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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 prepared her for feeling so vulnerable, so aware and aroused.

      ‘Get a move on, Bronte.’

      ‘I’m moving as fast as I can.’

      ‘Good, because some of us have work to do.’

      ‘Yeah, me too,’ Bronte muttered tensely. She had sorted herself out with a part-time office job in the area while she was still away on her travels—it was just sheer luck Heath had chosen to arrive at the weekend.

      ‘Come on, come on,’ he urged impatiently. ‘I have to get back to London—’

      ‘We all have things to do, Heath.’

      The rain had stopped and Heath was pacing. He had always suffered energy overload and that force was pinging off him now. She wouldn’t be taking so long if he didn’t look so good. Fantasies she could handle, but this much reality was a problem. Heath’s hair had always been thick and strong, but he’d grown it longer and it caressed his strong, tanned neck, curling over the collar of his shirt, and was every bit as wayward as she remembered. Waves caught on his sharply etched cheeks where his black stubble had won the razor war, and, though he might not have fought with his fists for many years, Heath was still built, still tanned, and, apart from the car, he didn’t flash his wealth, which she liked. His clothes were designed for practicality rather than to impress—banged-up jeans worn thin and pale over the place where a nice girl shouldn’t look, and boots comfortably worn in. Heath had sexy feet, she remembered from those times years back when she had spied on him swimming in the lake—

      ‘Have you turned into a pillar of salt? Or is there a chance we might get out of here today, Bronte?’

      ‘Are you still there?’ she retorted, lavishing what Heath used to call her paint-stripping stare on him. The old banter starting up between them had stirred her fighting spirit—

       Until Heath reminded her why she was here.

      ‘Are you serious about trying out for the job of estate manager?’

      ‘Of course I am.’ She shot to her feet, realising how slender a thread her hopes were pinned on. ‘And if you decide not to keep the property I hope you’ll put in a good word for me with the new owner.’

      ‘Why would I do that when I don’t even know what you can do? Okay, I admit I’m intrigued by what you told me about your training and your travels. But what makes you think you’re the right person for this job?’

      ‘I know I am,’ she said stubbornly. ‘All I’m asking for is a fair hearing.’

      ‘And if I give you one?’

      ‘You can make up your mind then. Maybe give me a trial?’ She knew she was pushing it, but what the hell?

      Heath said nothing for a moment, and then his lips tugged in a faint, mocking smile. ‘If I keep the estate I’ll bear your offer in mind.’

      It was enough—it was something. Heath never made an impulsive decision, Bronte remembered—that was her department.

      ‘Go home now, Bronte. You’ve still got your parents’ cottage to go to, I take it?’

      ‘They wouldn’t sell that.’ There was an edge of defiance in her voice. ‘Thank goodness they owned it—I heard you bought out all the tenancies.’

      ‘Another of those rumours?’ Heath’s eyes turned black. ‘It didn’t occur to you people might want to sell to me? Or that this was their opportunity to do something new with their lives—like your parents?’

      ‘And you wanted a fresh page?’

      Heath didn’t even try to put a gloss on what he’d done. ‘No,’ he argued. ‘I wanted a clear field so there wouldn’t be any complications if and when I choose to sell. What’s the matter with you, Bronte?’ His face had turned coolly assessing. ‘Can’t you bear to think of me living at the hall?’

      ‘That’s not it at all.’

      ‘Then why don’t you smile and be happy for me?’

      ‘I am happy for you, Heath.’

      ‘And you think we could work together?’ he said with a mocking edge to his voice.

      ‘I’d find a way.’

      ‘That’s big of you,’ he said coolly. Most people would be champing at the bit for a chance to work with Heath Stamp, Bronte realised, turning her back on him as she returned to her packing. She could only hazard a guess at the number of applications Heath would receive if he decided to keep the estate on and threw a recruitment ad out there. Everyone loved a success story in the hope that some of the gold dust would rub off on them—and Heath had gold dust to spare. His story read like a film—the poor boy rejecting a hand up from a well-meaning uncle who just happened to be one of England’s biggest landowners, only for the boy to achieve success in his own right and then go on to inherit the uncle’s estate anyway. No wonder it had made the headlines. But was she the only one out of step here? Heath had always been open about his dislike of the countryside—everything moved too slowly for him and things took too long to grow, she remembered him snarling at her when she had begged him to stay.

      So, could she work with him?

      Good question. The thought of seeing Heath on a regular basis might send a warm dart of honey to her core, but when her imagination supplied the fantasy detail, which included a doting lover called Heath and a compliant young girl called Bronte, she knew it was never going to happen, so she just said coolly, ‘I’ll stay in touch.’

      Heath Stamp, Master of Hebers Ghyll? However much Heath teased her with the prospect, she just couldn’t see it.

      The years had moulded and enhanced Bronte—brought her into clearer focus. She was still the same dreamer who steadfastly refused to learn the meaning of the word no. She was every bit as stubborn and determined as he remembered—if not more so. Only Bronte could come up with the crazy notion that by camping inside the gates she could scope out the new owner of the estate—potentially waylay the new owner, and then insist they consider her for the job of estate manager. Nerve? Oh, yes. Bronte had nerve—and she had never been short of ideas, or the brio to back them up.

      ‘Go away, Heath,’ she snapped when he went to give her a hand with the groundsheet. ‘I can do this by myself.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it. I just want to make sure you don’t leave anything behind.’

      ‘So I have no excuse to come back?’

      Looks clashed. Eyes darkened. Something else for him to think 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

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