The Big Bad Boss

by Susan Stephens

  ‘You don’t exactly go down to the lake to freshen up.’

  ‘Maybe not—but I know where to look when I need a refit.’

  ‘It will cost you.’

  She tore her gaze away when it held and locked with Heath’s. Heath was at his most feral and the dreamweaver was back, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so when she should have left the room and allowed Heath to continue on with his tour she leaned back against the door, trapping them both on the bathroom side.

  ‘Stop it,’ Heath warned in an undertone, but then his lips tugged in a teasing smile. ‘Don’t you have a train to catch?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. What was she thinking? She pulled away from the door, and Heath, ever the gentleman, leaned across to open it for her. Their bodies brushed. Electricity fired. This wasn’t meant to happen—

  ‘No,’ he said, as if responding to her. ‘No, Bronte,’ he said more firmly.

  Her eyes searched his.

  ‘I’m no good for you,’ he said.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. ‘And I’m stuck in the past? Stop it—stop it now, Heath.’ Some primal instinct made her lift her arm and put her hand across his mouth. ‘I don’t want to hear that ever again,’ she said.

  Heath’s eyes were laughing as his tongue went on the attack—tickling, and licking—

  ‘Stop it,’ she warned him, whipping her hand away.

  ‘You stop it,’ Heath said, laughing.

  She exclaimed as he dragged her into his arms. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded as he swept her off her feet and headed for the drench shower. ‘No!’ she screamed when Heath’s intention became clear.

  ‘I need to cool you down,’ he said. ‘And if words won’t do it—’

  She watched him turn the shower to the coldest setting and screamed again, but it was pointless fighting Heath. And now he was under the water with her, holding her in place with embarrassing ease. ‘Have you had enough yet?’ he said, holding her in front of him.

  They were both soaked through. ‘What do you think?’ She couldn’t even pretend to be angry. Flicking her hair out of her eyes, she started laughing, and once she’d started she couldn’t stop. Then Heath was holding her, and they were both laughing.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ he said as she gasped for breath. Without waiting for her answer, he turned the shower off and, yanking her close, he kissed her—and this time there was no brushing, or teasing, or delay. They were hungry for each other and Heath kissed her in a way she had never been kissed before—in a way no one would ever kiss her again. He made her feel powerful and sexy and safe and more at risk than she had ever been in her life.

  Life was a risk.

  Love was a risk.

  Was she going to spend all her life dreaming?

  When Heath pulled back she waited. She was expecting the worst—planning for it—trying to work out how she could stalk out of his house with her head held high in soaking wet clothes. ‘Not against the wall,’ he murmured, his face creasing in a smile as he stared down at her.

  ‘Been there—done that?’ Bronte’s brows rose.

  She laughed softly against his face as Heath swung her into his arms, and then protested, ‘We can’t,’ when Heath carried her straight out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

  ‘I can do what I like in my own house.’

  ‘We’ll make the bed wet.’

  ‘You can count on it,’ Heath promised as he stripped off his clothes.

  ‘No,’ he said when she started to do the same, ‘that’s my job.’

  He undressed her slowly, kissing her naked flesh as he removed each garment with the utmost care. It was like the first time for her, Bronte thought as Heath stared down.

  Bronte’s naked body was a revelation to him—everything in miniature. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—a work of art. She brought out the best in him. She made him draw on tenderness he hadn’t known he possessed. He had always expressed physical emotions in a very different way. He embraced her gently, wanting nothing more than to protect her, and to forget all the reasons why he shouldn’t be making love to her.

  This was a moment out of time for both of them, a moment to give and receive pleasure, though she was so small against him—he couldn’t believe what had happened in the kitchen at Hebers Ghyll. That had been a mindless frenzy, the result of years of pent-up need for both of them, but this was different … better. He could take his time and draw it out for both of them. And however fierce she was—and Bronte could be fierce—he would only use a fraction of his strength in response—and even the thought of that self-imposed curb aroused him.

  ‘You’re holding back,’ she accused him, emerald fire blazing out of rapidly darkening eyes, ‘and I want all your attention—’

  ‘And you shall have it,’ he promised, moving down the bed.

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ she hurried to assure him when he eased her legs over his shoulders. ‘I’ll never complain again.’

  And as she groaned with pleasure he parted her lips and gave her his undivided attention for a considerable amount of time.

  Her world exploded in a starburst of crystalline sensation, like firework night with constant repeats, Bronte thought as she heard herself exclaiming with guttural appreciation again and again. When she came to enough to take account of her surroundings and what she was doing, it was to find Heath cradling her in his arms. ‘Oh…’

  ‘Oh?’ His lips tugged up as he dropped a kiss on her mouth. ‘More?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she said, gasping as his hand found her.

  ‘I think you’ve been missing this,’ Heath said, easing her over the edge again with a few well-judged passes of his forefinger. ‘That’s it, baby … let yourself go,’ he instructed, cupping her buttocks to hold her in place as she bucked and screamed for what seemed like for ever.

  For two people who had decided absolutely that this must never happen, they were making a very good fist of it, Bronte thought wryly as Heath moved on top of her. ‘You’re so much bigger than me.’

  ‘Somewhat,’ Heath agreed wryly. ‘I like that you sound so thankful.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I am…’

  ‘Wider,’ Heath murmured.

  ‘Is that an instruction?’ she challenged, giving Heath one of her looks as he pressed her knees back.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’m going to like this…’

  ‘I think we both are.’

  She cried out softly as he eased inside her. Filling her completely, he rested still for a moment, and when he began to move it was slow and deep, and all the while he was holding her in his arms and making love to her, Heath was kissing her, gently and tenderly, and with such a look in his eyes, Bronte wondered if anyone before them had known anything like this. She was so turned on by the extremes of pleasure it was almost inevitable her teeth would sink into him at some point.

  ‘Wildcat,’ Heath accused her, tumbling Bronte onto her back. And then they were rolling and tumbling and wrestling, until they managed to play-fight their way off the bed.

  Lucky for them, there was a well-placed rug—lucky for Bronte when Heath cushioned her fall. ‘This relationship relies far too much on my landing on you,’ she said, pretending disapproval as she raised herself up on her forearms to stare down into his face.

  ‘I just move faster than you do.’ He grinned up.

  ‘Your reflexes are perfectly tuned,’ she agreed with satisfaction. ‘I couldn’t improve on them if I tried.’ And with a contented sigh she nuzzled her face against his shoulder.

  He caressed her, stroking her hair, knowing Bronte had a permanent place in his life even if it was impossible to see how those pieces could ever fit together. He would never mislead her. He would never promise Bronte anything he couldn’t deliver.

  ‘You feel so good,’ she whispered, turning her head to kiss him gently on the chin. ‘You’re a marshmallow beneath all those be
er cans and motorbike parts.’

  ‘Don’t break your teeth on this marshmallow,’ he warned. ‘I’m no Prince Charming, Bronte.’

  ‘More Alaric the Visigoth? I love Visigoths,’ she assured him, and then he was kissing her again, and she was kissing him back, and the future with all its complications faded away.

  Heath’s rough hands on her buttocks were so firm and thrilling, and yet they could turn so gentle when he was caressing her breasts. His fingers knew just how to torment her nipples and his hands were more than persuasive when he used them to cup her face to kiss her. She had never thought to be kissed like this—to be kissed by Heath like this. He made her feel as if anything were possible, as if she could feel this way for ever.

  For ever starts tonight, Bronte thought, writhing in ecstasy on the bed beneath Heath. And when he thrust one powerful thigh between her legs she refused to listen to the cynic inside her who insisted feelings as strong as this couldn’t possibly last.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she gasped as if in pain.

  ‘Never better,’ she said fiercely, and, staring into his eyes, she wrapped her legs even more tightly around his waist.

  ‘Relax,’ Heath soothed, pulling back.

  Heath was so gentle with her it stoked her hunger until, refusing to suffer any more delay, she thrust her hips, claiming him, and only then did she see the slow smile on Heath’s lips suggesting that was exactly what he had planned for her to do.

  This slow, lazy way of making love was incredible. Breathing steadily instead of hectically, she was able to appreciate the sensation of being stretched and filled so completely, fully for the first time. She had always been in such a rush before.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she thrashed her head on the pillow in extremes of pleasure.

  ‘Your fault,’ she gasped. ‘You’re so big.’

  ‘Fault?’ Heath queried, his lips curving with amusement. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before.’

  ‘I’m not complaining. I just have to get used to it each time,’ she told him, lacing her fingers through his thick dark hair.

  ‘I’m going to slow you down,’ Heath told her when the urge became too great and she tried to hurry him.

  ‘No,’ she complained, increasing her grip on him, working muscles even she hadn’t known she had.

  ‘Yes,’ Heath argued, and then he worked his hips—and not just back and forth with a compelling and irresistible rhythm, but from side to side, massaging persuasively until she screamed out her release in his arms.

  ‘Better?’ Heath murmured against her mouth.

  ‘The best ever,’ she groaned, still pulsing with pleasure and holding him in place.

  That grip was all it took to make him hard again. They were good together. They were outstanding. He moved in response to Bronte’s fierce instruction—hard—fast—deep. He could do that. With pleasure.

  ‘Do you realise we’ve rocked the rug from one side of the room to the other?’ he asked her some time later. ‘I think it’s time we took this to the bed.’

  ‘You won’t find any argument from me,’ Bronte assured him, laughing against his mouth. Scooping her up, he carried her across the room.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever get tired?’ she said when he lowered her onto the sheets.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said. Slipping a pillow beneath her hips, he raised her up into an even more receptive position, and, taking his cue, she gripped the bed rail above her head.

  ‘You’re fantastic,’ she cried out as another wave of pleasure hit her. Before she had time to recover, he turned her so she was kneeling in front of him with her hips held high. Holding her in place with one hand, he teased her into a frenzy of excitement with the other as he moved inside her to the rhythm he knew she liked best.

  They must have fallen asleep with exhaustion, because she woke to find Heath watching her as she slept. ‘What?’ she whispered.

  ‘You,’ he murmured, barely moving his lips as he eased his head on the pillow.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You … Bronte—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ she told him, putting her finger over his lips. ‘I have to.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I know we live different lives. I know your life is here in London, Heath, and I’m glad I came down. I’ll be able to picture you now.’ She’d be able to hold it in her heart, Bronte thought. ‘This was just one of those crazy episodes,’ she said, ‘for both of us.’

  ‘And you’re okay with that?’ Heath said, frowning.

  ‘I’m okay with that. We can still be friends. I mean—we’re sophisticated adults, aren’t we?’

  Heath smiled his slow, sexy smile, but his gaze was somewhere else. ‘We’re adults,’ he agreed.

  ‘Okay,’ she said softly, kissing his chest. ‘So here’s what we’re going to do. No—this time, I’m setting the agenda, Heath,’ Bronte insisted when Heath started to say something. ‘You have to let me do this.’ She waited a moment. ‘You’ve got that copy of my contract. So—I’m going to take a shower now, and then I’m going to get dressed, call a cab—and go home.’ There, she’d got it out. Her voice sounded a little wobbly, but still determined. Tilting her chin at the old defiant angle, she added, ‘Anything else would be unbearable—so, please don’t say anything. You’re not allowed to speak.’

  She slipped out of bed before Heath could argue. Dragging a cover around herself, she headed for the bathroom. It was over, this … little interlude. It was already in the memory box where the dreamweaver would take care of it.

  She got the cab to drop her at the office first so she could pick up her things. She cried all the way. The cabby passed back a box of tissues without a word. No doubt he had seen this sort of thing before. She couldn’t cry when she got back to Hebers Ghyll with the good news and spoil it for everyone. She couldn’t cry at Heath’s office in front of Quentin, who’d been so kind to her. And she definitely couldn’t cry in front of Heath. ‘Thank you,’ she said, handing over a large tip when she got out of the cab.

  ‘Look at it this way, love,’ the cabbie advised. ‘It can only get better from here.’

  ‘Yeah—sure you’re right,’ she agreed, rustling up a smile. Thanking the cabbie and saying goodbye, she tipped her chin and put on her ready-to-see-Quentin face.

  Quentin was subdued. Had Heath spoken to him already—asked him to have everything ready for her?

  ‘Things didn’t exactly go to plan, did they?’ Quentin remarked.

  ‘They went exactly to plan,’ Bronte argued. ‘I just left too much stuff out of the plan.’

  ‘The devil’s in the detail,’ Quentin agreed.

  ‘He certainly is. But, Quentin, the good news is, I got the job—thanks to you,’ Bronte added, giving a surprised Quentin a hug. ‘So I have to get back—there’s a job waiting for me and people I want to share the good news with that Heath is keeping the estate.’

  ‘Great,’ Quentin drawled without much enthusiasm. ‘Say hello to the country for me.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and say hello to it yourself?’ Bronte suggested from the door.

  Quentin grimaced. ‘Like Heath, the thought of all that fresh air and organic food makes me wince.’

  ‘I’m sure I could persuade you to change your mind.’ She refused to think about Heath. ‘If you do decide to give it a try, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Quentin agreed witheringly, ‘in a hay barn dressed in dungarees.’

  ‘Not until next September. Until Harvest Home, then—’

  ‘Harvest Home?’ she heard Quentin scoff as she shut the door, but she could see him smiling through the glass.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHRISTMAS came and went, and to everyone’s disappointment the hall wasn’t ready in time for the party. Bronte buried her disappointment in renewed effort. Not seeing Heath since she left him in London hurt most of all, but she remained in regular contact by phone and e-mail—and it was all very busine
sslike, which left her feeling hollow. Other than that, her efforts to bring the land back from the brink took up all her time, just the way she liked it. With the healthy proceeds from the fresh produce and the happy chickens she was able to take on more people from the village. Somehow she managed to find time to cook too. She considered that a pleasure—a reward for her hard-working team at the end of each back-breaking day. She had even been persuaded by the local authority to take on some disaffected youths on short-term contracts. With the proviso that they came with trained staff, how could she refuse, when each one that passed through the gates reminded her of the first time she’d met Heath?

  Easter came and went and there was still no sign of Heath, though they exchanged e-mails and she delivered her report to him as agreed each Friday. But e-mails were cold, impersonal things, and she worried how easily they could be misunderstood. Their video conferences were almost as bad. Heath was always in such a hurry to get away.

  ‘It’s a compliment,’ Colleen insisted. ‘You’re doing such a good job Heath doesn’t need to interfere.’

  Bronte laughed. ‘Apart from his phone calls every day, twice a day, do you mean?’

  ‘At least he calls,’ Colleen pointed out. ‘He must like speaking to you.’

  ‘Heath wants to check up on progress,’ Bronte argued as they cleared up after breakfast. ‘I just wish—’ She stopped herself just in time.

  ‘You miss him,’ Colleen supplied.

  Bronte shrugged. ‘This is Heath’s property, not mine. I just think he should show more interest—do more than call.’

  ‘Heath’s a busy man, Bronte—and even if he does want to spend more time here, he’ll have to plan for it—fit it in—and all that takes time.’

  ‘It’s been almost a year.’

  ‘It’s been nine months.’

  ‘Okay,’ Bronte conceded wryly. ‘I could have had a baby in that time.’