Susan Stephens - Seduced by the Rebel

Quentin sulked for around a second. ‘I’ll get that temp in, then.’

‘Yes, you do that,’ Heath advised, returning to his screen.

She had never been put through such a gruelling grilling. Heath’s PA, a man who went by the name of Quentin Carew, turned out to be the most formidable style maven Bronte had ever encountered, and he would be conducting the first screening process, Quentin had informed her.

Then she was out, Bronte thought. She didn’t stand a chance. Quentin was infinitely better groomed than she would ever be, and Heath’s offices far surpassed anything that even Bronte’s lively imagination could have conjured up. A celebration of steel and glass, they were formidably smart, as was Quentin, whereas she—even with Colleen’s best and kindest efforts—wasn’t. But for some reason, Quentin seemed to like her. It was possible he could see right through her carefully subdued grooming and controlled manner to something quirky underneath. Perhaps it was the small heart tattoo on her wrist—something she had hoped her respectable shirt cuff would cover, but hadn’t, and she had caught Quentin staring at it.

‘I’m putting you through,’ he announced.

‘You are?’ She couldn’t have been more surprised, or more delighted. This was everything she had ever wanted—and was nothing at all to do with seeing Heath again, Bronte told her racing heart firmly.

‘Heath could arrive at any time this afternoon,’ Quentin explained, ‘and as you probably know by now he can be a little … unpredictable? With a certain type of volatile…’

‘Temperament?’ Bronte supplied innocently.

‘You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Quentin remarked, picking imaginary lint off the lapels of his immaculate jacket.

The lengths some PAs will go to in order to protect the boss, Bronte thought wryly. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for giving me this opportunity.’

‘I don’t know why you’re thanking me,’ Quentin exclaimed, confiding, ‘Working here must have put at least ten years on me.’

‘And you’re looking great on it,’ she said, smiling.

‘Yes, well …’ Quentin’s beautifully etched lips tightened in a pout. ‘That’s no thanks to the man I work for.’

‘Heath …’ Bronte floated off into her favourite dream, and just as quickly dragged herself back again. She had to. There was a dangerous little capsule living in her mind that threatened to explode into infinite pieces of lust, self-reproach, and longing, given half a chance. And that would be too distracting when she wanted to concentrate on landing this job.

‘Yes, Heath,’ Quentin agreed, looking at Bronte closely. ‘I should warn you that when he arrives it will be like a force ten storm hitting. You’d do well to be prepared.’

‘I am prepared,’ Bronte lied as her heart went crazy, knowing she could never be prepared to see Heath again.

‘And you do understand that this is a high-powered office where we work at warp speed all the time?’

‘I do,’ Bronte confirmed, recalling the speed at which Heath could work.

‘I doubt Heath will expect anything less of his staff in the country—and if he does, let me know,’ Quentin added with an over-the-rim-of-his-glasses look. ‘I might want to try out for a job there. I’ve always thought I’d look rather good in plus fours…’

‘If I get the job I’ll let you know,’ Bronte promised as Quentin went off into his own private dreamworld. Heath definitely hadn’t let his PA into the full story at Hebers Ghyll. An outfit of plus fours—quaint knickerbockers—teamed with a beautifully tailored tweed jacket and possibly a deerstalker hat was the clothing of choice for another type of country estate altogether—one where the visitors would expect everything to be sanitised and mud-free.

Shrewd blue eyes, enhanced by the most discreet hint of grey eyeshadow, switched channels to Bronte. ‘From what I’ve seen of your CV you should be in with a serious chance for this job.’ But now Quentin grew concerned. ‘Are you sure that working for metrosaurus-man won’t be too traumatic for you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Bronte confirmed confidently. The work wouldn’t be too much for her. But Heath … Heath was another story, and one that had forbidden written all over it.

‘I wouldn’t normally put someone as young as you through, but your CV is so strong,’ Quentin observed.

‘Thank you.’ Why was Quentin looking at her like that? Bronte wondered, growing increasingly self-conscious. ‘I normally wear jeans or dungarees,’ she explained awkwardly, conscious that her borrowed outfit wasn’t up to Quentin’s standards.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Quentin said, confirming Bronte’s suspicions. ‘But Heath is all about the city. He’s tuned into the pace of life 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.