Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens
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Expecting Heath to arrive? Yes, but not her reaction to it. He wasn’t supposed to arrive at dawn, either. Around midday, the postmistress in the village had suggested. Heath Stamp, hip, slick, rugged, tough, and even better looking than his most recent images in the press suggested. This was a vastly improved version of someone she’d dreamed about for thirteen years, two months, six hours, and—
‘You do know you’re trespassing, Bronte?’
And as delightful as ever.
The years melted away. They were at loggerheads immediately. She had to remind herself Heath was no longer a wild youth who’d been locked up for bare-knuckle fighting, and who used to visit Hebers Ghyll on a release programme, but a successful Internet entrepreneur and the new owner of Hebers Ghyll, the country estate where Bronte had grown up, and where her mother had been the housekeeper and her father the gamekeeper. ‘The estate has been deserted for weeks now—’
‘And that’s an excuse for breaking in?’
‘The gates were open. Everything’s gone to pot,’ she told him angrily.
‘And that’s my fault?’
‘You own it. You tell me.’ Heath’s inheritance had a special hold on her heart for all sorts of reasons, not least of which she considered the estate her second home.
While Heath had gained nothing in charm, Bronte registered as he turned his back, he clearly still couldn’t care less what people thought of him. He never had.
He’d walked off to give them both space. Seeing Bronte again had floored him. Since the first time he had visited the estate—where ironically his real-life uncle Harry had used to run a rehabilitation centre for out-of-control youths—there had been something between him and Bronte, something that drew the good girl to the dark side. He’d tried to steer clear, not wanting to taint her. But he would think about her when he sat alone and stared at his bruised knuckles. She was light to his darkness. Back then Bronte had represented everything that was pure, fun and happy, while he was the youth from the gutter who met every challenge with his fists. He’d worshipped her from afar, had she only known it. That buzz between them surely should have died by now.
‘That tree was struck by lightning, and no one’s moved it,’ she said, reclaiming his attention.
He hadn’t even realised he’d been staring at the old tree, but now he remembered Uncle Harry telling him that it had stood on the estate for centuries.
‘It’ll stay there until it rots, I suppose,’ she flared.
‘I’ll have it moved.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe have something planted in its place.’
‘It would mean more if you did it.’
He threw her a glance, warning her not to push it. But she would. She always had. Bronte loved a campaign whether it was free the chickens, or somewhere for the local youth to hang out.
‘And just think of all the free firewood,’ she said casually.
She was working on him. When hadn’t she? And now it all came flooding back—what she’d done for him—and how he used to envy Bronte her simple life on the estate with her happy family. He’d felt a hungry desperation to share what they had but had never allowed them to draw him in, in case he spoiled it. He’d spoiled everything back then.
And now?
He was still hard and contained.
And Hebers Ghyll?
Was in the pending file.
And Bronte?
Heath raked his hair with impatience.
This was all happening too fast, way too fast. She hadn’t expected to feel as shaken as this when she saw Heath again. Heading for the shelter of some trees where the thick green canopy acted like a giant umbrella, she sucked in some deep steadying breaths. She had to remind herself why she was here—to find out what Heath’s plans for the estate were. ‘I heard the new owner was going to break up the estate—’
‘And?’
‘You can’t.’ Bronte’s heart picked up pace as Heath came to join her beneath the branches. ‘You don’t know enough about the area as it is today. You don’t know how desperate people are for jobs. You haven’t been near the place for years—’
‘And you have?’
Bronte’s cheeks flared red. Yes, she’d been away, but her travels had been geared towards putting what she had learned at college into practice. As a child she had dogged Uncle Harry’s footsteps, trying to be useful and asking him endless questions about Hebers Ghyll. He’d said she was a good lieutenant and might make a decent estate manager one day if she worked hard enough. When she left school Uncle Harry had paid for her to go to college to study estate management. ‘I’ve been away recently,’ she conceded, ‘but apart from that I’ve lived on the estate all my life.’
‘So, what are you saying, Bronte? You’re the only one who cares about Hebers Ghyll?’ Heath’s chin dipped a warning.
‘Well, do you care,’ Bronte exclaimed with frustration, ‘beyond its value?’
‘I’d be foolish not to care about its value.’
‘But there’s so much more than money here.’ And she had been prepared to camp out on the road leading up to the old house for as long as it took to prove that to him. ‘Why else do you think I scrabbled round my parents’ attic to find the old tent?’ Heath’s dark gaze flashed a warning, which she ignored. ‘Do you think I like camping out in the rain?’
‘I don’t know what you like.’
The gulf between them yawned. It might have been easier to explain and convince Heath if she had seen him recently. The shock of seeing him again after all these years was something she hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t how tall he was, or how good-looking—it was the aura of danger and unapologetic masculinity she found so unnerving.
‘So, Bronte,’ Heath observed in the laid-back husky voice that had always made her toes curl with excitement, ‘what can I do for you?’
She exhaled, refusing to think about it. ‘By the time I got back here, Heath, Uncle Harry was dead and everything was in a mess. No one on the estate or in the village had a clue what was going to happen—or whether they still had jobs—’
‘And your parents?’ Heath prompted.
She guessed Heath already knew the answer to that. The lawyers would have filled him in on what had happened to the staff at Hebers Ghyll. ‘I can only think Uncle Harry must have realised he was gravely ill, because he gave my parents some money before he died. He told them to take a break—to fulfil their lifetime’s ambition of travelling the world.’ She was hugging herself for reassurance, Bronte realised, releasing her arms. It was hard to launch a cogent argument in defence of the estate while Heath was staring at her so intently. He knew her too well. Even after all this time he could sense what she wasn’t saying. He could sense how she felt. They had always been uncannily connected, though when Heath had first arrived on the estate she’d been more concerned that the ruffian Uncle Harry was trying to tame would tear the head off her dolls. The feeling Heath inspired in her now was very different. ‘I can’t believe you’re the Master of Hebers Ghyll,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘And you don’t like the idea?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘You didn’t have to. Perhaps you think Uncle Harry should have left his estate to you—’
‘No,’ Bronte exclaimed indignantly. ‘That never occurred to me. You’re his nephew, Heath. I’m only the housekeeper’s daughter—’
‘Who walked in here and made herself at home.’ He glanced at her tent.
‘The