Working With the Enemy (15 page)

‘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

C
HRISTMAS
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 businesslike, 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.’

‘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 explained.

‘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.’