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Colleen held out a thick bunch of fragrant herbs.

      ‘Bad time,’ Heath commented dryly. Then pointing a finger at Bronte as if to say they had unfinished business, he left the kitchen to call the men.

      She couldn’t think of anything else all through supper. What had Heath meant by that pointing finger? If Heath meant what she thought he meant her fantasies were out of a job. Heath gave nothing away during the meal—he barely looked at her. She had cooked her heart out, silently thanking her mother for all those hours they’d spent together preparing food. She had everything she needed in the restored garden—and more eggs than she knew what to do with, thanks to the chickens being of too little value for Uncle Harry’s executors to chase them down. Tonight’s menu included minestrone soup, and a huge Spanish omelette, full of finely chopped seasonal vegetables and crispy potatoes, which she had browned beneath the grill until the cheese on top was crunchy. To complement this there was a bowl of crispy salad, along with some freshly baked bread and newly churned butter from a nearby farm. Then there was beer, wine and soft drinks from the local shop to satisfy twelve hungry mouths around the supper table. She loved doing this, Bronte reflected with her chin on the heel of her hand as the chatter continued abated—especially feeding Heath, who seemed to relish every mouthful.

      ‘The country’s not so bad, is it, Heath?’ She couldn’t resist saying when he dived in for second helpings.

      ‘I’ll freely admit it gives me a healthy appetite.’

      And how was she supposed to take that? She drew a deep, steadying breath, but the tension between them remained electric. It was the same between Heath’s men and Bronte’s friends, she noticed. The village was severely depleted when it came to good-looking guys, as most had gone to work in the city, so this was an interesting occasion for everyone, to say the least.

      ‘This is a real feast,’ Colleen observed, passing the bread round.

      Indeed it was, Bronte thought, glancing at Heath.

      ‘Here’s that cheese we bought to go with the bread,’ he said, passing the cheese board round to an appreciative roar.

      Bronte’s glance yo-yoed between Colleen and Heath. They had walked to the farm together, which meant they must have talked. And Colleen was hardly noted for holding back. She must have said something about Bronte’s feelings for Heath.

      Well, it was too late to do anything about that now, Bronte thought, putting an Eton mess on the table for pudding—easy. fresh whipped and sweetened cream, thick Greek yoghurt, strawberries, raspberries, and crumbled chunks of home-made meringue. ‘Please, tuck in,’ she announced brightly, swallowing back her embarrassment at the thought that her feelings for Heath must have been aired extensively at some point today.

      ‘This pudding is delicious,’ Heath said, looking up.

      His eyes held all sorts of thoughts that went beyond pudding—none of which Bronte trusted herself to examine too closely. How would Heath’s energy translate if they were left alone together for any length of time? Perhaps he had better install a sprinkler system along with all his other DIY improvements.

      ‘We’re going to be here for the best part of six months according to the boss,’ one of the men said, directing this comment at Bronte. ‘I hope you’ll be staying on?’

      ‘She’ll be here,’ Heath confirmed.

      ‘Oh, will I?’ Bronte challenged.

      ‘Where else would you go?’ Heath demanded.

      Everyone went silent and turned to look at them.

      ‘We definitely can’t let a cook as good as you go,’ the first man said politely to break the standoff.

      ‘We won’t let her go,’ Heath assured him while Bronte frowned. It wasn’t just that she didn’t like to be told what she was going to do—she was beginning to wonder if she had blown the bigger job. Not that she didn’t enjoy cooking, but her mother was the one trained in household management, while Bronte’s training had been geared towards managing the estate.

      Don’t make a fuss, her inner voice warned … softly, softly catchee monkey.

      ‘I’ve really enjoyed cooking for you all,’ she said honestly, thinking it best to leave it there.

      ‘If you do stay on and work here,’ Colleen piped up, ‘I’m sure Heath will pay excellent wages.’

      ‘We definitely need to talk terms,’ Heath agreed above the laughter.

      Great wages and impossible terms? Bronte smiled and kept on smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But when everyone started getting up from the table and she noticed Heath was looking at her, her senses sharpened. After what Heath had described as her less than promising start, she hoped she had gone some way to making amends tonight. But she still needed clarification about a formal interview—that was if Heath’s offer still stood.

      Her first thought was, what would the position be?

      Missionary? Or up against a wall—Stop! Stop!

      Estate manager, or housekeeper, Bronte told herself firmly, wiping her overheated forehead on the back of her hand. She’d settle for either—though of course she would hand over the housekeeper’s position to her mother, with Heath’s agreement, the moment her parents returned from their trip.

      She was so busy clearing the table and trying to see into the future that she managed to crash into Heath. ‘Well?’ he demanded, steadying her, his firm hands so warm and strong on her arms. ‘I’m still waiting for your answer, Bronte.’

      ‘Wages?’

      ‘Terms,’ he murmured.

      ‘And is that look supposed to encourage me to accept?’ His gaze was currently focused on her lips.

      ‘I haven’t offered you anything yet,’ he pointed out. ‘Is this a better look?’

      His face was so close she could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. ‘Barely,’ she said.

      Her body disagreed. Her body liked Heath’s brooding look very much indeed. ‘You can let me go now,’ she said, staring pointedly at his hand on her arm.

      Heath hummed as he lifted it away, leaving behind him an imprint of sensation that it would take more than a shower to wash off.

      This was everything she’d ever dreamed of, Bronte reflected as she cleared the table—Heath back at Hebers Ghyll, picking up almost, but not quite, where they’d left off, flirting with him.

      Flirting with Heath was a very bad idea indeed. It put her heart at risk, while his was in no danger at all. And she didn’t kid herself where this was heading, if she let it. Heath had a healthy appetite, and it was up to her to decide yes or no and then take the consequences for her decision whatever it might be.

      Everyone else had left the kitchen to return to work. No one stopped until a job was done now, Bronte had noticed, even thought it was quite late. Heath’s influence, she supposed. He never seemed to tire. She had asked him to mend a fuse for her before he went back to join the others. ‘Seems I can’t get rid of you now,’ she teased him as he straightened up.

      ‘Isn’t that what you want?’ he said.

      She was staring at his lips again, Bronte realised, shifting her gaze to Heath’s work-stained top. ‘Do you really think I find the scent of spark plugs and engine oil irresistible?’

      ‘I think you love a bit of rough.’

      ‘I—’

      Before she had chance to deny it, Heath had dragged her into his arms.

      ‘It might have escaped your notice,’ she told him, coolly, ‘but I’m in no danger of falling over at the moment.’

      ‘You’re right,’ Heath agreed, lips pressing down. ‘You’re in no

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