The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens
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my travels had a purpose and now I’m home to put what I’ve learned into practice.’
‘That’s good,’ he agreed, ‘but if I take this on there will be nothing but hard work ahead, and a lot of difficult decisions to be made. I need to be sure that whoever I employ as estate manager has both the staying power and the backbone for what needs to be done.’
‘What are you implying, Heath?’
He lifted the latch on the wooden gate that led through to her parents’ garden. ‘I’m saying I don’t know you, Bronte. I only know what you’re telling me. It’s been a long time.’
‘For both of us,’ she reminded him tensely.
He propped her rucksack against the front door.
‘Hey,’ she said when he turned to leave. ‘Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a conversation.’
‘We’ll continue it another time. I have to get back now.’
‘Can’t we talk first? What’s the hurry?’
Strangely, it pleased him that she wanted to keep him back. ‘I have appointments I can’t break. My work is in London, remember? It’s where I make the money that might just keep this place alive.’ He stopped at the gate and turned to face her. ‘Just promise me one thing before I go.’
‘What?’
‘Parts of Hebers Ghyll aren’t safe, Bronte, so please stay away.’
‘The Great Hall’s safe,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘Uncle Harry was living there up to a few months ago.’
‘And I’m telling you not to go near it until I get back.’
‘So you are coming back?’
As her eyes fired he propped a hip against the garden wall. ‘You’ll be telling me how much you’ll miss me next.’
‘Ha! Don’t hold your breath.’
‘If you need me you’ve got my number.’
‘What use is that when your PA won’t put me through?’
‘You give up too easily, Bronte.’ Raising his hand in a farewell salute, he thought himself lucky to be out of range of any missiles she might have to hand.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN Heath left her Bronte was still high on adrenalin hours later. She needed action. Lots of it. She went back to Hebers Ghyll and broke in. Maybe this was the craziest idea she’d had yet, but she wasn’t prepared to be run off a property she had always thought of as her second home. The moment Heath’s car roared away she made some calls to girls in the village—girls who’d been friends for life. The chance to do a little exploring was right up their street.
How dangerous could the Great Hall be? It had only stood empty for a couple of months. She wouldn’t take any chances, Bronte determined as she led her troops beneath a moody sky down the long overgrown drive. Everyone knew the castle was ready to fall down, but the hall where her mother had been housekeeper, and the rooms where Uncle Harry had used to live, they were safe. Heath was overreacting—or, more likely, trying to keep her away. She had explained to her friends, Maisie and Colleen, that there were no-go areas and that they mustn’t go off exploring on their own.
‘This is spooky,’ Colleen said, echoing Bronte’s thoughts as they all flashed an anxious glance into the impenetrable undergrowth.
They could speed-walk to international standards by the time they reached the open space where a dried-up moat circled the ruined castle. The castle was a heap of blackened stone, lowering and forbidding beneath boiling storm clouds, and the ugly gash around it was full of brambles and leaves. ‘Nice,’ Colleen murmured.
It needed clearing—needed filling—needed ducks, Bronte thought. She wouldn’t have trusted the drawbridge—most of the planks were missing, and a glance at the rusty portcullis hanging over it confirmed that Heath was right to warn her to stay away. But even the old castle could be transformed like one she’d seen in France. The fortress of Carcassonne had been faithfully restored and was now a World Heritage site. But that was for another day. ‘We’ll go straight to the Great Hall,’ she told the girls, leading them swiftly past the danger zone.
Excitement started to bubble inside Bronte the moment she stood in front of the old hall. The sun had made a welcome return, burning through the clouds, and the warmth and light changed everything. It raised her spirits and softened the blackened stone, turning it rosy. This could all be so romantic, if it weren’t so run-down. Her plan had been to bring the girls along to enthuse them, but she clearly had a long way to go. They had gone quiet, which was a bad sign. ‘Come on,’ she said in an attempt to lift their spirits. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got round the back.’
More decay. Dried-up fountains. Tangled weeds. Crumbling stone.
For a moment she felt overwhelmed, defeated, but then she determined that she would find a way. Scrambling through an upstairs window, she brushed herself down. The echoing landing smelled musty and dust hung like a curtain in the shadowy air. She could hardly expect Heath to feel enthusiastic about this, Bronte mused as she walked slowly down the stairs, let alone spend his hard-earned money putting it right.
She could only hope the girls would stick with her, Bronte concluded as she picked her way across the broken floor tiles in the hall. How depressing to see how quickly everything had deteriorated. It didn’t help to know she had only added to the destruction. She’d tried her mother’s door key, only to discover that the one useful thing the previous estate manager had done before Heath sacked him was to change the locks. Adapting her plans accordingly, she had shinned up a drainpipe, forced a window and climbed in. And this was not the testimony to Uncle Harry’s generosity that he deserved. Plants had withered and died, while chairs had mysteriously fallen over, and plaster was falling off the walls faster than the mice could eat it.
Shouldn’t Heath be here doing something about this?
And why was she thinking about Heath when she could just as easily do something about it? She had already established that Heath’s interest in his inheritance was mild at most. Heath only cared about the profit he could make when he sold it on. He’d made that clear enough. He could barely spare the time for this weekend’s flying visit. Heath’s life was all about making money in London now.
With a frustrated growl, she scraped her hair back into a band ready for work—only to be rewarded by an image of Heath in her mind, standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall looking like a conquering hero as he fixed her with his mocking stare. Why did it always have to come back to Heath?
Because Heath was blessed with such an overdose of darkly brooding charisma it was impossible not to think about him, Bronte concluded. But a man like Heath could hardly be expected to hang around when there were so many people waiting to admire him—and she was hardly the swooning type. So, who needed him? There was nothing here she couldn’t handle.
Having convinced herself that she had ejected Heath from her thoughts, she now had to confront all the other impressions crowding in. ‘I’m going to change this,’ she murmured, staring round.
‘Talking to yourself, Lady Muck?’ Colleen called down to her from the upstairs landing.
Bronte’s heart leapt. So the girls had decided to join her. ‘You made it,’ she called back. ‘Come and join me. We’ve got the place to ourselves.’
‘No boarders to repel?’ Maisie demanded, sounding disappointed as she clattered down the stairs in a cloud of cheap scent and good humour. ‘I thought there’d be at least one hunky ghost for me to deal with.’
Or Heath in full battle armour with a demolition ball at his command, Bronte mused—that was one boarder she wouldn’t have minded repelling. Or, better still—half-naked Heath, muscles bulging, on his knees in front of her. Much better.