Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens
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It would be fun. She couldn’t jive, but what the heck?
‘Those shoes are perfect,’ Heath observed. ‘Anyone would think you knew you were coming here. Think of the steps you can do in those.’
‘I have thought,’ she assured him dryly. ‘And we both know my sense of balance isn’t up to much.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Heath said, ‘as I’m here to catch you.’ Standing up, he made it hard for Bronte to refuse.
‘I can’t … I really can’t,’ she said, changing her mind. How could she when her heart was going wild at the thought of dancing with Heath?
‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said. And when she still hung back, he grabbed her hand. ‘I never took you for a chicken, Ms Foster-Jenkins.’
‘Squawk squawk.’
‘You can move your hips, can’t you?’
Who knew that better than Heath? Standing hands on hips waiting for her to cave, Heath looked hot enough to fry a steak on. But this could end really badly, Bronte reasoned. Letting herself go with Heath was hardly sensible: hot, hectic movements—Heath’s firm hands directing her—staring into each other’s eyes—Hmm. When had she done that before?
And there was another issue. Most men couldn’t dance. Could Heath dance? Or would she soon be running for the exit?
Heath could dance. Why was she surprised? Heath was so brazenly male, so relentlessly sexy, he could make any move look cool—something that wasn’t lost on the women gathered round him. And he taught her to jive in the same effortless way in which he’d taught her to make love. And then the DJ changed the track and Heath’s mouth curved in a challenging grin.
‘Twist contest?’ Bronte asked, eyes widening in trepidation.
‘We have to,’ he said, kicking off his loafers. ‘And we have to do this right.’
She should have known Heath could outdance a movie star and look hotter than hell. The crowd grew around him and somehow she forgot her good intentions again. Staring into Heath’s eyes, she really went for it, while Heath’s body brushed hers into a state of arousal.
Lucky for her, their food was delivered to the table or she’d have been right back where she started from, Bronte thought. Much safer to have Heath call it a day and escort her back to the table.
But with Heath’s hand back home in the small of her back she couldn’t help wondering who was kidding who here.
THE food was delicious and Bronte ate ravenously. It was easy to talk about Hebers Ghyll in such a relaxed setting, though she prickled all over when Heath admitted he still couldn’t see how the inheritance would fit into his life. She could see the problem. Heath’s life was cool and cutting edge. Hebers Ghyll was a lumbering great piece of real estate with thousands of acres of land attached. But it was somewhere she called home. She couldn’t expect it to be more than another entry in Heath’s property portfolio. She had to make him see it differently. If she could only persuade him to come back.
‘Don’t let your food get cold,’ Heath advised when she started out down that route.
Heath would never be pushed. And she would not be moved. Things promised to get interesting. They already were; Heath was close enough for her body to warm at the memory of his touch—
‘Penny for them?’ he murmured.
Censored. ‘Just thinking what a really great time I’ve had tonight.’
‘I’ll call for the bill.’
She dug out her purse.
‘Put that away.’
Resolutions were easy to make, but the warmth and strength of Heath’s hand covering hers was too much. She snatched her hand away as if he’d burned it. ‘I can’t let you pay for me, Heath.’
‘Then take it as wages. I must owe you something by now?’
‘Yes, you do,’ she said frankly, ‘but this is different—separate.’
‘Then you’ll just have to repay me some other way.’ Heath curved a smile. ‘I’m sure I can find some filing for you at the office, if you’re really desperate?’
‘Temping for you?’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Heath agreed, ‘I’d get no work done by the time you’d finished tempting—’
‘Temping,’ she corrected him. ‘You mean when I’ve finished temping.’
‘You say temping—I say tempting.’ Heath’s cheek creased in a grin.
Heath was enjoying himself. The revelation made her thrill inside. ‘You’re impossible,’ she scolded him.
‘I know,’ he agreed, putting his hand up for the bill.
They went from the heat of the café into the cool of the night. Heath opened the passenger door of the Lamborghini and Bronte fed herself in.
‘You’re getting better at it,’ he observed dryly.
‘And you’re not supposed to be looking.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
She doubted he would. And if it was possible to enter such a low-slung car without showing everything she was born with and a whole lot more, she hadn’t got the knack of it yet.
‘So where now?’ she asked as Heath swung in beside her.
Self-doubt crowded in when Heath said nothing. Having sex with him would be spectacular—but wrong. It would be the perfect ending to the perfect night, but that didn’t make it right. It was everything she had promised herself she wouldn’t do. ‘We’ll find a hotel as we drive back to town—you can just drop me—’
‘Let you loose on the unsuspecting?’ Heath said, gunning the engine. ‘I couldn’t be so unfeeling towards my fellow man.’
‘Look,’ she said a few miles further down the road, ‘that looks like a nice bed and breakfast. You can drop me here. It says vacancies—I’ll be fine.’
More silence.
‘Heath?’ she prompted as he started to make a call. She couldn’t risk everything she’d dreamed about and worked towards, sacrificed for a night that would leave her heart in pieces. ‘Heath, what are you doing?’ She felt the prickle of apprehension creep up her spine as Heath held up his hand to silence her, and as the conversation got under way she felt sick. The bottom dropped out of her world when she realised Heath was booking a double room at some swanky hotel in Knightsbridge. She was supposed to be grateful, Bronte guessed. And why should Heath think any differently of her? She’d had sex with him and enjoyed it—they’d both enjoyed it. She would be the first to admit she wanted him more than ever. But not like this.
‘Yes,’ Heath confirmed. ‘An executive double for tonight.’ He paused and flashed a glance at Bronte as the girl on the other end of the line obviously checked her reservation system. Once the booking was confirmed, he added, ‘We’ll be with you in around a quarter of an hour.’
‘What are you doing?’ Bronte whispered the moment Heath cut the line. Had the wonderful time they had spent together been for this? Was the friendship she thought they had forged nothing more than an illusion?
‘Lucky they had a room available.’
And she was available too? Bronte thought dully, turning to stare out of the window. This would ruin everything.
Her anxiety had reached epic proportions by the time Heath pulled into the approach of one of the most famous five-star