Susan Stephens - Seduced by the Rebel

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 only reason I’m here,’ she assured him seriously, ‘is to make sure you don’t knock the place down when no one’s looking.’

‘And build a shopping centre?’ He laughed. ‘And, of course, that’s the only reason you’re here?’

‘There’s no other reason I can think of.’

Opening the fridge, he took out a beer, knocked the top off the bottle on the edge of the kitchen table, and chugged it down. ‘I’m not a man who destroys things, Bronte—when will you get that through your head? I’m a builder by nature, and a games designer by trade. I see no conflict there. I create things. Cyber worlds, brick walls—they’re all the same to me; it’s what I do.’

‘But your life is in the city, Heath. So you wouldn’t stay here year round—and whoever makes a success of Hebers Ghyll would have to love it enough to live here.’

‘Every second of every day?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. That’s what a good estate manager’s for.’

Bronte fell silent as this sank in. Even if she won the job there would be no Heath.

‘You can’t run a place like Hebers Ghyll on good intentions, Bronte. Look at Uncle Harry—’

‘Yes. Look at him,’ she said fiercely.

And now they were both quiet.

She was moving their mugs to the sink one minute—the next she had grabbed the paintbrush, jabbed it in the paint-tray and come looking for him.

‘You want a fight, do you?’ he challenged, dodging out of her way.

So much, Bronte thought.

‘You deserved that,’ she told him, backing off having given Heath a stripe of paint across his arm.

‘Did I?’ He circled round her. ‘The countryside is just a lot of empty space to me,’ he taunted. ‘Just think of all those potential building plots—’

‘Stop it,’ she warned him, making another lunge, which he just managed to evade.

‘The noise and the rush of the city?’ He backed her slowly towards the wall as he pretended to think about it. ‘Or the silence and emptiness of the countryside? Hmm. Let me think.’

‘Empty?’ she exclaimed, making a double stab at him before slipping away under his arm. ‘The countryside empty? You should open your eyes and look around, Heath.’

He wiped the paint off his cheek. ‘My eyes are wide open, believe me,’ he assured her, moving in for the kill.

‘I don’t know why you even came here,’ she said as he held her firmly with the brush dangling a tempting inch or two from her face.

‘Profit, wasn’t it?’ he growled, easing her wrist so the brush laid a dainty paint trail across her cheek.

‘Why, you—’

‘Barbarian?’ he suggested, directing the brush across her nose.

‘I’ll never forgive you for this.’

He wasn’t concerned. Bronte’s eyes told him something very different—and so did the swell of her mouth. He wouldn’t leave a paint trail there, he decided, removing the paintbrush from her hand and putting it in the sink. That would definitely be against his best interests. ‘I’m confiscating this,’ he said, running water over the brush. Next, he dampened a cloth. ‘And now I’m going to clean you up.’ He raised a challenging brow when she threatened to resist him.