‘Not before I’ve had another spoonful. This soup isn’t bad,’ Heath admitted. His amused glance made Bronte wonder if he was remembering her naked.
‘If you want to catch your death in those wet jeans go right ahead,’ she said.
‘They’re not drying as I’d hoped,’ Heath said, his lips pressing down. ‘Why don’t you sling them over the Aga rail for me?’
‘Like I want your wet clothes hanging in my kitchen? And don’t even think of lounging round in your boxers while I’m making a meal.’
‘You’re making two assumptions there,’ Heath told her, ‘both of which are wrong.’ One: it wasn’t her kitchen, it was Heath’s. And two?
Don’t even go there, Bronte thought, noting the humour in Heath’s eyes. ‘I was merely suggesting you might want to change into some dry clothes before supper,’ she told him primly.
‘And if I had some dry clothes with me, I might do that.’
Heath had lightened up. Maybe breaks in the country were good for him, Bronte reasoned. Pity they weren’t good for her composure.
And while she was musing on this Heath stole some more soup from the pot. ‘There’ll be none left,’ she protested spreading out her arms to take command of the Aga. ‘Here,’ she said, opening the oven door. ‘Why don’t you stick your butt in there? You’ll soon dry off.’
‘That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?’ Heath observed.
‘It’s an accepted method of warming up.’
‘Really?’ Heath said, making her wish she hadn’t spoken. Folding her arms, she angled her chin as she waited for him to take her advice.
‘Thank you, but no,’ he said, allowing her a small mocking bow. ‘I’m sure my body heat will take care of it.’
It was certainly taking care of her.
‘Do I make you nervous, Bronte?’
‘As if,’ she scoffed. ‘Though you do make me a bit nervous,’ she said on reflection.
‘Oh?’ Heath’s gaze flared with interest.
‘You’re eating all the soup,’ she told him deadpan. ‘Now clear off—’
She exhaled sharply as Heath caught hold of her arm as he brushed past. ‘Why did you really come back to the hall, Bronte?’
‘Why did you come back?’ she said, feeling unusually flustered as she stared up at him.
‘I asked you first.’
‘I took pity on you—and, okay, I made a fuss about you doing something with your inheritance. I could hardly sit at home twiddling my thumbs after that.’
‘To think, I almost drove you away,’ Heath said, heaving a heavy sigh. ‘Where did I go wrong?’
‘I don’t know, Heath.’ She met the humorous gaze head on—and wished she hadn’t. Hadn’t she made enough mistakes for one day?
‘Let me repeat myself,’ Heath said, ‘What are you really doing here, Bronte?’
‘I couldn’t stay away from you,’ she said in her most mocking tone. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
‘At least you’re being honest,’ Heath said.
‘You’re so modest,’ Bronte countered, stirring the soup as if her life depended on it. ‘You know my only interest in being here is the future of Hebers Ghyll.’
‘Liar,’ Heath said softly.
‘Could you put these bowls out for me, please?’ She plonked them in his hands. Anything to keep Heath’s hands occupied and give herself space to think.
‘I have made you feel better, haven’t I?’ Heath sounded pleased with himself as he came back to prop a hip against the side.
‘So good I hardly know what to do with myself,’ Bronte agreed, sticking the salt pot and pepper grinder in his hands. ‘Now move. You definitely can’t stand this close to the heat without—’
‘Without both of us getting burned?’ Heath suggested.
‘Without the soup getting burned,’ she corrected him. ‘Excuse me please…’ Would her heart stop thundering? Hands on hips, she waited for Heath to move. Her only alternative was to stretch across him—and risk rubbing some already highly aroused and very sensitive part of her body against him? Not even remotely sensible to try.
‘I’m still wondering what you came back for,’ he said, ‘and I mean the real reason.’
‘Okay,’ she said, staring him in the eyes. ‘I’m serious about wanting the job and I thought if I came here and made myself useful—doing anything I could to help—you might remember me when it came to handing out interview times.’
Leaning back against the Aga rail, Heath crossed his arms and gave her one of his looks. ‘So you’re here so you can keep on reminding me how good you’d be?’
That wasn’t quite the way she would have put it, but yes. ‘I thought cooking supper for you would be a start.’
‘And you’re not a conniving woman?’
Heath’s face was very close—close enough to see how thick his lashes were, and how firm his mouth. ‘On the contrary,’ Bronte argued, ‘I am a conniving woman. And I know what I want.’
‘And so do I,’ Heath assured her as he straightened up.
‘Well, seeing as you’ve shown willing.’ Heath laughed.
And now he was standing in her way again. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said politely.
What was she supposed to do with a man who took up every inch of vital cooking space and who showed no sign of moving—a man who was staring down at her now with a look in his darkening eyes that suggested he would very much like a practical demonstration of just how badly she wanted to work for him? ‘You’re in my way, Heath.’
‘Am I?’
He didn’t move so she tried a firmer approach. ‘If you want feeding you’d better get out of my way now.’
‘I love it when you talk tough.’
She drew in a great, shuddering gust of relief when Heath finally straightened up and moved away. Fantasies were safe, warm things, but the reality of Heath’s hard, virile body so close to hers was something else again. He hadn’t even touched her yet and every part of her was glowing with lust—and she couldn’t blame the Aga for that.
‘Don’t burn my supper,’ Heath warned. ‘If you do I shall have to punish you.’
Bronte drew in a sharp, shocked breath. The images that conjured up didn’t even bear thinking about. Rallying, she turned to face Heath with her chin tilted at a combative angle, only to find a slow-burning smile playing around his lips. He was enjoying this. Heath was the master of verbal seduction and she was his willing partner in crime. Lucky for her, the girls chose that moment to return from the herb garden—if she counted luck in heated aches and screaming frustration, that was, Bronte mused, adopting an innocent expression by the cooker.
‘Thyme?’ Colleen held out a thick bunch of fragrant herbs.
‘Bad time,’ Heath commented dryly. Then pointing a finger at Bronte as if to say they had unfinished business, he left the kitchen to call the men.
She couldn’t think of anything else all through supper. What had Heath meant by that pointing finger? If Heath meant what she thought he meant her fantasies were out of a job. Heath gave nothing away during the meal—he barely looked at her. She had cooked her heart out, silently thanking her mother for all those hours they’d spent together