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house yet, I take it?’

      Bronte’s brave front faltered. ‘No. I came straight here.’ Now her imagination had raced into overdrive. The estate comprised a hall and a broken-down castle as well as a great deal of land. Uncle Harry had lived at the hall, and had always kept it as well as he could afford to—which wasn’t very well, but if anything was less than perfect it was only because Uncle Harry spent so much of his money helping others. The original stained-glass windows were beautiful, she remembered, and there was a wonderful woodpanelled library where the log fire was always burning, and a spotless, if antiquated, kitchen, which had been her mother’s domain. Was all that changed? ‘What’s happened, Heath?’ she said anxiously. ‘Can I help?’

      ‘What can you do?’ he said.

      She was surprised he had to ask. And hurt that he had. It made her more determined than ever to find out what Heath’s true intentions were. ‘Rumours say you’ve already sold the Hebers Ghyll estate on—’

      ‘Anything else?’ Heath demanded, folding his powerful arms across his chest.

      His eyes were every bit as beautiful as she remembered and just as cold. She shook herself round. ‘And bulldozers—I heard talk of bulldozers.’ There was no point sugar-coating this. She might just as well confront him with the lot. ‘One rumour said you were going to bring in a wrecking crew to knock everything down, and then you’d build a shopping centre—’

      ‘And what if I did?’

      Panic hit her at the thought that he might— that he could—that he had every right to. ‘What about Uncle Harry?’

      ‘Uncle Harry’s dead.’

      Heath might as well have stabbed a knife through her heart. Heath had always been closed off to feelings except on those rare occasions when he had lightened up in front of Bronte or Uncle Harry. Sometimes she wondered if they were the only people he had ever opened up to. And that was a memory so faint she couldn’t believe it had ever happened now. ‘For goodness’ sake, Heath, you’re his nephew—don’t you feel anything?’ To hell with the job she had intended to apply for. ‘Does Hebers Ghyll mean anything to you? Don’t you remember what Uncle Harry used to do—?’

      ‘For kids like me?’ Heath interrupted her coldly. She’d taken him back to the past, and his father, Uncle Harry’s wastrel brother—the poor relation with the taste for violence. Only at the court’s insistence had his father agreed to a period of rehabilitation for Heath at Hebers Ghyll under Uncle Harry’s direction. And how he’d fought it. Heath had thrown Uncle Harry’s kindness back in his face. A fact he’d spent his adult life regretting.

      ‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ Bronte assured him. ‘Uncle Harry loved having you around. You must have known you were the son he never had?’

      ‘Don’t use those tactics on me, Bronte.’

      ‘Tactics?’ she exploded. ‘I’m not using tactics. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t pretend you don’t care, Heath. I know you better than that—’

      ‘You know me?’ he snarled, dipping his chin.

      ‘Yes. I know you,’ she argued stubbornly, refusing to back down.

      ‘You knew me then,’ he said. And he didn’t like reminders of then.

      ‘I don’t want to fight with you, Heath.’

      Her voice had turned softer. Bronte backing down? That had to be a first. Had the years smoothed her out? Remembering her welcome, he guessed not. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. But even as their eyes met and held he knew this small concession was the first step on the road to damnation, the first nod to his libido. Bronte was still as attractive as ever—more so, when she was all fired up.

      ‘It’s important Uncle Harry’s work here continue,’ she told him, her brow creasing with passion. ‘And with you at the helm, Heath,’ she added with less conviction.

      His senses stirred. She was magnificent with those green eyes blazing and that dainty jaw jutting. She was unflinching. Boudicca of the Yorkshire moors. But she was also uneasy and unsure of him. She was unsure of what he’d do. Thinking back to what seemed like another life to him now, he couldn’t blame her. ‘You’ll be the first to know when I make my decision. But know this: I don’t do weekends. I don’t do holidays. And I don’t need a country house. You work it out.’

      ‘I think that answers my question,’ The green gaze remained steady on his face.

      ‘If you care so much about Hebers Gyll, what are you going to do about it?’ he said, turning the tables on her.

      ‘I won’t walk away without a fight.’

      He didn’t doubt it. ‘And in practical terms?’

      She tilted her chin at a determined angle. ‘Whether or not you keep the estate, I’m going to apply for the job of estate manager.’

      He laughed out loud. She really had surprised him now. ‘Making jam tarts with your mother at the kitchen table hardly qualifies you for that.’

      ‘You’re not the only one to have made something of yourself, Heath,’ she fired back. ‘I have qualifications in estate management—and I’ve travelled the world, studying how vast tracts of land and properties like this can be managed successfully.’

      Now she had his interest.

      ‘It’s only natural I want to know what your plans are,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t want to be wasting my pitch on the wrong man.’ Out came the chin.

      ‘My plans are no business of yours.’ He stopped admiring her when it occurred to him that Bronte wanted something that belonged to him. Or at least, she wanted control of Hebers Ghyll, which amounted to the same thing. It was a challenge he couldn’t ignore. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since he’d been a hard, fighting, rebellious youth and Bronte the housekeeper’s prim little daughter sneaking out to see him, hiding in the shadows, thinking he didn’t know she was there, but he hadn’t changed when it came to protecting what was his. ‘If you want me to make time to see you, clear up this mess and get off my property.’ He pointed to the area around her tent, which, in fairness, was neat. Bronte had always respected the countryside.

      ‘You promised we’d talk.’

      ‘I’ll make a start, shall I?’ he said, losing patience.

      She exclaimed with surprise when he swooped on a tent peg and jerked it out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, launching herself at him.

      ‘I wouldn’t advise you do that again.’ Seizing hold of her wrists, he held her in front of him. His gaze slipping to her parted lips. The urge to ravage them overwhelmed him.

      ‘Let go of me, Heath,’ she warned him. Her voice was shaking. Her eyes were dark. Her lips were parted—

      Control kicked in. He lifted his hands away. ‘Remove the tent,’ he said.

      ‘You don’t frighten me,’ she muttered, rubbing her wrists as she pulled away.

      But he had frightened her. Bronte had feared her reaction to him. The snap of static between them had surprised him. This was no ordinary reunion, he reflected as she began bringing her tent down. The redhead tomboy and the bad boy from the city had enjoyed some high voltage scraps in the past, and it appeared that passion hadn’t abated. But it had changed, Heath reflected. Bronte had felt slight and vulnerable beneath his hands. She was all grown-up now, and her scent of soap and damp grass had grazed his senses, leaving an impression he would find hard to shake off.

      CHAPTER TWO

      HEATH STAMP was back. She kept repeating the mantra in her head as if that were going to make it easier for her to be close to him without quivering like a doe on heat. She had been expecting Heath, and had thought she was well prepared for this first encounter, but nothing could have

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