Working With the Enemy (2 page)

‘Anything else?’ Heath demanded, folding his powerful arms across his chest.

His eyes were every bit as beautiful as she remembered and just as cold. She shook herself round. ‘And bulldozers—I heard talk of bulldozers.’ There was no point sugar-coating this. She might just as well confront him with the lot. ‘One rumour said you were going to bring in a wrecking crew to knock everything down, and then you’d build a shopping centre—’

‘And what if I did?’

Panic hit her at the thought that he might— that he could—that he had every right to. ‘What about Uncle Harry?’

‘Uncle Harry’s dead.’

Heath might as well have stabbed a knife through her heart. Heath had always been closed off to feelings except on those rare occasions when he had lightened up in front of Bronte or Uncle Harry. Sometimes she wondered if they were the only people he had ever opened up to. And that was a memory so faint she couldn’t believe it had ever happened now. ‘For goodness’ sake, Heath, you’re his nephew—don’t you feel anything?’ To hell with the job she had intended to apply for. ‘Does Hebers Ghyll mean anything to you? Don’t you remember what Uncle Harry used to do—?’

‘For kids like me?’ Heath interrupted her coldly. She’d taken him back to the past, and his father, Uncle Harry’s wastrel brother—the poor relation with the taste for violence. Only at the court’s insistence had his father agreed to a period of rehabilitation for Heath at Hebers Ghyll under Uncle Harry’s direction. And how he’d fought it. Heath had thrown Uncle Harry’s kindness back in his face. A fact he’d spent his adult life regretting.

‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ Bronte assured him. ‘Uncle Harry loved having you around. You must have known you were the son he never had?’

‘Don’t use those tactics on me, Bronte.’

‘Tactics?’ she exploded. ‘I’m not using tactics. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t pretend you don’t care, Heath. I know you better than that—’

‘You know me?’ he snarled, dipping his chin.

‘Yes. I know you,’ she argued stubbornly, refusing to back down.

‘You knew me then,’ he said. And he didn’t like reminders of then.

‘I don’t want to fight with you, Heath.’

Her voice had turned softer. Bronte backing down? That had to be a first. Had the years smoothed her out? Remembering her welcome, he guessed not. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. But even as their eyes met and held he knew this small concession was the first step on the road to damnation, the first nod to his libido. Bronte was still as attractive as ever—more so, when she was all fired up.

‘It’s important Uncle Harry’s work here continue,’ she told him, her brow creasing with passion. ‘And with you at the helm, Heath,’ she added with less conviction.

His senses stirred. She was magnificent with those green eyes blazing and that dainty jaw jutting. She was unflinching. Boudicca of the Yorkshire moors. But she was also uneasy and unsure of him. She was unsure of what he’d do. Thinking back to what seemed like another life to him now, he couldn’t blame her. ‘You’ll be the first to know when I make my decision. But know this: I don’t do weekends. I don’t do holidays. And I don’t need a country house. You work it out.’

‘I think that answers my question,’ The green gaze remained steady on his face.

‘If you care so much about Hebers Gyll, what are you going to do about it?’ he said, turning the tables on her.

‘I won’t walk away without a fight.’

He didn’t doubt it. ‘And in practical terms?’

She tilted her chin at a determined angle. ‘Whether or not you keep the estate, I’m going to apply for the job of estate manager.’

He laughed out loud. She really had surprised him now. ‘Making jam tarts with your mother at the kitchen table hardly qualifies you for that.’

‘You’re not the only one to have made something of yourself, Heath,’ she fired back. ‘I have qualifications in estate management—and I’ve travelled the world, studying how vast tracts of land and properties like this can be managed successfully.’

Now she had his interest.

‘It’s only natural I want to know what your plans are,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t want to be wasting my pitch on the wrong man.’ Out came the chin.

‘My plans are no business of yours.’ He stopped admiring her when it occurred to him that Bronte wanted something that belonged to him. Or at least, she wanted control of Hebers Ghyll, which amounted to the same thing. It was a challenge he couldn’t ignore. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since he’d been a hard, fighting, rebellious youth and Bronte the housekeeper’s prim little daughter sneaking out to see him, hiding in the shadows, thinking he didn’t know she was there, but he hadn’t changed when it came to protecting what was his. ‘If you want me to make time to see you, clear up this mess and get off my property.’ He pointed to the area around her tent, which, in fairness, was neat. Bronte had always respected the countryside.

‘You promised we’d talk.’

‘I’ll make a start, shall I?’ he said, losing patience.

She exclaimed with surprise when he swooped on a tent peg and jerked it out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, launching herself at him.

‘I wouldn’t advise you do that again.’ Seizing hold of her wrists, he held her in front of him. His gaze slipping to her parted lips. The urge to ravage them overwhelmed him.

‘Let go of me, Heath,’ she warned him. Her voice was shaking. Her eyes were dark. Her lips were parted—

Control kicked in. He lifted his hands away. ‘Remove the tent,’ he said.

‘You don’t frighten me,’ she muttered, rubbing her wrists as she pulled away.

But he had frightened her. Bronte had feared her reaction to him. The snap of static between them had surprised him. This was no ordinary reunion, he reflected as she began bringing her tent down. The redhead tomboy and the bad boy from the city had enjoyed some high voltage scraps in the past, and it appeared that passion hadn’t abated. But it had changed, Heath reflected. Bronte had felt slight and vulnerable beneath his hands. She was all grown-up now, and her scent of soap and damp grass had grazed his senses, leaving an impression he would find hard to shake off.

CHAPTER TWO

H
EATH
S
TAMP
was back. She kept repeating the mantra in her head as if that were going to make it easier for her to be close to him without quivering like a doe on heat. She had been expecting Heath, and had thought she was well prepared for this first encounter, but nothing could have prepared her for feeling so vulnerable, so aware and aroused.

‘Get a move on, Bronte.’

‘I’m moving as fast as I can.’

‘Good, because some of us have work to do.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ Bronte muttered tensely. She had sorted herself out with a part-time office job in the area while she was still away on her travels—it was just sheer luck Heath had chosen to arrive at the weekend.

‘Come on, come on,’ he urged impatiently. ‘I have to get back to London—’

‘We all have things to do, Heath.’

The rain had stopped and Heath was pacing. He had always suffered energy overload and that force was pinging off him now. She wouldn’t be taking so long if he didn’t look so good. Fantasies she could handle, but this much reality was a problem. Heath’s hair had always been thick and strong, but he’d grown it longer and it caressed his strong, tanned neck, curling over the collar of his shirt, and was every bit as wayward as she remembered. Waves caught on his sharply etched cheeks where his black stubble had won the razor war, and, though he might not have fought with his fists for many years, Heath was still built, still tanned, and, apart from the car, he didn’t flash his wealth, which she liked. His clothes were designed for practicality rather than to impress—banged-up jeans worn thin and pale over the place where a nice girl shouldn’t look, and boots comfortably worn in. Heath had sexy feet, she remembered from those times years back when she had spied on him swimming in the lake—

‘Have you turned into a pillar of salt? Or is there a chance we might get out of here today, Bronte?’

‘Are you still there?’ she retorted, lavishing what Heath used to call her paint-stripping stare on him. The old banter starting up between them had stirred her fighting spirit—

Until Heath reminded her why she was here.

‘Are you serious about trying out for the job of estate manager?’

‘Of course I am.’ She shot to her feet, realising how slender a thread her hopes were pinned on. ‘And if you decide not to keep the property I hope you’ll put in a good word for me with the new owner.’

‘Why would I do that when I don’t even know what you can do? Okay, I admit I’m intrigued by what you told me about your training and your travels. But what makes you think you’re the right person for this job?’

‘I know I am,’ she said stubbornly. ‘All I’m asking for is a fair hearing.’

‘And if I give you one?’

‘You can make up your mind then. Maybe give me a trial?’ She knew she was pushing it, but what the hell?

Heath said nothing for a moment, and then his lips tugged in a faint, mocking smile. ‘If I keep the estate I’ll bear your offer in mind.’

It was enough—it was something. Heath never made an impulsive decision, Bronte remembered—that was her department.

‘Go home now, Bronte. You’ve still got your parents’ cottage to go to, I take it?’

‘They wouldn’t sell that.’ There was an edge of defiance in her voice. ‘Thank goodness they owned it—I heard you bought out all the tenancies.’

‘Another of those rumours?’ Heath’s eyes turned black. ‘It didn’t occur to you people might want to sell to me? Or that this was their opportunity to do something new with their lives—like your parents?’

‘And you wanted a fresh page?’

Heath didn’t even try to put a gloss on what he’d done. ‘No,’ he argued. ‘I wanted a clear field so there wouldn’t be any complications if and when I choose to sell. What’s the matter with you, Bronte?’ His face had turned coolly assessing. ‘Can’t you bear to think of me living at the hall?’

‘That’s not it at all.’

‘Then why don’t you smile and be happy for me?’

‘I am happy for you, Heath.’

‘And you think we could work together?’ he said with a mocking edge to his voice.

‘I’d find a way.’

‘That’s big of you,’ he said coolly. Most people would be champing at the bit for a chance to work with Heath Stamp, Bronte realised, turning her back on him as she returned to her packing. She could only hazard a guess at the number of applications Heath would receive if he decided to keep the estate on and threw a recruitment ad out there. Everyone loved a success story in the hope that some of the gold dust would rub off on them—and Heath had gold dust to spare. His story read like a film—the poor boy rejecting a hand up from a well-meaning uncle who just happened to be one of England’s biggest landowners, only for the boy to achieve success in his own right and then go on to inherit the uncle’s estate anyway. No wonder it had made the headlines. But was she the only one out of step here? Heath had always been open about his dislike of the countryside—everything moved too slowly for him and things took too long to grow, she remembered him snarling at her when she had begged him to stay.

So, could she work with him?

Good question. The thought of seeing Heath on a regular basis might send a warm dart of honey to her core, but when her imagination supplied the fantasy detail, which included a doting lover called Heath and a compliant young girl called Bronte, she knew it was never going to happen, so she just said coolly, ‘I’ll stay in touch.’

Heath Stamp, Master of Hebers Ghyll? However much Heath teased her with the prospect, she just couldn’t see it.

The years had moulded and enhanced Bronte—brought her into clearer focus. She was still the same dreamer who steadfastly refused to learn the meaning of the word no. She was every bit as stubborn and determined as he remembered—if not more so. Only Bronte could come up with the crazy notion that by camping inside the gates she could scope out the new owner of the estate—potentially waylay the new owner, and then insist they consider her for the job of estate manager. Nerve? Oh, yes. Bronte had nerve—and she had never been short of ideas, or the brio to back them up.

‘Go away, Heath,’ she snapped when he went to give her a hand with the groundsheet. ‘I can do this by myself.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I just want to make sure you don’t leave anything behind.’

‘So I have no excuse to come back?’

Looks clashed. Eyes darkened. Something else for him to think about. ‘Just do it, will you?’

‘Don’t worry—I’ve got no reason to hang around here.’ She threw him a disdainful look. ‘Why on earth would I?’

A million and one reasons, Bronte thought, feeling all mixed up inside. She didn’t want to go—she didn’t want to stay. It didn’t help she’d brought so much stuff and it was taking so long to fit it back in her rucksack. She could feel the heat of Heath’s stare on her back. And low in her belly the dreamweaver was working—

‘Come on. Get a move on, Bronte.’

‘Yes, master—’

‘Less of it—and more packing,’ Heath snapped.

She was seething with frustration. Was this the same girl who had the right training for this job, as well as great qualifications? The girl who had worked her way round the world to make doubly sure she would be ready to apply for a job on the estate when she got back? And with the biggest job of all on offer, was she going to blow it now because she couldn’t see further than Heath? Bite your lip, Bronte, was the best piece of advice to follow. There was too much at stake to do anything else. She should have rung the lawyers the moment she was back in the country and avoided this meeting. She should have approached things in the usual way.

Could anything be usual where Heath was concerned?

If she had given him warning of her intentions, her best guess was Heath wouldn’t have turned up—or he’d make sure to be permanently unavailable at his office. But Hebers Ghyll needed him—needed Heath’s golden touch
and
his money. She had to put her personal feelings to one side and persuade him to keep the estate together and not to sell or demolish any of the old buildings in the ‘so called’ name of progress.

‘You won’t be very comfortable without this,’ he observed, toeing the edge of her groundsheet.

As she started to roll it up the scent of damp earth stirred her memories. Her parents had met and fallen in love at Hebers Ghyll, which gave it a sort of magic. The freedom of the fields when she’d been a child—somewhere to curl up with a book and lose herself—all the things that had made her feel safe and secure had gone, because every last inch of this damp, sweet-smelling ground belonged to Heath now, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

‘Why did you bring all this?’ Heath had come to stand very close.

She lifted her head and stared into the critical gaze, wishing there were some warmth in it—some recognition that they had been friends once. ‘I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for you,’ she said truthfully.

‘You were only sure that you would,’ Heath commented without expression.

‘That’s right,’ she said, blazing defiance into his eyes.

‘Nothing changes, does it, Bronte?’

‘Some things do,’ she said. Let him know how she felt. ‘With the future of the village at stake I had no alternative, Heath. No one sleeps on the ground out of choice.’

She could have bitten off her tongue. Heath’s success had been forged out of a combustible mix of fiery determination and uncompromising poverty. He knew very well what it was like to sleep on the ground. Uncle Harry had told her once his parents used to lock him out when he was a child while they went to the pub, and if they were home late or not at all Heath had to do the best he could to find shelter. ‘Heath, I’m sorry—’

With a shake of his head he closed the subject.

Sleeping on park benches to escape the violence at home had done nothing to soften him, Bronte reflected, returning to her packing. And that stint in jail must have knocked all human feeling out of him. Yes, and what would a man like that know or care about the countryside—or the legacy he had inherited? ‘Heath,’ she pleaded softly, sitting back on her haunches. ‘You will give this place a chance, won’t you?’

He surveyed her steadily through steel-grey eyes. ‘I’m here to see what can be done, Bronte. And if I want to do it.’

‘That’s not enough.’

Heath huffed. ‘It’s all you’re getting.’

‘If you even think of turning your back on Hebers Ghyll I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’

‘Bare knuckle or Queensberry Rules?’

She stared at him intently for a moment. She hardly dared to hope that was a flicker of the old humour, but in the unlikely event that it was she wasn’t going to cause a storm and blow it out.

‘What about those cooking pots, Bronte?’ Heath demanded. ‘Am I supposed to clear them up? If you don’t get a move on I’ll fetch the tractor and shift them myself.’

‘The tractor?’ she repeated witheringly. ‘Here is a man,’ she informed the trees, ‘whose knowledge of the countryside would fit comfortably on the head of a pin with room for angels to dance in a ring. Heath Stamp—’ she introduced him with a theatrical gesture ‘—creator of imaginary worlds contained in neat square boxes—computers that can be conveniently switched off, and don’t have to be milked twice a day.’ She turned to Heath. ‘What would you know about driving a tractor?’

‘More than you know.’

‘It would have to be more than I know—’ But now Heath’s hand was in the small of her back and everything dissolved in a flood of sensation. Jerking away, she bent down to pick up the overloaded pack.

‘Let me help you—’

‘Go away.’

‘Bronte—’

Heath waited a moment and then he strode off.

She turned to watch him go, still heated and furious—desperate for him to go, and longing for him to stay. She couldn’t believe how badly this much-longed-for reunion had gone. Heath, and that firm mouth—how she hated it. She hated the confident swagger of his walk, and those taut, powerful hips. She hated his manner, which was both cool and hot, and infinitely disturbing, as well as blatantly unavailable—at least, to her. Heath might have his own brand of rugged charm, but according to the press he attracted glamorous, elegant women—women who decorated Heath’s life without ever becoming part of it—

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he reappeared through the trees.

‘Okay,’ he said curtly, ‘I can’t abandon you here. Give me that pack.’

Heath didn’t wait for her reply. Wrestling the pack from her shoulders, he stalked off with it, leaving her stunned by the brief and definitely unintentional brushing of their bodies. ‘Hey—come back here,’ she yelled, coming to as Heath and her backpack disappeared through the trees.

She might as well have been talking to herself. Grinding her jaw, she started after him. Heath had never been a man to mess about with, but she wasn’t a girl to back down. Mud sucked at her trainers as she started to run. Wet leaves slapped at her face. Who could keep up with Heath? Bronte reasoned when she was forced to stop and catch her breath. Heath had always been a one-man powerhouse since the day he sewed the seeds of his empire on a computer he’d hidden in his bedroom, where damp dappled the walls and the only green Heath ever saw was the mould that flourished there. Bad start in life, maybe, but this city boy was fit—fitter than she was. Catching sight of Heath through the trees, she found a fresh burst of energy. He had always moved fast. The first time Heath had hit the headlines was because of the speed with which he had turned his old family home into an Internet café for the whole neighbourhood to use. The reporters had latched onto the fact that, far from turning his back on his miserable start in life, when Heath made money he celebrated his background, using his story to inspire others to follow his example and make the best of what they had. Leaning one hand against a tree trunk, she took another breather. So Heath Stamp was a saint, but right now that didn’t make her like him any better.