The office was going crazy—and more crazy was exactly what he didn’t need. ‘What do you mean, you can’t cope?’ Heath thundered to the only man who didn’t quail when he let rip.
‘If I didn’t work with a bloody genius, you’d know,’ Heath’s harassed PA informed him testily. ‘You think everyone can work at your speed, Heath—i.e. the speed of light. Well, I’ve got news for you—I’ve only got one pair of hands—’
‘And if you spent less time slathering hand cream on them you’d have more time to spare for work.’
‘Woo-hoo. Bitchee. Now who’s suffering from a bad dose of Not Getting Any?’
‘And since when is that your business?’
‘I’ve made it my business. I have to suffer the backlash every day.’
‘If you weren’t—’
‘The only gay male friend you’re ever likely to have?’ Quentin interrupted smoothly.
‘The only friend I’m likely to have,’ Heath confessed ruefully.
Reaching up on tiptoe, Quentin threw a comforting arm around his boss’s powerful shoulders. ‘Take it from one who knows—you need to sort out that other problem first.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Good, then perhaps you’ll calm down and stop carrying on like a bull with a sore head and we can get some work done around here.’
‘Get some help.’
Quentin pouted. ‘Now I’m offended.’
‘I mean, go get someone in to handle the interviews if you can’t cope.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Quentin smiled at the small victory as he examined his immaculately manicured nails. ‘Maybe a temp to handle some of the run-of-the-mill work, while I supervise the interviews. What?’ he protested. ‘Did you seriously think I’d allow anyone but me to start the interview process for such a vital position on your lordship’s new estate?’
‘Firstly, I’m not a lord—and believe me,’ Heath added dryly, ‘Hebers Ghyll is not the dream property you seem to imagine, Quentin. I’ve seen better slums in my time.’
‘And you’ve handled that sort of renovation perfectly. You’ll handle this,’ Quentin said, refusing to be dismayed.
‘Maybe,’ Heath growled. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.’
Quentin gave him a mock bow. ‘The master speaks and I obey.’
Heath cracked a smile. ‘Now find me an estate manager who thinks the same way you do.’
Quentin pulled a hurt face. ‘I can assure you, I am a one-off.’
‘And I couldn’t do without you,’ Heath admitted.
‘But I know what I’d do without you,’ Quentin shot back. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Save money at the salon—the stress lines I’ve developed since I started working for you—’
‘And no, you can’t charge your treatments to expenses.’
Quentin sulked for around a second. ‘I’ll get that temp in, then.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ Heath advised, returning to his screen.
She had never been put through such a gruelling grilling. Heath’s PA, a man who went by the name of Quentin Carew, turned out to be the most formidable style maven Bronte had ever encountered, and he would be conducting the first screening process, Quentin had informed her.
Then she was out, Bronte thought. She didn’t stand a chance. Quentin was infinitely better groomed than she would ever be, and Heath’s offices far surpassed anything that even Bronte’s lively imagination could have conjured up. A celebration of steel and glass, they were formidably smart, as was Quentin, whereas she—even with Colleen’s best and kindest efforts—wasn’t. But for some reason, Quentin seemed to like her. It was possible he could see right through her carefully subdued grooming and controlled manner to something quirky underneath. Perhaps it was the small heart tattoo on her wrist—something she had hoped her respectable shirt cuff would cover, but hadn’t, and she had caught Quentin staring at it.
‘I’m putting you through,’ he announced.
‘You are?’ She couldn’t have been more surprised, or more delighted. This was everything she had ever wanted—and was nothing at all to do with seeing Heath again, Bronte told her racing heart firmly.
‘Heath could arrive at any time this afternoon,’ Quentin explained, ‘and as you probably know by now he can be a little … unpredictable? With a certain type of volatile…’
‘Temperament?’ Bronte supplied innocently.
‘You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Quentin remarked, picking imaginary lint off the lapels of his immaculate jacket.
The lengths some PAs will go to in order to protect the boss, Bronte thought wryly. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for giving me this opportunity.’
‘I don’t know why you’re thanking me,’ Quentin exclaimed, confiding, ‘Working here must have put at least ten years on me.’
‘And you’re looking great on it,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes, well …’ Quentin’s beautifully etched lips tightened in a pout. ‘That’s no thanks to the man I work for.’
‘Heath …’ Bronte floated off into her favourite dream, and just as quickly dragged herself back again. She had to. There was a dangerous little capsule living in her mind that threatened to explode into infinite pieces of lust, self-reproach, and longing, given half a chance. And that would be too distracting when she wanted to concentrate on landing this job.
‘Yes, Heath,’ Quentin agreed, looking at Bronte closely. ‘I should warn you that when he arrives it will be like a force ten storm hitting. You’d do well to be prepared.’
‘I am prepared,’ Bronte lied as her heart went crazy, knowing she could never be prepared to see Heath again.
‘And you do understand that this is a high-powered office where we work at warp speed all the time?’
‘I do,’ Bronte confirmed, recalling the speed at which Heath could work.
‘I doubt Heath will expect anything less of his staff in the country—and if he does, let me know,’ Quentin added with an over-the-rim-of-his-glasses look. ‘I might want to try out for a job there. I’ve always thought I’d look rather good in plus fours…’
‘If I get the job I’ll let you know,’ Bronte promised as Quentin went off into his own private dreamworld. Heath definitely hadn’t let his PA into the full story at Hebers Ghyll. An outfit of plus fours—quaint knickerbockers—teamed with a beautifully tailored tweed jacket and possibly a deerstalker hat was the clothing of choice for another type of country estate altogether—one where the visitors would expect everything to be sanitised and mud-free.
Shrewd blue eyes, enhanced by the most discreet hint of grey eyeshadow, switched channels to Bronte. ‘From what I’ve seen of your CV you should be in with a serious chance for this job.’ But now Quentin grew concerned. ‘Are you sure that working for metrosaurus-man won’t be too traumatic for you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Bronte confirmed confidently. The work wouldn’t be too much for her. But Heath … Heath was another story, and one that had forbidden written all over it.
‘I wouldn’t normally put someone as young as you through, but your CV is so strong,’ Quentin observed.
‘Thank you.’ Why was Quentin looking at her like that? Bronte wondered, growing increasingly self-conscious. ‘I