Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens
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here. Naturally, Heath can set his own standards, but he expects—no,’ Quentin said frowning, ‘Heath takes for granted the fact that his employees will dress a certain way. I’m only trying to help,’ he defended when Bronte gave him a hard stare. ‘I just think you’d stand a much better chance of getting this job if you conform to the sort of look Heath will be expecting. That’s all I’m saying,’ he said, raising his hands.
And she should be grateful someone as savvy as Quentin was giving her advice. She liked him. And now it was time to place her trust in him. ‘I’ve never conformed,’ she explained. ‘So I’m not that sure how to do it—how to put a look together—if you know what I mean?’ Quentin’s interest sparked as she added, ‘I don’t suppose you could you help me …?’
Quentin’s eyes narrowed speculatively as he looked her over. ‘I could help,’ he said thoughtfully, chin in hand. ‘If you don’t mind missing lunch …’
Bronte was round the desk in a flash. Anything to take her mind off meeting Heath.
‘Heath has seen you in casual attire, I’ve no doubt,’ Quentin pondered out loud as he walked round Bronte like a sergeant major on parade. ‘It’s time for him to see you dressed as a professional—sharp, contemporary, and of the moment.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Sounds like a challenge,’ Quentin argued.
‘Well, if you’re up for it, I am.’
‘Budget?’ Quentin enquired discreetly.
‘Whatever it takes.’ She would just have to use plastic and hope her card didn’t self-combust.
‘Excellent.’ Quentin was already at the door. ‘Well, come on—what are you waiting for, girlfriend? Let’s go shopping.’
SOME hours later with her hair freshly shampooed at Quentin’s preferred salon and left to curl in wild disarray almost to her waist, dressed in a short black skirt, black opaque tights and flat Mary Janes, with a tight little top that clung like sticking plaster to her breasts, Bronte wasn’t totally convinced she looked like the archetypal interviewee for the post of estate manager at Hebers Ghyll, but more importantly Quentin was pleased with her appearance and declared her ready for her interview with Heath. ‘Wouldn’t I have been better buying a tweed jacket, or something?’ she said, feeling increasingly anxious as the moment of truth approached. Craning her neck, she stared at her bottom, which was very tightly clad indeed.
‘A tweed jacket?’ Quentin demanded as if she had suggested wearing a homespun jerkin. ‘Certainly not. Heath is not just the cutting edge, he is the leading edge—the spear, the arrow, the—’
‘Okay, okay, I’m happy,’ Bronte insisted, holding up her hands.
They returned to Heath’s building where Quentin told her to wait in the anteroom to Heath’s corner office.
She could do this, Bronte persuaded herself nervously, her knees jiggling up and down as she perched on the very edge of one of the smart black leather couches. Though why she was dressed as if to seduce the boss, when that was the last thing she wanted.
She was here to persuade Heath she could be a top drawer estate manager. She was not losing her nerve. She would not be fixated on how aroused she was at the thought of seeing him again. She would definitely not be scanning Heath’s office for likely trysting opportunities. She would forget how she had felt after sex when Heath pulled away, and how deep the feeling was that what they’d done hadn’t been wrong. She would be cool and professional. They had both moved to a new place. It was a good place. It was the right place for them to be—
And then the door swung open and the breath left her lungs in a rush. Had she really thought she was ready for this? Her heart was crashing against her ribs. Her awareness levels had soared beyond the possible. Heath stood framed in the doorway like a totem to all things sexual: a deity, a yoni god, a man with eyes of stone, wearing what, on the face of it, was a casual outfit—jeans and a top—but it was the kind of easy look that reeked of money and style.
For a moment her mind was wiped clean and her mouth refused absolutely to communicate with her brain. The last time she’d seen Heath he’d been groaning—She’d been screaming—They’d been—
Thankfully, she managed to summon up an autopilot voice—faint though it was. ‘Hello, Heath.’
‘Bronte,’ he said briskly. All business. All coldly assessing as he took in her new look.
She wasn’t sure whether to be glad of Quentin’s assistance or not now. Something more low-key—something more mouse-like—might have bought her enough time to state her case clearly. Heath could convey more in one sharp stare than most men could hope to communicate in a lifetime, and that wasn’t always a good thing. ‘I’m your three o’ clock,’ she said, standing before she had too much time to analyse Heath’s expression.
‘I’m running late—so we’ll have to make this quick.’
No, we won’t, Bronte thought, frowning even as her heart beat the retreat. ‘I’ve come all this way, Heath, and I know you’re going to treat me with the same consideration you’ve treated all the other interviewees.’
Heath’s expression didn’t change. He wore a brooding look Bronte found impossible to interpret, other than to say it didn’t fill her with confidence. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong?’ she said pleasantly, determined not to be fazed. ‘I guessed these interviews mean your attitude towards the country has mellowed—’
‘Mellowed,’ Heath cut across her, raising a brow.
‘Okay, not mellowed,’ Bronte conceded, but to hell with trying to phrase her words carefully. They’d known each other too long for that. She had to be candid even if their relationship had been somewhat turbulent lately. ‘Finding time for Hebers Ghyll can’t be easy for you, but I can take those concerns away—’ The flexing of a muscle in Heath’s cheek made her pause. His dangerous appeal was working its magic. Steeling herself, she pushed on. ‘Give me a chance, Heath. Put everything else that’s happened between us since I … since you—’
‘Since we?’ Heath angled his chin.
He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. ‘Since we had sex,’ she said flatly, pressing her hands out to the side as if she were pushing the memory away. ‘I’m the best person for this job. All I ask is the chance to prove that to you, Heath.’
‘Go on, then, tell me why.’ He leaned back against the door, drinking her in as she spoke about her experience and outlined her plans for Hebers Ghyll. She was even younger than he remembered and more innocent than he cared to think about. The fiery episode in the kitchen seemed all at odds with the girl standing in front of him now. Bronte had always led with her heart, but there was something different about her today.
He had felt energy blaze between them the moment he walked into the room, but Bronte was cool now. If anything, she was cooler than he’d ever seen her. She had moved to a new level, where ironically she was almost as unreachable as he was. She intrigued him even more. She presented more of a challenge. And she might well be the right candidate for the job. He’d made enquiries in advance of this interview—taking up her references at her old college, as well as talking to people she’d worked with. Bronte was outstanding, he’d been told. She was a terrific catch for any landowner, people in the know had assured him.
Catch was about right, he thought as he stared at her. They’d known each other for what felt like for ever—they knew each other intimately, yet they didn’t know each other at all. She was certainly qualified, he just wished there had been more time to get to know what really made Bronte tick. He glanced at his wristwatch. There wasn’t time. There was never time.
Then perhaps he should make time