The Big Bad Boss

by Susan Stephens

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  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.

  And their friendship? What were the odds on that surviving? Bronte wondered as Heath invited her to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. There was nothing intimate in his tone of voice. It was all business for him now.

  ‘You know what this is?’ he said, pushing a sheaf of documents towards her.

  She looked at him—looked into Heath’s deep, complex gaze. It sucked her in … and left her floundering. ‘A contract?’ she said, quickly gathering her scattered thoughts.

  ‘It’s a legal document setting out the terms for a six-month trial. Read it, and if you agree it, sign it.’ Uncapping the same fountain pen with which he must have written the brief note inviting her to his London home, he handed it to her. ‘I’ll leave you while you read and consider—and you don’t have to sign anything right away. You don’t have to sign it at all.’

  ‘But—’ She stood, wanting to thank him. This was everything she had ever dreamed of. And how flat dreams could feel when they came true, she thought as Heath left the room.

  But this wasn’t just about her. There were others she had to think about. She sat down again and started to read, but all the time she was aware of the lovingly polished wood around her, and the warm, clean air, lightly fragranced with Heath’s shower soap—

  Heath …

  She’d pushed him away, shaking her head as if that could rid it of him—and was left with a contract.

  He’d had a breakfast meeting with the lawyers to get the contract finalised—except he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and now he was hungry. He glanced at the cooker and the fridge—glanced at his wristwatch and thought of Bronte. He wanted her to be secure. He’d given her a cast-iron contract that protected her and gave her a pay-out if she changed her mind about working on the estate.

  ‘I can’t sign this, Heath.’

  He turned to see her framed in the doorway. ‘Can’t or won’t?’ he said coolly.

  ‘You know what’s in here. It isn’t fair.’

  ‘No?’ His lips pressed down in a rueful smile as she walked across the room. ‘I thought it was very fair.’

  ‘But there’s nothing in it for you—no guarantees for you.’

  ‘It’s six months, Bronte.’ He shrugged. ‘You tell me how much I stand to lose.’

  ‘You stand to lose a lot,’ she insisted, coming close to make her point. ‘You know you do, Heath.’

  ‘Do I?’ As Bronte’s clean, wildflower scent invaded his senses he felt less than nothing about his losses—which was a first for him in business, he registered with wryly.

  ‘Look at this clause, as an example,’ she said, showing him the relevant passage. ‘This is ridiculous—I don’t need special treatment.’

  ‘Do you find it patronising?’ Heath asked as she turned her face up to him.

  ‘Well, yes, I do, actually,’ she said. ‘Would anyone else get this sort of contract? I doubt it, Heath.’

  ‘Does friendship count for nothing, Bronte?’

  ‘Friendship…’ She looked at him in something close to bewilderment.

  Leaning back against the counter, he was acutely conscious of Bronte standing only inches away. ‘Sign or don’t sign,’ he said, shifting position and moving away.

  ‘I want to be the best person for the job, Heath.’ She frowned. ‘But you don’t seem to care what I do, which doesn’t fill me with confidence. I don’t want any special favours. I want you to take me on because I’m the best.’

  ‘You are the best candidate,’ he said evenly, meeting her gaze.

  ‘And the rest of it?’ she said.

  He stared away into his thoughts. ‘I just want you to be happy, Bronte. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’

  How could she be? Bronte wondered as her fingers closed around the contract. Heath was right, this contract had been her goal, but wanting Heath eclipsed everything, which meant this piece of paper with its more than generous terms fell so far short of what she had hoped for, she could hardly raise the energy to sign it.

  ‘I’m not changing a word of it,’ Heath told her. ‘But I will give you a little more time to decide if you want to go ahead and sign it. In the meantime—’ his lips tugged up in a faint smile ‘—have you eaten anything this morning?’

  ‘No … have you?’

  Their gazes held for a moment. If this was friendship—this feeling that survived everything—then she’d take it.

  ‘Ar
e you hungry, Bronte?’

  Heath’s question made her nose sting. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Then let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make you something to eat.’

  ‘You cook?’

  ‘I cook,’ Heath confirmed.

  He led the way into a large, airy kitchen. With its glass roof, and fabulous state-of-the-art appliances, it had the spacious feel of an orangerie. ‘Did you design it?’ she said, looking around.

  ‘I prepared the brief, did the drawings, and sourced the materials, so there could be no mistakes,’ Heath explained, reaching for a pan and turning on the cooker.

  ‘Did you do most of the work yourself?’ she said, admiring the way the original ornate plasterwork had been incorporated into the modern design.

  ‘Most of it—though I did allow the interior designers to plump the cushions when I’d finished.’

  When Heath curved a smile it was like a light turning on, Bronte thought, but she mustn’t be dazzled by it.

  ‘Eggs Benedict?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. I like eating—so it’s essential that I cook.’

  She laughed, and finally relaxed.

  He loved the sound of Bronte laughing. It was the only soundtrack he needed. He found a bowl and started whisking. ‘Why don’t you sit and read your contract? This will take a few minutes.’

  As Heath got busy cracking eggs and reaching for the seasoning she laid the contract on the cool black granite, and signed it without another word.

  Tipping buttery sauce onto the spinach, eggs and muffins, he came to sit next to her at the breakfast bar. ‘You signed it,’ he said, brow furrowing as he stared at the contract.

  ‘And here’s your copy,’ she said, handing him half the papers. ‘Eat. You must be hungry too. This is delicious, Heath,’ she commented after the first mouthful.

  Their arms were almost touching. This was the closest they had come to relaxing together since—since she didn’t want to think about. She wanted to start over—this way—with a friendship between two adults—just see where it led. Nowhere, probably, but, hey—

  ‘Now you’re formally part of the team,’ Heath said as he forked up egg, ‘I’ll tell you my thoughts about Hebers Ghyll.’ Was that disappointment in Bronte’s eyes? Wasn’t this what she wanted? ‘If there’s something else you’d like to discuss first?’

  ‘Nothing,’ 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.<
br />
  ‘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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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, a home gym, and an indoor swimming pool,’ he explained.

  ‘Of course you have,’ she teased him, but this was all seriously fabulous, even for such an upscale area of the city.

  ‘Upstairs?’ he suggested.

  ‘Why not?’ With this new understanding between them, why should there be any no-go areas?

  They were easy together. They were going to have a good working relationship, Bronte thought as she followed Heath up the stairs. They’d had their explosion, their resolution, and now they were starting afresh.

  Heath was so athletic she had to run to keep up with him, though he barely seemed to exert himself as he sprinted up the beautifully restored central staircase. ‘The bathroom,’ he said, opening one of the doors with a flourish.

  She was still admiring the light-drenched landing. ‘You are kidding me?’ She stood on the threshold of the bathroom, staring in. ‘This is fantastic, Heath.’ The bathroom was clad in black marble and brightened with mirrors. There was a huge, walk-in drench shower, with a spa bath big enough to swim in. ‘And I bet the floor is heated.’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘It is.’