The Big Bad Boss

by Susan Stephens

  ‘So did you find the missing link?’

  She thought about it for a moment. ‘I discovered how much I love it here,’ she said, biting the full swell of her bottom lip, as if lust for travel and the love of home were warring inside her.

  ‘You love a lot,’ he observed.

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘You talk about love all the time, but love isn’t a cure-all, Bronte.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but nothing much would get done without it.’

  He held up his hands to that. ‘Did you love teaching me to read?’

  She held his gaze for a moment in silence as if she knew that everything that mattered to him would be contained in her answer. ‘I loved being with you,’ she said steadily. ‘And you were a good student,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t think I could teach you anything,’ she said honestly.

  ‘Well, thank you, ma’am.’ He curved a grin. ‘I can’t believe you said that—’

  ‘I can’t believe it, either,’ she agreed, and then they both laughed. And moved one step closer.

  ‘I haven’t had your education,’ he admitted as she started clearing up.

  ‘You’ve had plenty at the school of life,’ she observed. And when she turned to him her face was serious. ‘You had more schooling in that university than most people could deal with, Heath.’

  They said nothing for a moment and then he curved a grin and let it go.

  ‘This paint is supposed to wash off easily,’ she grumbled from the sink, up to her elbows in soapy water.

  ‘Am I allowed to smile?’ he said.

  ‘You do what you want from what I’ve seen.’

  She turned back to vigorously washing her hands again, but not before he’d seen the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘Towel?’ he suggested.

  ‘Please.’

  He made coffee and passed her a mug. She hummed appreciatively and started sipping. ‘Good?’

  Emerald eyes found him over the rim of the mug. ‘Very good—you’re a man of many talents, Heath.’

  ‘I’m a businessman. I do what I have to—as efficiently as I can.’

  ‘But you are growing to love it here, aren’t you?’ she asked him, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. ‘Just a little bit, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing would entice me to subscribe to your woolly view that love changes everything, Bronte. Do you seriously think love would be enough here?’

  ‘Obviously, Hebers Ghyll needs a little more help than loving thoughts,’ she conceded.

  ‘Help from a jaded city type like me, possibly?’

  ‘A man with enough money to make things happen? Yes, that should do it,’ she agreed, brazen as you like.

  A long-time fan of Bronte’s directness, he wasn’t fazed, and went in with a challenge of his own. ‘And the sparring between us? Could we work round that?’

  ‘I’d find a way to deal with it,’ she said, frowning.

  Was she thinking about the fun they could have making up?

  ‘The only reason I’m here,’ she assured him seriously, ‘is to make sure you don’t knock the place down when no one’s looking.’

  ‘And build a shopping centre?’ He laughed. ‘And, of course, that’s the only reason you’re here?’

  ‘There’s no other reason I can think of.’

  Opening the fridge, he took out a beer, knocked the top off the bottle on the edge of the kitchen table, and chugged it down. ‘I’m not a man who destroys things, Bronte—when will you get that through your head? I’m a builder by nature, and a games designer by trade. I see no conflict there. I create things. Cyber worlds, brick walls—they’re all the same to me; it’s what I do.’

  ‘But your life is in the city, Heath. So you wouldn’t stay here year round—and whoever makes a success of Hebers Ghyll would have to love it enough to live here.’

  ‘Every second of every day?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. That’s what a good estate manager’s for.’

  Bronte fell silent as this sank in. Even if she won the job there would be no Heath.

  ‘You can’t run a place like Hebers Ghyll on good intentions, Bronte. Look at Uncle Harry—’

  ‘Yes. Look at him,’ she said fiercely.

  And now they were both quiet.

  She was moving their mugs to the sink one minute—the next she had grabbed the paintbrush, jabbed it in the paint-tray and come looking for him.

  ‘You want a fight, do you?’ he challenged, dodging out of her way.

  So much, Bronte thought.

  ‘You deserved that,’ she told him, backing off having given Heath a stripe of paint across his arm.

  ‘Did I?’ He circled round her. ‘The countryside is just a lot of empty space to me,’ he taunted. ‘Just think of all those potential building plots—’

  ‘Stop it,’ she warned him, making another lunge, which he just managed to evade.

  ‘The noise and the rush of the city?’ He backed her slowly towards the wall as he pretended to think about it. ‘Or the silence and emptiness of the countryside? Hmm. Let me think.’

  ‘Empty?’ she exclaimed, making a double stab at him before slipping away under his arm. ‘The countryside empty? You should open your eyes and look around, Heath.’

  He wiped the paint off his cheek. ‘My eyes are wide open, believe me,’ he assured her, moving in for the kill.

  ‘I don’t know why you even came here,’ she said as he held her firmly with the brush dangling a tempting inch or two from her face.

  ‘Profit, wasn’t it?’ he growled, easing her wrist so the brush laid a dainty paint trail across her cheek.

  ‘Why, you—’

  ‘Barbarian?’ he suggested, directing the brush across her nose.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you for this.’

  He wasn’t concerned. Bronte’s eyes told him something very different—and so did the swell of her mouth. He wouldn’t leave a paint trail there, he decided, removing the paintbrush from her hand and putting it in the sink. That would definitely be against his best interests. ‘I’m confiscating this,’ he said, running water over the brush. Next, he dampened a cloth. ‘And now I’m going to clean you up.’ He raised a challenging brow when she threatened to resist him.

  ‘I should go,’ she said breathlessly, one step ahead of him as she stared at the door.

  ‘No,’ he argued softly, ‘you should come.’

  She drew in a sharp breath as she turned to look at him. ‘Is everything a joke to you, Heath?’

  ‘Is this a joke?’ Wielding the warm, moist cloth with the utmost care, he swung an arm around her shoulder to draw her close and wiped the paint smears off her face. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he murmured, noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeded up.

  ‘Have you?’ There was only the smallest ring of vivid green around her pupils as she stared at him. ‘This will all be worth it if I have persuaded you to keep Hebers Ghyll, Heath.’

  He smiled into her eyes. ‘Sorry to disappoint. The most I’m prepared to commit to at this moment in time is that I will keep the place alive and continue with the renovations. Don’t look so surprised,’ he teased. ‘A demolition site is worth far less to me than a stately home.’

  ‘I’ll get the paint again,’ she threatened him.

  ‘Then I’d just have to wash you all over again.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘What do I have to do to stop you?’

  He didn’t miss the note of pent-up excitement in her voice.

  ‘Everything I tell you,’ he murmured. ‘What’s the catch?’ she said suspiciously. ‘There is no catch.’

  ‘Then tell me what I have to do—’ She followed his gaze to the door. ‘Heath, we can’t—’

  ‘Why not?’ Angling his chin, he stared down at her.

  ‘Because it’s outrageous,’ she whispered, her voice t
rembling with excitement.

  ‘You don’t do outrageous?’ Dipping his head, he kissed her neck.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HEATH’S hand cupped Bronte’s chin. He made her look at him. She could see in his gaze what came next and how incredible it was going to be. His hand felt warm and gentle on her face. For such a big man, Heath could be incredibly sensitive—and intuitive. It was this mix of soothing balm and fiery passion she craved now. She was hungry for tenderness. Only-child syndrome, maybe, Bronte thought. With both her parents working there hadn’t been much time to spare for cuddling. And though there had been other children visiting Hebers Ghyll she’d always felt on the outside looking in—except with Heath. They had both been different, she supposed—the dreamer and the wild boy from the city.

  ‘Hey, come back to me,’ Heath insisted.

  She looked at him. They could both have used a hug back then. She had always been hungry for Heath. He had lit a fire no amount of common sense could hope to put out, and that fire had been smouldering for thirteen years. Could anything stand in its way now?

  ‘This isn’t so outrageous, is it?’ Heath demanded, tightening his grip on her when she exhaled shakily.

  ‘You’re a very bad man indeed.’

  Heath smiled, and then his lips brushed her cheek. He was making her tremble. He was making the ache inside her turn into a primitive hunger that lacked every vestige of romance.

  And then he brought her in front of him and Heath’s steady gaze didn’t leave her eyes as his hands moved slowly down her arms. He could read every thought and she felt violently exposed, yet glad that Heath could see her hunger for him. She exclaimed softly when his thumb pad caught the tip of her nipple—but it moved on. This was all intended. Heath had caught her in his erotic net. And she wasn’t interested in escaping. She was only interested in what came next.

  Heath’s hand was moving lightly down her spine towards her buttocks. Her breathing sounded ragged as that experienced hand continued on, and when it reached the hollow in the small of her back it fitted so neatly, she relaxed, but when he moved on to map the swell of her bottom that was too much. With a shaking cry, she arched her back, offering herself for pleasure. Heath’s hands maintained a detailed exploration—sensitively seeking, and yet never quite giving her the contact she craved. ‘Oh, please—’ She was shivering with anticipation, shameless in her need. ‘Please don’t tease me like this, Heath.’

  Heath said nothing as he continued to stroke and prepare. Her breathing sounded noisy in the silence, and she knew he must feel her heat through the flimsy protection of her clothes. She was moist and swollen—ready for him, and the only thought in her head was, Don’t stop.

  ‘And if I stop now?’ Heath said, pausing.

  ‘Have you read my mind?’ She heard the smile in his voice, and could picture the curve of Heath’s lips, even with her face buried in the soft wool of his sweater. ‘You can’t stop now,’ she said, gazing up at him, ‘Because I can’t stop now.’

  ‘So, what’s the answer?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘You have to kiss me.’

  ‘Is that a command?’ Heath’s lips curved with amusement.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

  Maybe her memory of all those years back was faulty. Maybe one kiss would be the answer to resisting Heath—to resisting what her body begged her to do.

  His mouth was so close her lips tingled. She sighed, climbing to the next level of arousal as Heath brushed his lips against hers. Reaching up, she laced her fingers through his hair, opening her body to a man more than capable of taking advantage of her. Her legs were trembling against his. She’d waited so long. Heath didn’t disappoint. His kiss was firm and sure, and the touch of his hands on her body was indescribable. Heat ran through her like a torrent of molten lava, and when he teased her lips apart with his tongue she was glad of his arms supporting her. Hunger ruled her. She was captive to feelings so strong it was impossible to keep them in check. Breath shot from her lungs as Heath’s grip tightened. She wanted him. She wanted to share his warmth and confidence. She wanted his body. She wanted Heath to take hold of her and position her as he pleasured her, and for him to go on pleasuring her until the world and all its uncertainties faded away.

  There could be no more delays. She had no inhibitions left—no restraint. There was just an urgent need to feel Heath hot and hard inside her. She wanted him as a wild animal wanted its mate. There was nothing tender about this—no thought, no reason, just a glorious battle with one sure ending. Naked flesh on naked flesh, drugging and intoxicating—no kisses, no tender promises, only now.

  She rejoiced in the rasp of Heath’s chest hair against her pitifully sensitive nipples, and welcomed him, hard, hot and savage against her. She cried out with excitement when he brought her jeans down in one swift move and lifted her. ‘Now,’ she instructed him, crazy with need.

  ‘Not so fast,’ Heath murmured. His experienced hands had found her, checked that she was ready, and then he quickly protected them both.

  She locked her legs around his waist. ‘Oh, no … no … no,’ she cried, shaking her head wildly from side to side as he started teasing her with just the tip.

  ‘Oh, yes … yes,’ Heath responded, taking her deep.

  Her eyes widened. She gasped with astonishment at the size of him. She gripped his shoulder for support. Planting her hands flat against his chest, she braced herself—and when the pleasure became too great, she laced her fingers through his hair, threw her head back and rode the sensation. This was so much more than she had expected. She was lost in pleasure, lost to reason. Heath was every bit as intuitive as she’d known he would be, and infinitely sensitive to her needs. He must never stop, she thought wildly as he dealt her the deep rhythmical strokes. She wouldn’t let him stop. She was floating on an erotic plane where she had nothing to do but accept pleasure while Heath, with one hand braced against the door, pounded into her.

  ‘You’re fantastic,’ she screamed at the moment of release. As she collapsed against him she realised this was true. Heath was an extraordinary lover, and she was addicted to his very special brand of pleasure. She pressed her face against his chest, inhaling his warm, clean male scent. Heath was everything she had ever wanted in a man—everything she had ever dreamed he would be. He was so tender and careful as he lowered her to the floor. He didn’t let go of her until he was sure she was steady on her feet; by that time her heart was full of him.

  ‘Better?’ he murmured, smiling against her hair.

  ‘Transformed,’ she told him. That was nothing more than the truth. She could hardly believe what had happened, and was so glad that it had.

  ‘Until the next time?’ Heath’s voice was full of the affection she longed to hear as he nuzzled his face against her neck.

  ‘We belong together, you and I, I’ve always known it,’ she said, snuggling into him. Perhaps Heath did too. He’d said until the next time, which couldn’t be long now, she thought, gazing up at him. She only needed a couple of minutes to recover, and then she’d be—

  Something had changed, Bronte realised, feeling sick inside. She’d said too much as usual, and Heath had changed. She had frightened him off with her big emotions. She could feel the change in his body—in his stillness—in his drawing back. His hard frame was unyielding when seconds ago it had been hers. A chill ran through her at the thought that while she had been spinning like a dervish out of control, Heath had been quietly thinking.

  But what they’d done wasn’t wrong.

  However many times she told herself this, it didn’t change the way Heath had become. Hard flesh that had moulded her soft body was just hard flesh, and the sensitive hands that had catered to her every need while Heath held her safe had grown light and impersonal.

  ‘Heath?’

  He didn’t move for a moment, as if he respected the fact that they both needed a moment to come down and grow accustomed to this change between them. He might as well have left
the room, Bronte thought.

  ‘Okay?’ he said at last, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said as if she were reassuring him.

  While she got herself sorted out she could hear Heath fastening his jeans and securing his belt. How quiet they were—how reserved … like two strangers. She didn’t need anyone to tell her they’d got it wrong. The knowledge hung between them in the air. And into a mind that didn’t want to accept the truth, she knew that sex—for that was all it had been with Heath—had been a terrible mistake, and that she must cut her feelings for him now before they swamped her. A relationship with a man like Heath was never going anywhere, so it was better to end it and show how sophisticated she could be before she ruined her chances of ever being taken seriously as a candidate for the job. She huffed lightly. ‘To think I only asked for coffee.’

  ‘I promised the lads I’d join them later,’ Heath said, picking up on her change of mood. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay if I go?’

  As he spoke he reached out a hand, and she sensed Heath wanted to stroke her hair. She pulled back. There was nothing temperamental or dramatic about it, this was just a signal between friends that they understood each other. ‘Of course I’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? I’m just going to finish up in here, and then I’m going home for a long, hot bath and a lazy night in front of the TV.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ Heath looked puzzled. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she countered wryly. ‘I can walk you to the pub, if you like?’

  ‘I think I’ll be safe,’ Heath answered in the same ironic tone.

  ‘Okay.’ Angling her chin, she found a smile.

  She waited until he left the room and then blew out a long, slow breath. Behave with dignity, she told herself firmly. She had wanted Heath—and had been determined to have him. And now she had, she must take the consequences.

  So that was settled.

  Good.

  Hearing the outer door closing, she listened to Heath’s footsteps crossing the yard. Even they were unbearably familiar, but gradually they faded. Bronte only hoped her feelings would do the same. Closing her eyes, she gave it a moment. No change. Still acting calmly, she was screaming in her head. There was no right way to handle this. Well, there was, as far as the outside world was concerned and Heath, but for her tonight was a memory to lock away, and to get out and examine whenever she needed to beat herself up.