He could make money, but not with his fists. Uncle Harry’s computer was the answer. On his release he set up an office in his bedroom where no one could see him or judge him, and no one knew how young he was, or how poor. All he had to do was click a mouse and the world came to him. And the world liked his games.
Heath moved on as the wall he’d been leaning against shuddered a complaint. He was stronger than he knew—which was more than could be said for the fabric of this place. One good shove and the whole lot would come tumbling down. It would be easier to flatten it and start again—
Since when had he embraced easy?
His fingers were already caressing the speed dial on his phone to call his architect when thoughts of plump pink lips and lush pert breasts intruded. Another pause, another memory—the last time he’d seen Bronte at Hebers Ghyll she’d been trying to save him from the police. She’d overheard Uncle Harry on the phone, and had run down the drive to warn him they were coming. When that had failed, she’d kissed him goodbye. He shook his head as he tried to blank the kiss. He’d better check she’d reached home safely.
He found Bronte still at the side of the road where she was having a bit of a disaster. The strap on her rucksack had given way and she was kneeling on the rolled-up groundsheet, lashing it into submission with a yard of rope and a clutch of nifty knots. Drawing the car to a halt, he leapt out. ‘Wouldn’t a regular buckle make things easier for you?’
‘The buckles broke in Kathmandu.’
He curbed a grin. ‘Of course they did.’
‘No, really, they did,’ she insisted, lifting her head. Then, remembering they weren’t quite friends, she lowered it again, by which time her cheeks were glowing red.
‘Want some help?’ he offered.
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Play me a different tune, Bronte.’ Having nudged her out of the way, he attached the rolled groundsheet to the top of her knapsack and started carrying it towards the car.
‘We already know it won’t fit in that ridiculous boot,’ she yelled after him.
‘Then I’ll carry it home for you.’
‘There’s no need.’ Racing up to him, she tried to pull it out of his hands.
‘Do you want that interview or not?’ he demanded, lifting it out of her reach.
‘Does this mean you’re keeping Hebers Ghyll?’ she demanded, staring up at him.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘Give.’ She growled.
His lips curved 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,