was looking at him rather than listening to what he was telling her. It could wait, he thought, starting to collect the plates up.
‘Is that it?’ she said.
‘For now.’
‘So you started off thinking, “What do I need this for?” when you inherited,’ she guessed, ‘and then found me camped out on your latest acquisition and discovered a sense of ownership.’
A grin creased his face. ‘That’s pretty much the version I remember.’
‘At least by camping out I got your interest.’
‘You got something,’ Heath agreed as they filled the dishwasher together, arms brushing, faces close. ‘And your campaign won through,’ he admitted tongue in cheek. ‘I’m going to keep the place, aren’t I?’ he said, straightening up. ‘And I want you to have the pleasure of telling everyone their jobs are safe.’
Her face brightened in a quick smile—a smile she found hard to sustain and so she turned away from him.
Everything would be all right now, Bronte told herself firmly. Heath would have to come down to visit. His visits would be formal affairs—but they’d be visits.
‘I thought I might open part of the house and grounds to the public.’
She turned. ‘But that’s a wonderful idea.’
‘It makes a certain amount of sense,’ Heath agreed.
As always, he was the one under control. ‘It makes more than sense,’ she couldn’t stop herself exclaiming. ‘Uncle Harry would have loved that idea—’
‘What you have to understand,’ Heath interrupted, ‘is that I own the estate now, Bronte.’
‘Of course I realise that—I do,’ she assured him, struggling to rein back her emotions. ‘And anything you want me to do when I go back—just add it to the list.’ She was ready to start work right away—this minute—but the look Heath was giving her was different from the way she felt inside. It was steadier—brooding, almost. ‘What?’ she said.
Heath’s powerful shoulders eased in a shrug. ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ll open an office there.’
Thank you, thank you …
Bronte’s lips pressed down in a good imitation of, okay, then—no big deal. And then Heath got into practical matters—bricks and mortar, balance sheets, and making the place pay for itself, while she told him everything she could remember that made Hebers Ghyll so special to her. All the little things that had coloured her childhood, like the lush tang of newly mown meadow grass—eating hazelnuts straight from the bush, if the squirrels hadn’t got to them first—blackthorn bushes heavy with purple sloe—
‘Do you remember that sloe gin we made?’ Heath interrupted.
‘Do I remember it? I remember how sick we were after we drank it.’
‘And then your mother threw it down the sink,’ Heath said, laughing. ‘She probably saved our lives.’
‘Almost certainly …’
Bronte fell silent as a pang of regret swept over her. She missed her parents and wished she’d had the opportunity to tell them how much she loved them, and what a happy childhood they’d given her, before they left. She’d call them the first chance she got and make sure they knew. She had taken so much for granted, Bronte realised now this chance to see life through Heath’s eyes reminded her that he had enjoyed none of her benefits, and yet had always looked to the future with optimism and confidence, while she had been restless and dissatisfied when she had so much. ‘Your turn,’ she said, prompting him. ‘What else do you remember?’ She grimaced as soon as the words left her mouth, thinking about Heath’s difficult youth. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean—’
‘Hey—get over it. I have,’ Heath said. ‘Fun?’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘Sorting out this place.’ He glanced around. ‘It was a dump when I bought it. It was the only way I could afford something in central London—’
And then he started to tell her about the city he had grown to love with its galleries and museums, and the ancient buildings he loved to visit that had whetted his appetite for preservation and restoration. ‘I enjoy the concerts too.’
‘You like music?’
‘Jazz, rock, classics—of course I like music. What?’ he demanded when Bronte seemed surprised. ‘Do you think I spend all my time working out and eating nails for breakfast?’
‘Don’t you?’
He laughed.
‘And what about Hebers Ghyll, Heath? What good things do you remember about your visits?’
‘Your mother’s cooking,’ he said immediately. ‘Hot meals—Uncle Harry teaching me chess.’ He fell silent.
‘I’m sure Uncle Harry enjoyed those visits as much as you did.’
‘We had a—’ Heath pulled a face ‘—let’s just call it a pretty explosive relationship, but chess was our meeting ground. The game was all about tactics, Uncle Harry said. He told me that whatever happened to me in my life, I would always need to use tactics—so I’d better get my head around them whether I liked chess or not.’
‘That sounds like Uncle Harry,’ Bronte said, smiling as she remembered. ‘And did you?’
‘Did I what?’
Heath was gazing at her lips. ‘Did you like the game?’ she said, wiping them surreptitiously in case some of their breakfast spinach was still hanging around.
‘I like the game,’ Heath said, transferring his level gaze to her eyes.
What were they talking about now? Tingles ran down her spine.
‘Would you like me to complete the guided tour?’ Heath suggested, stretching his powerful limbs as if the inactivity was starting to get to him.
‘I’d like that very much,’ she said.
THEY left the kitchen and walked deeper into the house, crossing wonderful rugs in shades of marmalade, clotted cream and russet that softened the marble hall and gave the space an inviting glow. Heath had created something wonderful and she guessed he must have dreamed of living in a house like this when he was a boy. Heath had not only fulfilled those dreams, but had done so with his own hands, which must have been doubly rewarding for him. There was a wood-panelled library where a worn leather chesterfield sat on a faded Persian rug and a log fire blazed in the hearth, as well as a high-tech studio where Heath could work. ‘And below us in the basement I’ve got a cinema room,
