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as he looked down at her. ‘Is that pleasant tone of voice supposed to entice me to hand it over?’

      ‘Give, please,’ she said with a scowl.

      ‘Okay.’ He helped her to hoist the rucksack onto her back again, careful not to let his fingers do any more work than strictly necessary.

      Hefting the pack into a more comfortable position, she wobbled a little as she grew accustomed to the weight and then tottered off in the direction of home. He stayed close to make sure she was safe.

      ‘I’m fine, Heath,’ she called back to him over her shoulder, breaking into an unsteady jog.

      ‘Watch out—the ground slopes away there—’

      Too late. As Bronte stumbled on the treacherous bank he dived to save her. Catching his foot under a tree root, he took her with him, tumbling down the slope bound together as closely as two people could be.

      ‘Bloody idiot!’ she raged with shock as they thundered to a halt.

      ‘Thank you would do it for me,’ he observed mildly, noting the jagged rock he’d saved them from as well as the comfortable tangle of limbs.

      ‘Thank you,’ she huffed, snapping her hips away from his. ‘The townie who thinks he can run Hebers Ghyll can’t even keep his footing on a mossy bank,’ she observed with biting relish.

      ‘Is that dialect for welcome?’ he said mildly.

      ‘More like shove off.’

      But she was in no hurry to move away. Lust. The desire to have, to possess, to inhabit, to pleasure and be pleasured sprang between them like a bright, hot flame. Bronte was shocked by the intensity of it. Her eyes blazed emerald fire into his and her lips had never been more kissable. She was aroused. And so was he.

      Closing her eyes briefly, Bronte ground out a growl of impatience. She could of course slip back into her fantasy world and stay here wrapped around Heath—or she could get real and go home. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said as politely as she could.

      Heath yanked her to her feet. No courtesy involved. She let go of his hands. Fast—but not fast enough. Her body sang from his touch in three part harmony with baroque flourishes. She didn’t argue this time when he offered to walk her home.

      ‘Something funny?’ Heath demanded when she looked at him and shook her head.

      ‘The way you look?’

      ‘That good?’ He curved a smile.

      ‘If camouflage is fashionable this season, you look great.’

      ‘I heard mud, leaves and twigs are huge this year.’ He brushed himself down.

      She laughed. She couldn’t help herself—just as she couldn’t stop herself following Heath’s hands jealously with her eyes. They were almost communicating again, Bronte realised—and that was dangerous. This was getting too much like the old days when her heart had been full of Heath.

      So she’d hide how she felt about him—what was so hard about that?

      They walked along in silence until Heath lobbed a curving ball. ‘If I decide to keep the estate and call interviews, are you ready?’

      ‘If you’re serious, Heath, I’m ready now,’ she exclaimed. ‘That is if the new estate manager isn’t just part of some lick of paint project to tart the place up so you can maximise your profit and get rid of it faster,’ she added as common sense kicked in.

      ‘Since when has profit been a dirty word?’ Heath demanded.

      ‘People are more important.’

      ‘Which is why I’m the businessman and you’re the dreamer, Bronte. Without profit there can be no jobs—no people living in Hebers Ghyll. And I won’t be rushed into this. I never make a decision until I know all the facts.’

      ‘Then know this,’ she said as their exchange heated up. ‘You and I could never work in any sort of team.’

      ‘No,’ Heath agreed. ‘I’d always be the boss.’

      ‘You’re unbelievable.’

      ‘So they tell me.’

      With an incredulous laugh Bronte tossed her burnished mane and quickened her step to get ahead of him. He kept up easily. ‘If I do decide to do anything it won’t be half-hearted. It will be all about renewal and regeneration.’

      ‘Sounds impressive,’ she said. ‘Almost unbelievable.’

      Bronte had always scored a gold star for sarcasm. She was paying him back for doubting her. And why was he even discussing something that was barely a glimmer of an idea? ‘My hobby’s building things—I’ve carried out restoration work in the past so I know what’s involved.’ And now defending it?

      He got what he deserved.

      ‘Get real, Heath,’ Bronte flashed. ‘This isn’t cyberspace. You can’t conjure up an idyllic country scene on your screen complete with a fully restored castle, click your mouse and wipe out years of under-investment.’

      ‘No, but I can try. I might not be the countryside’s biggest fan, but I’m not known for running out.’

      ‘And neither am I,’ she shot back.

      ‘Are we agreed on something?’

      She huffed.

      ‘The only way Hebers Ghyll can survive is for people like you to get involved, Bronte.’

      ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘People like me do all the hard work while you direct us from your city desk? Unless you’re going to live here, Heath, which I doubt.’

      ‘Do you want Hebers Ghyll to have a future or not? Yes or no, Bronte? If you’re serious about trying to get people to come back here there has to be something for them to come back to.’

      ‘So now you’re a visionary?’

      ‘No. I’m a realist.’ And he liked a challenge —especially when there was a woman involved.

      ‘This is nothing like the city, Heath.’

      ‘Isn’t it?’ he fired back. ‘The air might be polluted with pollen instead of smoke, but, like you said, jobs are just as hard to find. So you go right ahead and walk away, Bronte. Let Hebers Ghyll slide into a hole. Or you can stay and fight.’

      ‘With you? What changed your mind, Heath?’

      Heath’s face closed off. Why didn’t she know when to keep quiet? She could only guess how he must have felt coming back here. She returned to the fray to divert him. ‘You can’t just plonk down a couple of computers in the village hall, maintain a cyber presence and think that’s enough, Heath. People need proper work—and a proper leader on site to direct them.’

      ‘Are you saying you wouldn’t be up to that?’

      ‘I’d do whatever was expected of me, and more, if I were lucky enough to get the job,’ Bronte countered, rejoicing in Heath’s attack. The way he was talking could only mean he was seriously interested in keeping the estate.

      ‘Judging by your enthusiasm you’d work happily alongside anyone who does get the job?’

      He’d got her. Damn it. Heath had always been a master tactician. She threw him a thunderous look.

      He was all logic while Bronte was the flip side of the coin—all that passion with so little curb on it made it so easy to outmanoeuvre her, it was hardly fair. He hadn’t made a final decision yet. The problems at Hebers Ghyll were nothing new for him. There had been no work in his old neighbourhood, but he had known that if there was enough money for tools and equipment there would be more than enough jobs for everyone. ‘There’s only one problem,’ he said, reeling her in.

      ‘Which is?’ she demanded on cue.

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