Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens
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clear up the kitchen—and then, as she’d announced over supper, she would paint the wall Heath had plastered. The plaster had dried out now, and she didn’t feel like going down to the pub. Sometimes she liked to be alone with her thoughts—though where that would get her tonight was anyone’s guess.
EVERYONE was going down to the pub in the village after work. Heath wasn’t and neither was Bronte. She was still fixing up the kitchen. Having cooked and cleaned and cleared, she had declared her intention to paint the wall. He could hardly leave her to it.
Stubborn as ever, he thought, catching sight of her through the kitchen window. It looked cosy and welcoming inside with the lights casting a warm glow, and something Bronte had prepared for tomorrow bubbling away quietly on the Aga. She was up a ladder with her hair tied back beneath a bright emerald-green scarf—and she was wielding a roller—
God help them all. Cream paint extended down to her elbow, and there was a smudge of it on her nose. He’d better get in there before she painted herself to the wall.
‘Knock it off now, Bronte,’ he said as he walked into the room. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’
‘Past your bedtime?’ she teased him.
He wasn’t even remotely tired.
Turning, she planted her hands on her hips, daubing her jeans with another generous lashing of paint.
‘I hope that paint washes off.’
‘You know something, Heath,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You said I’d made a bad start. Well, now I’m wondering if I want a job here at all. The thought of you bossing me around all day and all night—’
‘Is irresistible,’ he said, easing onto one hip to stare up at her. ‘You know you’d love it. Just think—you’d be able to argue with me nonstop.’
She sighed. ‘Sadly, I don’t have your stamina.’
Something he’d like to put to the test. But shouldn’t. Mustn’t. ‘Now I know you’re joking. I’ve seen that tongue of yours do the marathon. And, didn’t I just tell you to stop?’
Her jaw dropped in mock shock. ‘I obey you now?’
‘Didn’t I tell you that’s part of the job description?’ Cupping his chin, he pretended to think about it—and cursed himself for forgetting to shave. Barbarian? She was right.
She hummed. ‘We may have a serious problem, in that case. Unless…’
‘Unless?’ he prompted.
‘Unless you’re offering to make me a drink?’ she said perkily.
‘Gin and tonic?’
‘Coffee,’ she said in a reproving tone.
Coffee won. Climbing down the ladder, she tried to muscle him out of the way when he took over the cooker. No contest. He was skipper of the Aga tonight. ‘You can’t stand the fact that I’m in charge,’ he said as she bumped against him one last time and finally gave up. ‘You’ve grown wild on your travels—uncontrollable—you’ve got no discipline—you’re answerable to no one—’
‘But you love me,’ she said, adding quickly in her sensible voice to cover for her gaffe. ‘I’m answerable to myself, Heath. And I learned a lot while I was away.’
He didn’t doubt it, and while she took the pan off the cooker and washed out the paintbrushes he encouraged her to tell him something about her extended trip. So much of it turned out to be relevant to the job of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll, he couldn’t help but put his baser instincts on the back burner as he listened. It was fascinating to hear how she’d gone from naïve, untried miss, to Capability Bronte, building fences, birthing animals, and helping to construct artesian wells along the way. He revised his opinion of her upwards another good few notches when she told him, ‘Life’s easy when there’s no responsibility attached. I needed to get out there, Heath. I had to get away from this small village—not just to find out what I was missing, but to test myself and find out what I’m made of.’
‘Sugar and spice and all things nice?’
‘Now, you know that’s not true,’ she told him, smiling.
‘So did you find the missing link?’
She thought about it for a moment. ‘I discovered how much I love it here,’ she said, biting the full swell of her bottom lip, as if lust for travel and the love of home were warring inside her.
‘You love a lot,’ he observed.
‘How do you work that out?’
‘You talk about love all the time, but love isn’t a cure-all, Bronte.’
‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but nothing much would get done without it.’
He held up his hands to that. ‘Did you love teaching me to read?’
She held his gaze for a moment in silence as if she knew that everything that mattered to him would be contained in her answer. ‘I loved being with you,’ she said steadily. ‘And you were a good student,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘And now?’
‘I don’t think I could teach you anything,’ she said honestly.
‘Well, thank you, ma’am.’ He curved a grin. ‘I can’t believe you said that—’
‘I can’t believe it, either,’ she agreed, and then they both laughed. And moved one step closer.
‘I haven’t had your education,’ he admitted as she started clearing up.
‘You’ve had plenty at the school of life,’ she observed. And when she turned to him her face was serious. ‘You had more schooling in that university than most people could deal with, Heath.’
They said nothing for a moment and then he curved a grin and let it go.
‘This paint is supposed to wash off easily,’ she grumbled from the sink, up to her elbows in soapy water.
‘Am I allowed to smile?’ he said.
‘You do what you want from what I’ve seen.’
She turned back to vigorously washing her hands again, but not before he’d seen the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘Towel?’ he suggested.
‘Please.’
He made coffee and passed her a mug. She hummed appreciatively and started sipping. ‘Good?’
Emerald eyes found him over the rim of the mug. ‘Very good—you’re a man of many talents, Heath.’
‘I’m a businessman. I do what I have to—as efficiently as I can.’
‘But you are growing to love it here, aren’t you?’ she asked him, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice. ‘Just a little bit, anyway?’
‘Nothing would entice me to subscribe to your woolly view that love changes everything, Bronte. Do you seriously think love would be enough here?’
‘Obviously, Hebers Ghyll needs a little more help than loving thoughts,’ she conceded.
‘Help from a jaded city type like me, possibly?’
‘A man with enough money to make things happen? Yes, that should do it,’ she agreed, brazen as you like.
A long-time fan of Bronte’s directness, he wasn’t fazed, and went in with a challenge of his own. ‘And the sparring between us? Could we work round that?’
‘I’d find a way to deal with it,’ she said, frowning.
Was she thinking about the fun they could have making up?
‘The