Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss - Susan Stephens

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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. She’d keep that one—as well as the quiver of awareness that accompanied it. Enough! she told herself firmly as a puff of plaster dust landed on her shoulder. Heath had gone back to London, and there was work to be done here. ‘There should be life at Hebers Ghyll,’ she announced to the girls. ‘We can’t let it crumble to dust and do nothing about it.’

      ‘Aye aye, Captain.’

      The girls delivered a mock-salute as Bronte warmed to her theme. ‘There should be life and warmth and music—and there will be again.’

      The girls whooped and cheered. ‘How about we help you after work and at weekends?’ Colleen suggested when they’d all calmed down.

      Bronte was moved by the offer. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

      ‘Why not?’ Maisie demanded. ‘It could be fun.’

      ‘Spiders are fun?’ Bronte seemed doubtful.

      ‘Well, we can’t leave you here on your own, can we?’ Colleen pointed out. ‘If you’re going to be battling ghosts and spiders, we want to be part of it, don’t we, Maisie?’

      ‘I’ll trade you my most excellent work with a broom and a ghost-busters kit, for a drink at the pub,’ Maisie suggested. ‘How about that?’

      ‘Deal,’ Bronte agreed. ‘Let’s get to it,’ she announced, leading the way to the storeroom where the cleaning equipment was kept.

      ‘Working party present and correct,’ Colleen confirmed once they were armed with brushes and bin liners. ‘Where would you like us to start?’

      ‘Not with mouse droppings or spiders’ webs,’ Maisie protested, wielding her dustpan. ‘The only thing I’m prepared to scream for is a man.’

      I wish, Bronte thought, imagining she was in a clinch with Heath. ‘The best I can offer you is a good scrumping in the apple orchard.’

      ‘I think Maisie had something more hands on in mind than that,’ Colleen suggested dryly.

      ‘You do surprise me. Why don’t we clear up as much as we can in here and then reward ourselves with a swim in the lake?’

      ‘Skinny-dipping?’ Her friends shrieked, hugging themselves in anticipation.

      ‘Well, as we haven’t moved in with our fourteen wardrobes of clothes yet—seems skinny-dipping is our only option.’

      ‘Could you arrange for the lake to be heated before we dive in?’ Colleen demanded.

      ‘You’ll soon get warm,’ Bronte promised as visions of childhood’s endless summer days spent swimming or rowing on the lake filled her head with slightly rose-tinted images—swiftly followed by red-hot thoughts of Heath rising like a wet-shirted Mr Darcy dripping water from his muscular frame—

      ‘Bronte?’ the girls prompted.

      ‘Sorry.’ Tearing her thoughts away from Heath, Bronte focused on the here and now. It would be lonely at the hall without the girls and working together promised to be fun.

      And if Heath never came back?

      They’d get by somehow. But because she was stubborn she was going to make that call to London to check if he would be holding interviews for jobs at the hall.

      ‘Daydreaming about Heath again?’ Colleen teased her.

      ‘I’ve got bigger things on my mind than Heath,’ Bronte replied, trying to look serious.

      ‘Bigger than Heath?’ Colleen exclaimed, exchanging a knowing look with Maisie.

      ‘You’re disgusting.’ Bronte smothered a smile.

      The business trip he had left Hebers Ghyll to make had been a resounding success. He was back in town within the week, brooding in his office with Bronte on his mind. She was too inquisitive to quietly settle back into life at the cottage, which worried him. She wouldn’t be able to resist taking another look round Hebers Ghyll, which was dangerous. She could be down there now with a bundle of energy and good intentions. He’d made sure everything was locked up securely before he left, but he didn’t trust her—and good intentions wouldn’t stop those walls falling on her head. He had no option. He had to go back.

      He called Quentin from the car to make arrangements to cover his absence at the board meeting, and then he made a few more calls. There was no point in his going to Hebers Ghyll on a day trip—or just to yell at Bronte. He might as well start moving things forward. Whether or not he decided to keep the estate it could only benefit from a refit. And he could only benefit either way.

      The two girls were as good as their word and came to the hall every night after work to help Bronte sort things out. One week of back-breaking work was nearly over and there was still no sign of Heath.

      Still no answer on his phone either. Perhaps he’d given her the wrong number on purpose—or perhaps Heath’s PA was even more efficient than she’d thought him, which was entirely possible. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed that Heath had just disappeared again as if that visit had never happened, but she hid her feelings from the girls, and stubbornly refused to let it get her down. She distracted herself by working as hard as she could until all she could think about at night was a soft pillow and a long, dreamless sleep.

      By the end of the week the three girls had systematically cleared, cleaned, and de-spidered the Great Hall, and had returned

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