The Big Bad Boss

by Susan Stephens

  ‘No way am I getting into that,’ Colleen told her with a wave of her hand, heading out.

  As summer ripened into its full splendour Bronte joined the workers in the fields. She came back most days exhausted, but content. Heath’s team had worked wonders on the old buildings, and had even started work on the castle, while Bronte’s team, which had expanded to include the local authority boys as well as some school leavers, had worked wonders with the harvest.

  This was what Uncle Harry must have had in mind, Bronte reflected as she watched the last of the hay bales being dumped off the back of the harvester. The sky was a clear scrubbed blue with only a wisp of cloud, and the scent of fertile earth was unbelievably intoxicating. It was as if the summer sun had warmed the earth for just this moment, producing a scent Bronte only wished she could bottle and share.

  She planned to give everyone a day off so they could sleep in tomorrow. Harvesting could be a tricky business if the weather was unpredictable, but it had been dry for days and promised to remain so—even so they’d worked like stink in case the weather changed. Their reward was plain to see. It wouldn’t be every year that they would be able to contemplate a full hay barn as well as having spare stock to sell.

  She looked like a regular land girl, Bronte mused as she strode back happily towards her cottage. Gone were the purple leggings and flimsy top, and in their place were the dungarees Quentin had mocked.

  Quentin … Bronte smiled as she remembered Heath’s PA, and then her thoughts turned inevitably to Heath. Why didn’t he come? Why didn’t the ache for him lessen? Some days she doubted it ever would. Instead of thinking about herself, she should be thinking about rewarding everyone for their hard work, Bronte reflected as she stood by the stile, dragging on the warm air and staring over the golden carpet of cut wheat. Heath wasn’t here to do it, so she would do something special. They might have missed the Christmas party, but there was no reason why they couldn’t have a party now. Why not have that Harvest Home she had teased Quentin about—invite everyone from the village? Invite Quentin—

  And Heath?

  And Heath.

  She told her inner voice to be quiet now. That was quite enough nonsense for one day and there was some important planning to be done.

  Heath couldn’t come. Why wasn’t she surprised? But he’d send a representative, he promised Bronte during their regular Friday hook-up.

  ‘Hi, doll—’ Quentin appeared briefly at Heath’s shoulder before hurrying away. ‘Hi, Quentin.’

  ‘Make it a good party,’ Heath insisted, ‘and don’t forget to send me the bills.’

  ‘I wi—’ Was as far as she got before Heath cut the connection. ‘And I’ll be sure to attach some photographs to my next mail so you can see how much fun we had without you,’ she assured the blank screen with a lump like a brick in her throat.

  It was the perfect day for the perfect event. The sun had beaten down all week and the castle, with its newly renovated staterooms, would be open to the public for the first time. They had just managed to get the last bales of hay into the barn before everyone had to dash back home to get ready for the party. As well as dancing and a feast provided by Bronte, there was going to be a cake stall on the lawn leading down to the lake, as well as hoopla, a bran tub, and a bric-a-brac table. Colleen had gone the whole nine yards, dressing up as a fortune teller, complete with huge gold earrings and a headscarf, which she’d plucked from her normal accessory box, she told Bronte. And Bronte, feeling sick of the sight of the cakes she had been baking nonstop, had put herself in charge of the water-bomb stocks where the local head teacher had gamely offered to be pelted to raise money for charity. The bunting was flying, the band was tuning up, and the first of the guests were due to arrive within the hour. Bronte did her final check, wondering if she dared relax. Surely, nothing could go wrong now. Everything was ready for the party of the year, so now all she had to do was change her clothes.

  He saw the red glow in the sky when they were still miles away.

  ‘What’s that?’ Quentin said, peering out of the window. ‘I thought you didn’t get light pollution in the country?’

  ‘You don’t,’ Heath said, stamping down on the gas.

  The party was cancelled. Of course it was cancelled. Bronte was too busy forming everyone up in a line so they could pass buckets of water from the lake to the source of the fire to even remember she had once planned a party. If she’d had time to think about it she would have said she was numb, but right now she was all logic and fierce determination to save what she could.

  The line of people stretched from the lake to the barn. She’d made the call to the local fire department and, with a heavy heart, to the police, and now all she could do was tag onto the line and help to pass the buckets until the fire service arrived.

  The Lamborghini skidded to a halt. Throwing the door open, he ran. Wherever Bronte was, he was sure she’d be in the thick of it. Why the hell had he stayed away so long?

  Because he never took holidays—because everything took time to arrange—

  To hell with that—he should have been here sooner.

  The smoke choked him as he grew closer to the fire. His eyes stung, and fear clung to him with the same tenacity as the claggy filth of oily soot. He only realised now how fierce the fire was, and what a hold it had taken on the barn. Nothing could be saved, though a squadron of firefighters had high-powered hoses trained on it. He could feel Bronte’s despair above the heat of burning hay and stink of choking smoke. He blamed himself for not following his instincts. Life, business, money, success, what did any of it mean without Bronte? The instant he’d been told what she’d done—starting slowly with some of the local, out-of-work youths, and then growing in confidence, until she was persuaded by the local authority to take on boys like him—boys like he’d been. If anyone knew what a mistake that was for a girl on her own, he did. The moment he’d heard where this new intake was coming from he’d dropped everything—but not soon enough. He knew what they were capable of, but Bronte steadfastly refused to see the harm in anyone. Glass half full, that was Bronte. But optimism and determination couldn’t save her from this. He’d thought that by making a clean break it would give her space to fly, but she wouldn’t fly far with her wings burned off.

  He shielded his face against the heat. An officer told him to move back. He explained he was the owner of the estate and asked if anyone knew where his estate manager was. Bronte had called them, he was told, but no one had seen her since.

  His darting gaze swept the crowd. Where was she? Then Colleen found him and told him about Bronte arranging the line of buckets while they waited for the engines to arrive. ‘Have you seen her?’ he demanded.

  Colleen shook her head. ‘Not since then.’

  Colleen looked defeated. ‘Go back to the kitchen,’ he ordered. ‘Make tea—lots of it—strong and sweet. Everyone will need some.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ she said, looking grateful that he’d found her a task.

  Bronte would get her water for the buckets from the lake, he reasoned, and the lake was at the back of the barn.

  ‘You can’t go there,’ someone shouted at him.

  He was conveniently deaf.

  The best he expected to find was Bronte broken and sobbing on the ground. The worst he refused to think about.

  As ever, she surprised him. He found her in the stable yard with her back braced against a stable door while the occupants she’d trapped inside were trying their best to kick it down. His relief at finding her unharmed was indescribable. His feelings at seeing her again were off the scale. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Lifting her out of the way, he took her place. At the sound of his raised voice the kicking stopped abruptly.

  ‘I saw them set fire to the barn,’ she said, wiping a smoke-begrimed hand across her face. ‘If I moved from here I thought there was a chance they could get out and get away—’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Two of them,’ she explaine
d.

  ‘You imprisoned two grown men?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘They’re just boys,’ she said, flashing him a glance.

  He swore viciously. ‘This is my fault—I put this idea in your head. You should have waited for me to initiate a scheme like this.’

  ‘What?’ she fired back. ‘Like wait for ever?’

  He slammed his head back against the door in frustration. The sound echoed in the courtyard above the shouted instructions of the firefighters and the police. She was right. He should have been here sooner. This was his responsibility, not Bronte’s. ‘I’ll call the police,’ he said, bringing out his phone.

  ‘Everything happened faster than the boys expected,’ Bronte explained as he cut the line. ‘The barn went up like a rocket, and there was no time for them to get away before the police arrived, and so they hid in here. I just dropped the latch.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have chased them.’

  ‘What did you expect me to do? Stand around sulking because the party was cancelled?’

  She was furious and he deserved it. Emotion welled inside him. ‘I only care that you’re safe,’ he shouted, his voice hoarse with smoke and emotion.

  They were silent for a moment, and then she said quietly, ‘Hello, Heath.’

  He shook his head, then held her gaze.

  ‘Hello, Bronte …’

  All the things he should have said to her long before now. All the things he should have done for her. His head was pressed against the door and as he turned to stare down at her he wondered what kind of fool he’d been. The door she’d been defending was one of the few yet to be replaced and the rotten wood was already splintering under the barrage of blows it had received. They could have killed her. ‘Would you like to go and get changed for the party now? I’ll deal with this.’

  ‘The party’s cancelled,’ she said steadily, ‘and I’m not leaving you.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ He glanced at the petrol can lying discarded in the centre of the yard, and the box of matches Bronte had tightly clutched in her hand.

  ‘It’s all gone,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘This isn’t over yet. We’ll build a new barn—we can buy in more hay—’

  ‘But we didn’t need to buy hay before this happened.’

  ‘And now we do,’ he told her calmly. ‘All businesses have setbacks, Bronte. It’s how you get over them that matters.’ There were oily smudges on her face. Her eyes were red and wounded from the smoke, and from crying, he suspected—not that Bronte would show that sort of weakness in a crisis situation. ‘You’re quite a girl,’ he murmured.

  ‘And you’re still an absentee landlord.’ She scowled, rallying.

  ‘Something I’ll have to change.’

  She didn’t believe him. Why should she? Now wasn’t the time, but it might be the only chance he got. ‘I have a mature business, and when I realised what I was missing out on I think I finally learned to delegate. I’ve appointed a CEO, an operating officer, a financial controller, and a sales and marketing guy.’

  ‘To do your one job,’ she said. She didn’t dare to hope that this might mean progress. ‘No wonder you’re such a pain in the ass, Heath.’

  ‘They should be able to handle it,’ he said wryly.

  ‘While you take broader control of your business portfolio, which now includes a country estate?’

  ‘I’m only sorry it’s taken so long,’ he said, ‘but it takes time to find the right person.’

  ‘And less than an hour to undo a full year’s work,’ Bronte remarked as she glanced over her shoulder to where the flames were still hungrily licking up the remains of the barn.

  ‘We’ll get over it,’ Heath promised.

  ‘We?’

  ‘You and me. We’ll get over this. I promise—’

  ‘Together?’

  He placed another call to the police. ‘Go and hurry them along, will you, while I bring these lads out?’

  ‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks, Heath.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’ He flashed a rueful grin. ‘I think I’ll be okay. And if I’m not, I’ll call for you.’

  A faint smile touched Bronte’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said, starting to run.

  He wanted a chance to speak to the boys without anyone being present. He wanted to see them punished and for them to make reparation for what they’d done, but he wanted them to know there was another way—if they chose to take it. He wanted them to spread the word when they went inside that there was someone who understood the poison that drove them and who had the antidote to it, and that this same individual would be running the boot camp at Hebers Ghyll.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HEATH worked like a Trojan alongside the officers to clear the debris and make everywhere safe, while the people who could stayed on to help. Bronte was touched to find Quentin in the kitchen making tea and sandwiches for everyone, and didn’t even mind that he had taken command of her beloved Aga.

  ‘I’ve never had such a huge piece of kit to play with before. Or so many interesting new friends in uniform.’

  ‘Quentin,’ Bronte scolded, knowing that if anyone could bring a smile to people’s faces when they most needed it, it was this man.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Heath said, drawing Bronte aside discreetly. ‘You’ve been so brave up to now. Don’t crumple on me, Bronte.’

  ‘I’m not crumpling,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’m just watching you and Quentin, and all the people milling round the kitchen, and wishing it could stay like this for ever. I know,’ she said through gritted teeth before Heath had chance to speak. ‘I know I’m dreaming again.’

  He was too tired to argue. Everyone was tired and battle scarred, but he had to admit Quentin had come up trumps, making people laugh as he doled out mugs of tea and coffee, and the biggest, thickest sandwiches, which everyone professed to love. But it was to Bronte that most of the praise was due, Heath reflected as he watched her moving between people, offering her own brand of encouragement. She had worked tirelessly inside and outside the house, clearing up the mess, and offering words of reassurance, creating such a feeling of warmth and camaraderie that everyone wanted to stay on late to help out.

  ‘You should try one of Quentin’s sandwiches,’ she said, distracting him by plonking a huge platter in front of his nose. ‘They’re really great.’

  ‘And he’s used to having them made for him,’ Heath said, selecting one. ‘Quentin’s partner is a dab hand in the kitchen—with a penchant for gourmet food.’

  ‘Lucky Quentin.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ he said.

  They were too busy to speak after that. Bronte didn’t go home with the rest of the crowd, but stayed on to help Quentin and Heath clean up the kitchen. It was like the day after a party when everything was set to rights … except there’d been no party. And now there was no barn, she thought wistfully, staring out of the window at the heap of jagged timbers and blackened ash.

  ‘Don’t go home tonight,’ Heath murmured, coming up behind her.

  She turned in his arms. I can’t go through this again, she thought. The others had left the kitchen and all any of them were seeking tonight was comfort, but where would comfort lead with Heath? She wondered what to say to him, how to phrase what she had to say to him—to a man who had led so much of the salvage work today. I’m not in the mood, sounded ugly. I don’t want to spend the night with you, would be a lie.

  ‘I’m not going to let you go home to an empty cottage,’ Heath said. ‘I want you to stay here with me, Bronte.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

  Heath’s smoke-blackened face creased in his trademark grin. ‘I’ll run you a bath—’

  ‘Heath, I—’

  ‘And I’ll call you when it’s ready.’ She could argue, or she could accept Heath’s kindness for once. She could soak in soapy bubbles, which right now seemed an irresistible option. />
  She listened to Heath bounding up the stairs and marvelled at his energy. After everything they’d been through she couldn’t have felt more exhausted. She supposed it was the knowledge that everything everyone had worked so hard to achieve had gone up in flames. What was the point—?

  She was so wrong, Bronte thought as she caught sight of Quentin’s neatly folded drying cloth hanging on the Aga rail. It was such a little thing amongst the monumental happenings of the night, but it showed Quentin cared. So many people had cared tonight, and if all that goodwill could be harvested there wasn’t the slightest possibility that Herbers Ghyll would go to the wall.

  Heath didn’t call downstairs, he came downstairs to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind. ‘And I’m going to stand outside the door to make sure you’re all right,’ he said, ‘and I won’t take any argument. You just yell if you need me.’

  ‘But you’re tired too,’ she said, gazing up at Heath’s grimy face. ‘You must be. You go and clean up—or aren’t you planning to wash tonight?’

  ‘It’ll keep,’ he said. ‘When I know you’re safely tucked in bed I’ll take a shower and clean this dirt off then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, meeting Heath’s gaze.

  ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he told her as he opened the bathroom door. ‘And there’s no hurry, either. You take your time.’

  The hard man had laid out some towels for her, and also one of his robes and a T-shirt, both of which would drown her. She appreciated the gesture more than she could say. He’d even filled the bath with warm, soapy water. She climbed in and sank beneath the surface, wondering if she would ever be clean again.

  She washed the filth from her hair and her face, and then took one last quick soak, conscious that Heath must be equally exhausted, however he appeared. Getting out of the bath, she dried herself, and put on the T-shirt and robe, wrapping her hair in a towel.

  Heath was waiting as she came out of the bathroom, and, putting his arm around her shoulders, he led her into his bedroom. She was swallowed up in the huge double bed. The pillows were soft and the sheets held the faint scent of sunshine and lavender. He tucked the sheets up to her chin, and kissed her forehead. ‘Sleep,’ he murmured.