By Request Collection 1. Jackie BraunЧитать онлайн книгу.
about. ‘Just do it, will you?’
‘Don’t worry—I’ve got no reason to hang around here.’ She threw him a disdainful look. ‘Why on earth would I?’
A million and one reasons, Bronte thought, feeling all mixed up inside. She didn’t want to go—she didn’t want to stay. It didn’t help she’d brought so much stuff and it was taking so long to fit it back in her rucksack. She could feel the heat of Heath’s stare on her back. And low in her belly the dreamweaver was working—
‘Come on. Get a move on, Bronte.’
‘Yes, master—’
‘Less of it—and more packing,’ Heath snapped.
She was seething with frustration. Was this the same girl who had the right training for this job, as well as great qualifications? The girl who had worked her way round the world to make doubly sure she would be ready to apply for a job on the estate when she got back? And with the biggest job of all on offer, was she going to blow it now because she couldn’t see further than Heath? Bite your lip, Bronte, was the best piece of advice to follow. There was too much at stake to do anything else. She should have rung the lawyers the moment she was back in the country and avoided this meeting. She should have approached things in the usual way.
Could anything be usual where Heath was concerned?
If she had given him warning of her intentions, her best guess was Heath wouldn’t have turned up—or he’d make sure to be permanently unavailable at his office. But Hebers Ghyll needed him—needed Heath’s golden touch and his money. She had to put her personal feelings to one side and persuade him to keep the estate together and not to sell or demolish any of the old buildings in the ‘so called’ name of progress.
‘You won’t be very comfortable without this,’ he observed, toeing the edge of her groundsheet.
As she started to roll it up the scent of damp earth stirred her memories. Her parents had met and fallen in love at Hebers Ghyll, which gave it a sort of magic. The freedom of the fields when she’d been a child—somewhere to curl up with a book and lose herself—all the things that had made her feel safe and secure had gone, because every last inch of this damp, sweet-smelling ground belonged to Heath now, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
‘Why did you bring all this?’ Heath had come to stand very close.
She lifted her head and stared into the critical gaze, wishing there were some warmth in it—some recognition that they had been friends once. ‘I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for you,’ she said truthfully.
‘You were only sure that you would,’ Heath commented without expression.
‘That’s right,’ she said, blazing defiance into his eyes.
‘Nothing changes, does it, Bronte?’
‘Some things do,’ she said. Let him know how she felt. ‘With the future of the village at stake I had no alternative, Heath. No one sleeps on the ground out of choice.’
She could have bitten off her tongue. Heath’s success had been forged out of a combustible mix of fiery determination and uncompromising poverty. He knew very well what it was like to sleep on the ground. Uncle Harry had told her once his parents used to lock him out when he was a child while they went to the pub, and if they were home late or not at all Heath had to do the best he could to find shelter. ‘Heath, I’m sorry—’
With a shake of his head he closed the subject.
Sleeping on park benches to escape the violence at home had done nothing to soften him, Bronte reflected, returning to her packing. And that stint in jail must have knocked all human feeling out of him. Yes, and what would a man like that know or care about the countryside—or the legacy he had inherited? ‘Heath,’ she pleaded softly, sitting back on her haunches. ‘You will give this place a chance, won’t you?’
He surveyed her steadily through steel-grey eyes. ‘I’m here to see what can be done, Bronte. And if I want to do it.’
‘That’s not enough.’
Heath huffed. ‘It’s all you’re getting.’
‘If you even think of turning your back on Hebers Ghyll I’ll fight you every inch of the way.’
‘Bare knuckle or Queensberry Rules?’
She stared at him intently for a moment. She hardly dared to hope that was a flicker of the old humour, but in the unlikely event that it was she wasn’t going to cause a storm and blow it out.
‘What about those cooking pots, Bronte?’ Heath demanded. ‘Am I supposed to clear them up? If you don’t get a move on I’ll fetch the tractor and shift them myself.’
‘The tractor?’ she repeated witheringly. ‘Here is a man,’ she informed the trees, ‘whose knowledge of the countryside would fit comfortably on the head of a pin with room for angels to dance in a ring. Heath Stamp—’ she introduced him with a theatrical gesture ‘—creator of imaginary worlds contained in neat square boxes—computers that can be conveniently switched off, and don’t have to be milked twice a day.’ She turned to Heath. ‘What would you know about driving a tractor?’
‘More than you know.’
‘It would have to be more than I know—’ But now Heath’s hand was in the small of her back and everything dissolved in a flood of sensation. Jerking away, she bent down to pick up the overloaded pack.
‘Let me help you—’
‘Go away.’
‘Bronte—’
Heath waited a moment and then he strode off.
She turned to watch him go, still heated and furious—desperate for him to go, and longing for him to stay. She couldn’t believe how badly this much-longed-for reunion had gone. Heath, and that firm mouth—how she hated it. She hated the confident swagger of his walk, and those taut, powerful hips. She hated his manner, which was both cool and hot, and infinitely disturbing, as well as blatantly unavailable—at least, to her. Heath might have his own brand of rugged charm, but according to the press he attracted glamorous, elegant women—women who decorated Heath’s life without ever becoming part of it—
She nearly jumped out of her skin when he reappeared through the trees.
‘Okay,’ he said curtly, ‘I can’t abandon you here. Give me that pack.’
Heath didn’t wait for her reply. Wrestling the pack from her shoulders, he stalked off with it, leaving her stunned by the brief and definitely unintentional brushing of their bodies. ‘Hey—come back here,’ she yelled, coming to as Heath and her backpack disappeared through the trees.
She might as well have been talking to herself. Grinding her jaw, she started after him. Heath had never been a man to mess about with, but she wasn’t a girl to back down. Mud sucked at her trainers as she started to run. Wet leaves slapped at her face. Who could keep up with Heath? Bronte reasoned when she was forced to stop and catch her breath. Heath had always been a one-man powerhouse since the day he sewed the seeds of his empire on a computer he’d hidden in his bedroom, where damp dappled the walls and the only green Heath ever saw was the mould that flourished there. Bad start in life, maybe, but this city boy was fit—fitter than she was. Catching sight of Heath through the trees, she found a fresh burst of energy. He had always moved fast. The first time Heath had hit the headlines was because of the speed with which he had turned his old family home into an Internet café for the whole neighbourhood to use. The reporters had latched onto the fact that, far from turning his back on his miserable start in life, when Heath made money he celebrated his background, using his story to inspire others to follow his example and make the best of what they had. Leaning one hand against a tree trunk, she took another breather. So Heath Stamp was a saint, but right now that didn’t make her like him any better.
But if