Working With the Enemy (5 page)

What Heath might think about them planning a Christmas party without his say-so was something she would think about another day.

‘The lake’s too cold for swimming,’ Colleen announced, distracting Bronte from her thoughts. ‘I’m going home. Are you coming, Bronte?’

Maisie was on her feet too.

‘No, you go on,’ Bronte said. ‘I’m going to have a quick swim.’

Pulling off her clothes as the girls disappeared through the trees, she stretched her naked body in the sun. Before she had chance to chicken out she scampered to the edge of the lake and plunged in. The shock of the icy water sucked all the breath out of her. She flailed around for a moment before steadying and starting to swim. Powering out to the centre of the lake with a relaxed, easy stroke, she turned on her back and floated blissfully in the silence.

Silence?

What silence?

Shooting up, she turned her head, trying to locate the source of a steady rumbling noise. It sounded like an armoured tank division coming down the drive. She swung around in the water, trying to work out how she could claim her clothes before anyone saw her—

Forget it, Bronte concluded as the rumbling grew louder. She’d never make it in time. She would just have to stay here, treading water.

Where was she? Heath frowned as he peered through the windscreen. Bronte was his first—his only thought as he drove up the drive. He’d called in at the cottage. She wasn’t there. The old lady next door said Bronte would be up at Hebers Ghyll—as if it was a regular thing. He’d been angry since that moment—concerned and furious that Bronte had ignored everything he’d told her. But still, he’d hoped to see a flash of purple leggings—a glint of sun-kissed hair. Instead, all he could see were two other girls, sauntering out of the woods at the side of the lake as if they owned the place. So where the hell was she? And what the hell was going on?

Swinging down from the cab of his utility vehicle, he waited for the other men to assemble. Having issued preliminary instructions, he strode towards the girls. He wasn’t interested in entering into conversation with them. He wanted the answer to one simple question: ‘Where’s Bronte?’ he demanded, addressing the bleached blonde with a confident air.

‘Heath Stamp,’ she murmured. ‘Is it really you?’

‘I need to see her,’ he said, ignoring the girl’s attempt to distract him.

‘I’m Colleen,’ the girl persisted. ‘Don’t you remember me? And this is Maisie—’

‘Where is she?’ he cut across her in an ominous growl.

‘A real charmer,’ Colleen murmured.

‘So what’s changed?’ Maisie agreed beneath her breath.

Both girls were staring at him warily now. So they remembered him. ‘Are you going to tell me where she is?’

‘I-in the lake,’ Maisie stammered.

‘In the lake?’ he said, swinging round.

‘Swimming,’ Colleen hurried to explain.

As he turned to look he saw something that had him storming across the lawn, tugging off his clothes as he ran.

CHAPTER FIVE

S
HE
’
D
got trapped in the weeds. She’d been so traumatised by the truck invasion she’d blundered about in the water wondering what to do next and had got her leg caught. Throwing her arms around as she struggled to free herself, Bronte had attracted the very type of attention she had been trying to avoid. The long line of wagons and builders’ vans, led by a rugged Jeep with blacked-out windows, had parked up in front of the hall. Her heart jolted painfully to see Heath spring down from the lead vehicle. Having spoken to the girls, he turned to look at the lake at the precise moment she started thrashing about. Impossibly bronzed and muscular, Heath, having tossed his shirt away as he ran, was clearly intent on launching a one-man rescue. The only option left to her was to swim as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

Forget it, Bronte concluded, treading water. Her best effort wasn’t nearly good enough. Heath was streaking towards her with a strong, fast stroke and had soon cut off her escape route. Before she had chance to change direction he gathered her up like a rugby ball and kicked for shore.

‘Put me down!’ she shrieked the instant Heath found his feet and started wading. ‘I’m warning you, Heath—let me go. There’s no need for this.’

‘There’s every need for this.’ Heath sounded less than amused. Dumping her on her feet on the middle of the lawn, he stood back.

She had never seen anyone quite so furious. She hunched over, acutely conscious of her nakedness.

Heath seemed disappointingly unaware of it. ‘What did I tell you before I left?’ he demanded.

Bronte’s face flushed red. ‘I haven’t been near the old buildings—’

‘So you swim in the lake on your own? Brilliant.’

Heath’s expression was thunderous. All male. All disapproval. And the sight of his naked torso—powerful beyond belief, wet, tanned and gleaming in the sun—was an unnerving distraction. She jumped alert the moment she realised Heath’s narrowed gaze was roving freely over her naked body as if it were his to inspect. ‘Do you mind?’ she flared, covering herself as best she could.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing in the lake?’ Heath snapped as if they were both fully clothed.

‘Swimming,’ she said as if that were obvious. ‘And I know what I’m doing.’

Heath took one look at her. ‘That would be a first.’

‘Can’t you turn your back or something?’ He ignored this remark. ‘Never swim in the lake again on your own. Do you understand me?’

‘Perfectly.’ She was trying to edge towards her clothes, which wasn’t easy with her legs crossed. At last she managed to snag her leggings with the thong still tangled inside them. Snatching them up with relief, she held them in front of her. However ridiculous she looked, it was some sort of shield. All she could do now was to start moving backwards, away from him.

She should have seen the tree root coming. She should have known that lightning did sometimes strike the same place twice. The breath flew from her lungs as Heath dived to save her—by some miracle he managed to swing her around before she hit the ground, cushioning her fall with his body. She was too shocked by the impact to do anything but yell, ‘Get off me!’ And scowl down.

Heath grinned up. ‘I think you would have to get off me,’ he pointed out.

Oh, great. She was straddling him, and Heath was clearly enjoying every moment of it—as well he might, with his great big hands firmly attached to her backside. ‘Let me go,’ she insisted, wriggling furiously. But the moment Heath lifted his hands away she missed them and wanted them back again. Fortunately for her, common sense kicked in.

‘You don’t really want to do that, do you, Bronte?’

She turned to look back over her shoulder at Heath.

‘Seriously, it’s not your best look,’ he assured her as she continued to crawl away.

All she cared about was reaching a covey of trees over to her left where there were bushes to hide in while she sorted out her clothes. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she shrieked with surprise.

Heath had grabbed her and trapped her beneath him on the ground. ‘Preserving your dignity,’ he said calmly, ‘or what little remains of it.’

She followed his gaze. And groaned. Maisie, Colleen, and all of Heath’s men had gathered at a safe distance to watch their little drama play out.

‘Don’t say it,’ Heath warned her in a low growl. ‘I can’t bear to hear a woman swear.’

‘Swear? I can barely draw enough breath to speak with you on top of me. Well—get up,’ she insisted, only to be rewarded by a wolfish grin. ‘Get off me, please,’ she said reluctantly as their audience scattered. ‘We weren’t expecting visitors,’ she said, acutely conscious of her naked body pressed into Heath’s naked chest.

‘Clearly,’ he murmured, gazing down at her.

He seemed in no hurry to move away. ‘Why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’ she said, thinking it best to make conversation in a position like this.

‘Warn a squatter the owner’s on his way?’

‘I’m not a squatter,’ Bronte argued. Her gaze slipped from Heath’s mocking eyes to his sexy mouth, where it lingered. ‘We’re not even staying at the hall,’ she protested faintly.

‘And I should be grateful for that?’

She should be grateful for this, Bronte reflected, telling herself to relax and enjoy—would this moment ever come again?

‘When will you get it through your head that Hebers Ghyll is not yours to do with as you like, Bronte?’

Nor was Heath’s magnificent body, unfortunately. ‘We were only trying to help.’

‘Against my express instructions.’

‘We stayed away from the castle.’

‘Next time, do me the courtesy of asking if you can visit my property first. This obviously comes as a surprise to you, but this is my land, and safety is an overriding concern of mine.’

How could it be when Heath’s chest hair was tormenting her nipples? The men she met on her travels were too busy fretting about their skin care regime or whether or not to wax their chest. Heath clearly suffered no such dilemmas.

‘Well, this is nice,’ he remarked, easing his position, which made her blink. ‘I never took you for a nudist, Bronte.’

‘And I never took you for Genghis Khan,’ she fired back in an attempt to blank the sensation currently flooding her veins.

‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Heath growled softly.

Was it safer to stare into his eyes and see what he was thinking, or at Heath’s firm mouth and long to kiss him? She was in trouble whatever she did, Bronte concluded, while Heath was hot-wired to all her erotic pressure points. She took the only option left open to her, and closed her eyes, shutting him out.

‘Open your eyes, Bronte. This is no time to fall asleep.’

Or to experience that first seductive brush of Heath’s lips, apparently. ‘Oh, clear off,’ she flared, trying to push him away. ‘What are you made of?’ she demanded when he didn’t yield. ‘Kryptonite?’

‘Flesh and blood the same as you.’

‘Not a bit like me,’ Bronte argued primly.’ I have manners.’

‘And a naked bottom,’ Heath commented mildly as she struggled to cover herself with an impossibly shrunken pair of leggings.

‘You’re such a barbarian.’

‘Come on—get dressed.’ As Heath sprang up he dragged her with him. ‘This has gone on long enough, Bronte. You’re still a trespasser with a lot of explaining to do.’

Snatching her hands free, she was crouched down in a ball again. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now.’

‘Oh, can I?’ Heath demanded, planting his hands on his hips.

‘Honestly,’ she flared—though flaring was difficult from a crouching position. ‘I really can’t believe your ingratitude. We cleared
your
house—
your
grounds—’

‘And if a wall had fallen on
your
head?’

‘I already told you, we haven’t been anywhere dangerous.’

‘You’ve been back to the hall,’ said Heath, who showed no sign of going anywhere.

‘Do you seriously think I’d take the girls into a dangerous situation?’

‘No, but you’d walk blindly in,’ Heath argued. ‘And you’d probably be hit by falling masonry before you got halfway through the door.’

‘There’s no need to sound quite so thrilled by the prospect.’

‘Leaving me to clear up the mess,’ he finished, talking over her. ‘When I say don’t do something, there’s a very good reason for it.’

Oh, why wouldn’t her clothes co-operate on damp skin? Her leggings had twisted round like a self-imposed chastity belt. All she could do was crunch over with her arms covering her chest as Heath threw her her top.

‘When were you going to tell me about the window, Bronte?’

She froze mid-pulling it on.

‘What?’ Heath barked. ‘You thought I wouldn’t notice?’

She hadn’t meant to do it and felt terrible. When she had forced the upstairs window to break into the hall the handle had come away in her hand. ‘Oh, Heath, I’m really sorry—’

‘Are you?’ he said impassively. His hands on his hips, he confronted her with a stony gaze.

Displaying a truly magnificent chest, Bronte registered with a sharp intake of breath. She had forgotten how tall Heath was, how impossibly fit. And with nothing to cover those massive blacksmith’s arms, or his powerful torso—

‘Have you done staring?’ he snapped.

‘I’m going home,’ Bronte announced in exasperation. ‘I need to wash this mud off.’

‘I’d say be my guest,’ Heath observed sardonically, ‘but as you have already made yourself at home.’

‘I prefer to use my own shower, thank you,’ she snapped back.

‘As you wish.’

But now Heath stood in her way. Feinting past him, she snatched up the last of her clothes. ‘I don’t need anything from you, Heath.’

‘Except a job, presumably?’ She froze.

‘You’re not going the right way about it, are you?’ Heath pointed out. ‘You broke into my house. You brought your friends along too.’

‘This has nothing to do with Maisie or Colleen,’ Bronte interrupted, rushing to her friends’ defence. ‘This is all my fault, Heath. Blame me, if you must. I was just trying to help. I thought that if we.’

‘You didn’t think,’ Heath interrupted her sharply. ‘You went straight into an old building without a safety review—just as you swam solo in the lake. I could forgive that, but you got your friends involved and that was irresponsible. Or had you conveniently forgotten that breaking and entering is a criminal offence? Go home, Bronte,’ he rapped when she tried to defend her decision. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious about applying for a job here. If that’s still the case, you’ve made one hell of a start. I can’t imagine how you’re going to climb back from this.’

And neither could she. Heath’s tone of voice made it clear that playtime was well and truly over.

She had alienated Heath. She had forfeited her chance of getting the job. She had lost the girls their promised pay-off—the Christmas party—which meant that all their hard work was wasted.

Things couldn’t be worse, Bronte mused back at the cottage, where she was sitting on the sofa with her head buried in her hands.

So she’d just have to make it right, she determined, springing to her feet.

Heath couldn’t possibly have appeared less thrilled when she turned up at the hall with Colleen and Maisie in tow.

‘What do you want, Bronte?’ he rapped, while she stood and stared. Heath in hard hat, steel-capped boots, and a high-vis’ jacket, was a fantasy yet to be explored.

‘We’re here to help,’ she said, conscious of Maisie and Colleen skulking behind her. The girls hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic when she had sold them this idea over a drink at the pub.

‘Help?’ Heath demanded, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘We’re on the roof, Bronte. How can you help?’

‘Has the fresh air given you an appetite, possibly?’ she enquired pleasantly.

‘Why? Did you bring pizza?’ Heath looked behind her to see if the girls were carrying anything.

‘No.’ Bronte shook her head. ‘I’d only serve pizza if I’d made it myself. I was merely suggesting I could cook supper for you—but if you’d rather we left—’

‘You cook?’ Heath interrupted.

‘Of course I cook. My mother was the housekeeper here,’ she reminded him with a frown. ‘And as you pointed out,’ she added innocently, ‘I have a great line in jam tarts. But don’t stereotype me. I mend engines too.’

Heath hummed. ‘I suppose the men will need feeding when they knock off, so if you’re offering to cook supper for nine—’

‘Twelve,’ Bronte said, turning to look at the girls. ‘I’ll get started, shall I?’

With some reluctance, it seemed to Bronte, Heath stepped aside. The way to a man’s heart would always be by the same route—something women knew and had used shamelessly across the ages. She was hardly a trailblazer in that regard, Bronte reflected as she led her troops towards the kitchen.