Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss

‘This is such an amazing view, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not bad,’ he admitted wryly. Bronte’s lips were red, her face was flushed and the tip of her pixie nose had turned crimson with cold.

‘It’s fun, Heath—admit it,’ she threatened, doing what he called her bite smile—the big, touching one where the pearly teeth bit down on the full swell of her bottom lip. And this was certainly something. Fun in his world was exploring new markets for his games—checking balance sheets, checking the bank—but Bronte had jolted him out of that perfectly designed world into a realm full of crazy adventure and emotional overspill.

‘So you see, you can spare the time,’ she told him triumphantly, sitting back against the padded vinyl seat.

‘Barely,’ he murmured as the wheel began its painfully slow descent.

Bronte’s eyes were half shut against the wind, and her face was all screwed up against the biting cold, but even so she was beautiful … and vulnerable, and deserving of someone who would cherish her and focus his whole attention on her—someone who would give Bronte more than he ever could. She shivered again and this time he resisted the temptation to pull her close. Once had been an impulse, twice would make it usual between them, as if they were boyfriend and girlfriend, which they were not.

‘What shall we do now?’ she said as the wheel stopped to let them get off.

He helped her out. ‘What would you like to do?’

‘I’ll leave that to you—within reason,’ she added quickly, shooting him a warning glance. ‘And we haven’t eaten yet,’ she reminded him.

None of this had been planned. It had started out as one thing and ended up as something quite different—the need to talk, the need to get to know each other in the present and find out how they’d changed. The need to do something other than have sex and stalk round each other like two suspicious combatants in the ring. He didn’t want to talk about Hebers Ghyll, or business, or Bronte’s job. He wanted to do all the things they had never done together, things he’d dreamed about doing with Bronte all those years back—on the rare occasion when he had managed to lift his thoughts above his belt. This was a second chance—a voyage of discovery to find out whether his fantasies had legs.

Guys had fantasies?

Even tough guys like him had fantasies. You want to make something of it? he challenged his inner voice.

‘Brrh, it’s cold,’ Bronte said, shrinking deeper into his giant-sized jacket.

‘How about somewhere warm now?’ he suggested.

‘You read my mind.’ She laughed up at him. ‘Are you going to tell me where, or are you going to keep me hanging?’

‘I’m going to take you to see a small corner of my world.’

‘Will I need lifts in my shoes?’

He glanced down at her flats and laughed. ‘I’ll make sure no one treads on you.’

Bronte laughed. And now they were both laughing. And before he knew what he was doing he’d dragged her close.

She hugged him hard. They broke away as if they both knew it was wrong, and could only lead them down the same blind alley. There was a certain amount of awkwardness between them until he said, ‘Can you dance?’

Her face lit up. ‘What do you think, rubber legs? But I thought we were going somewhere to eat first.’

‘We are. Come on,’ he said, urging her towards the car.

‘You’re not taking me somewhere stuffy like that last place, are you?’ she said, looking up at him.

He liked she’d got her confidence back. He was not quite so pleased when she raced ahead of him and started scampering backwards. He’d been down that road too many times. ‘Wait and see,’ he said, gathering her under his arm before they repeated their signature move.

‘Okay,’ she said, staring up at him as they strode along purposefully, side by side, keeping in step. ‘This sounds mysterious. Are you going to give me any clues?’

‘No.’

And with that she had to be content.

Why wouldn’t Heath tell her where they were going? Another small corner of his world, he’d said. Today was turning out to be like a jigsaw someone had tossed up in the air. Find the right pieces and you might see the picture clearly. But she liked a mystery. And she liked what she’d seen so far.

Had she never dreamed that Heath was human? Bronte wondered, snuggling deeper into his jacket while he drove them to another part of the city. Heath had shown another side of himself tonight, and it was a side that she liked—a side that tempted her to forget all her warnings to self about not getting in any deeper than she already had. She jerked alert and looked around as he pulled the Lamborghini off the road and killed the engine. ‘You’re kidding me?’ she exclaimed softly as she peered out of the window. Of all the possible destinations, this was the very last place on earth she would have connected with the hard man at her side. A retro café complete with pink neon signs and garish orange paintwork. ‘You’re not short on surprises, Heath.’

‘I have connections here,’ he explained, only adding to the mystery. ‘Maybe it’s a little crazy.’

‘Lucky for you,’ Bronte admitted with a grin. ‘I love crazy.’

Heath was one complex guy, Bronte thought as he opened the car door for her.

‘I trust this fits your brief for something different?’ Heath said, making her a mock bow as he helped her out of the car.

‘I can’t even imagine how you come to know about a place like this,’ she said, staring wide-eyed at the clientele flooding in.

‘My friend owns it,’ Heath explained.

‘Cool … I can’t wait to see inside.’ Though she was definitely underdressed for this gig. The girls she was following into the café were dressed in fifties outfits—high ponytails and bright red lipstick, their short flared skirts held out by yards of stiff net petticoats. They wore short white socks with high-heeled shoes, and wide, brightly coloured belts to emphasise their waists, while the men were boasting velvet-collared suits and winkle-picker shoes.

‘You do jive, I take it?’ Heath said dryly as he handed over the entrance fee for both of them.

She frowned—and, only half joking, asked, ‘Is this part of my job interview?’

‘You should know. You have to be quick on your feet on a farm.’

Bronte shook her head. ‘I guess I jive, then.’ She’d just have to get the hang of it in a hurry.

‘Great—then, let’s go,’ Heath said, brandishing their tickets.

This certainly wasn’t the man she thought she knew. Heath had more facets than a hard black diamond and kept most of them under wraps. She was surprised he was sharing this much with her.

Once bitten, Bronte reminded herself when she felt Heath’s hand come to rest in the small of her back as he guided her safely through the crowd. That touch was a timely, if unwelcome reminder that having fun together was one thing, but having sex—well, that was a whole world of difference. Fun she could bank and smile about when she got back to work. Sex was something you didn’t have with the boss—something that tore at your heart and left it in pieces.

So why melt? Why long? Why ache? Why do any of those things? Take the evening for what it was, and then get on with your life, Bronte told herself firmly, glancing around with interest and anticipation.

The beat was pounding inside an interior that faithfully recreated an authentic fifties coffee bar. There was a black and white tiled floor, Formica tables with lots of chrome around, and padded banquettes, covered in shiny red plastic that didn’t even pretend to be leather, and the most fantastic burnished wood panelling. ‘Carved by a regular customer,’ Heath said, pointing it out. He went on to explain that the café had recently been made a listed building, which meant it was destined to be preserved just as it was. He’d barely had chance to give her this potted history when a good-looking man spotted him and came over. ‘Heath—long time.’

As the two men shared a man hug Bronte wondered about the connection between them.

‘Josh,’ Heath said, introducing his friend to Bronte. ‘Josh and I—we spent some time together when we were younger.’

No further explanations necessary, Bronte thought as Josh shook her hand. Josh was another bad boy made good.

‘I haven’t seen Heath for ages—you must be good for him,’ Josh said, an attractive crease appearing in his face as he searched out a table for them.

‘I think you’ll like the food here,’ Heath confided, dipping his head down to shout in Bronte’s ear above the music. He was guiding her through the danger zone of spinning couples to take the booth Josh had indicated. ‘It’s all home-cooking. Josh’s mother is in the kitchen making pasta, pies, bread pudding and custard, jam roly-poly—you name it.’

‘Fattening?’ she suggested wryly.

‘Delicious,’ Heath argued firmly with a smile that lit a bonfire in her heart.

It was a revelation to discover Heath’s world wasn’t the soulless vacuum of cyberspace she’d imagined, but something far more diverse and interesting. And he was loyal too—something she had already seen in his relationship with Quentin. So the lone wolf did have friends. It made her optimistic, somehow—

Irrelevant, Bronte told herself firmly as Heath sat down across the plastic table from her. This was a … business meeting? Heath’s stare was disturbingly direct. What did he expect her to say or do? She felt uncertain suddenly.

And her heart?

Didn’t stand a chance faced by this new understanding growing between them.

Friendship, Bronte thought as Heath handed her the menu. This was friendship growing between them, and that was … that was nice.

‘Relax, Bronte—just choose something to eat and forget about everything else.’

Sure. She could do that. Wasn’t living for the moment her speciality? Forget those thirteen years of longing, the trial relationships with other men—failures all of them, because all she had ever done was compare them with Heath, so every man had fallen short.

So here she was again, back on that same old roller coaster, Bronte reflected—all that was missing was a platter on which to serve herself up—

No. No! No! Being here with Heath didn’t mean she was going to have sex with him. It wasn’t compulsory. It didn’t come with the bill. They were having a meal together. What was wrong with that?

She selected home-made cannelloni with spinach and ricotta and a tomato juice with the works to drink. Heath chose steak and chips, and a beer. ‘Dance while we wait for the food?’ he suggested with a glance at the whirling couples.

She drew a steadying breath before answering. Dancing was a kind of intimacy—there weren’t too many things a man and woman could do together in rhythm—

Hey … lighten up, she told herself, glancing down at her flat shoes. ‘Are you serious?’ She wanted to dance, really. It would be fun. She couldn’t jive, but what the heck?

‘Those shoes are perfect,’ Heath observed. ‘Anyone would think you knew you were coming here. Think of the steps you can do in those.’

‘I have thought,’ she assured him dryly. ‘And we both know my sense of balance isn’t up to much.’

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Heath said, ‘as I’m here to catch you.’ Standing up, he made it hard for Bronte to refuse.

‘I can’t … I really can’t,’ she said, changing her mind. How could she when her heart was going wild at the thought of dancing with Heath?

‘I’m not taking no for an answer,’ he said. And when she still hung back, he grabbed her hand. ‘I never took you for a chicken, Ms Foster-Jenkins.’

‘Squawk squawk.’

‘You can move your hips, can’t you?’

Who knew that better than Heath? Standing hands on hips waiting for her to cave, Heath looked hot enough to fry a steak on. But this could end really badly, Bronte reasoned. Letting herself go with Heath was hardly sensible: hot, hectic movements—Heath’s firm hands directing her—staring into each other’s eyes—Hmm. When had she done that before?

And there was another issue. Most men couldn’t dance. Could Heath dance? Or would she soon be running for the exit?

Heath could dance. Why was she surprised? Heath was so brazenly male, so relentlessly sexy, he could make any move look cool—something that wasn’t lost on the women gathered round him. And he taught her to jive in the same effortless way in which he’d taught her to make love. And then the DJ changed the track and Heath’s mouth curved in a challenging grin.

‘Twist contest?’ Bronte asked, eyes widening in trepidation.

‘We have to,’ he said, kicking off his loafers. ‘And we have to do this right.’

She should have known Heath could outdance a movie star and look hotter than hell. The crowd grew around him and somehow she forgot her good intentions again. Staring into Heath’s eyes, she really went for it, while Heath’s body brushed hers into a state of arousal.

Lucky for her, their food was delivered to the table or she’d have been right back where she started from, Bronte thought. Much safer to have Heath call it a day and escort her back to the table.

But with Heath’s hand back home in the small of her back she couldn’t help wondering who was kidding who here.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE food was delicious and Bronte ate ravenously. It was easy to talk about Hebers Ghyll in such a relaxed setting, though she prickled all over when Heath admitted he still couldn’t see how the inheritance would fit into his life. She could see the problem. Heath’s life was cool and cutting edge. Hebers Ghyll was a lumbering great piece of real estate with thousands of acres of land attached. But it was somewhere she called home. She couldn’t expect it to be more than another entry in Heath’s property portfolio. She had to make him see it differently. If she could only persuade him to come back.

‘Don’t let your food get cold,’ Heath advised when she started out down that route.

Heath would never be pushed. And she would not be moved. Things promised to get interesting. They already were; Heath was close enough for her body to warm at the memory of his touch—

‘Penny for them?’ he murmured.

Censored. ‘Just thinking what a really great time I’ve had tonight.’

‘I’ll call for the bill.’

She dug out her purse.

‘Put that away.’

Resolutions were easy to make, but the warmth and strength of Heath’s hand covering hers was too much. She snatched her hand away as if he’d burned it. ‘I can’t let you pay for me, Heath.’

‘Then take it as wages. I must owe you something by now?’

‘Yes, you do,’ she said frankly, ‘but this is different—separate.’

‘Then you’ll just have to repay me some other way.’ Heath curved a smile. ‘I’m sure I can find some filing for you at the office, if you’re really desperate?’

‘Temping for you?’ she said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Heath agreed, ‘I’d get no work done by the time you’d finished tempting—’

‘Temping,’ she corrected him. ‘You mean when I’ve finished temping.’

‘You say temping—I say tempting.’ Heath’s cheek creased in a grin.

Heath was enjoying himself. The revelation made her thrill inside. ‘You’re impossible,’ she scolded him.

‘I know,’ he agreed, putting his hand up for the bill.

They went from the heat of the café into the cool of the night. Heath opened the passenger door of the Lamborghini and Bronte fed herself in.

‘You’re getting better at it,’ he observed dryly.

‘And you’re not supposed to be looking.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’

She doubted he would. And if it was possible to enter such a low-slung car without showing everything she was born with and a whole lot more, she hadn’t got the knack of it yet.

‘So where now?’ she asked as Heath swung in beside her.

Self-doubt crowded in when Heath said nothing. Having sex with him would be spectacular—but wrong. It would be the perfect ending to the perfect night, but that didn’t make it right. It was everything she had promised herself she wouldn’t do. ‘We’ll find a hotel as we drive back to town—you can just drop me—’

‘Let you loose on the unsuspecting?’ Heath said, gunning the engine. ‘I couldn’t be so unfeeling towards my fellow man.’

‘Look,’ she said a few miles further down the road, ‘that looks like a nice bed and breakfast. You can drop me here. It says vacancies—I’ll be fine.’

More silence.

‘Heath?’ she prompted as he started to make a call. She couldn’t risk everything she’d dreamed about and worked towards, sacrificed for a night that would leave her heart in pieces. ‘Heath, what are you doing?’ She felt the prickle of apprehension creep up her spine as Heath held up his hand to silence her, and as the conversation got under way she felt sick. The bottom dropped out of her world when she realised Heath was booking a double room at some swanky hotel in Knightsbridge. She was supposed to be grateful, Bronte guessed. And why should Heath think any differently of her? She’d had sex with him and enjoyed it—they’d both enjoyed it. She would be the first to admit she wanted him more than ever. But not like this.

‘Yes,’ Heath confirmed. ‘An executive double for tonight.’ He paused and flashed a glance at Bronte as the girl on the other end of the line obviously checked her reservation system. Once the booking was confirmed, he added, ‘We’ll be with you in around a quarter of an hour.’

‘What are you doing?’ Bronte whispered the moment Heath cut the line. Had the wonderful time they had spent together been for this? Was the friendship she thought they had forged nothing more than an illusion?

‘Lucky they had a room available.’

And she was available too? Bronte thought dully, turning to stare out of the window. This would ruin everything.

Her anxiety had reached epic proportions by the time Heath pulled into the approach of one of the most famous five-star hotels in London. She had to hand it to him, when it came to seduction Heath didn’t stint.

‘I know the staff here,’ he explained as a uniformed valet approached the car and took his keys through the open window.

Of course he did. Where wouldn’t Heath be known? Bronte wondered.

‘They’ll make you welcome, and you’ll be safe here.’

Safe with Heath?

He was at her side of the car opening the door before the porter even had chance to react. ‘Come on.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ll cover for you.’

He could still joke about this? She held back. Heath was waiting. The porter was staring. ‘I don’t have any luggage. What will people think?’

‘Since when have you cared?’ Heath lifted her out and deposited her on the pavement in front of him, holding her shoulders so he could stare into her eyes. ‘I don’t care what people think and neither should you. Where are you going now?’ he said, catching hold of her wrist.

‘I’ll take a cab.’

‘A cab where? Don’t be ridiculous, Bronte.’

A well dressed couple made a point of skirting round them.

‘It’s only a bed for the night.’

‘I don’t know how you can say that.’

Heath thumbed his chin, and then he started to laugh.

‘Did I say something funny?’ Bronte snapped.

‘What kind of man do you think I am, Bronte? Did you really think I’d let you take pot luck where you slept tonight?’

‘I thought—’

‘I know what you thought,’ Heath said, losing the smile. ‘I’m getting your signals loud and clear. Perhaps now is a good time to tell you that I’ve never had to engineer an opportunity for sex, and I’m sure as hell not starting now.’

‘But you booked a double room,’ Bronte challenged heatedly.

‘Single rooms are too small—usually by the elevator, and always my last choice. I got you an executive double, the cost of which,’ he assured her, ‘I will knock off your wages. But as for sleeping with you, Bronte?’ Turning, Heath pointed across the road. ‘My house is right over there. Why would I want to stay with you?’

For no reason she could think of.

‘You thought I’d booked a double room so we could have sex?’ Heath’s face was a mask of exasperation and disappointment.

‘Well, excuse me for getting the wrong end of the stick,’ Bronte fired back.

They were standing toe to toe when Heath shook his head and said icily, ‘See you back at Hebers Ghyll?’

His meaning was clear. ‘So for a misunderstanding I lose the job?’ She was so far down the road she couldn’t find her way back and was half out of her mind with panic and frustration.

‘No,’ Heath countered. ‘For always thinking the worst of me you lose the job. How could you work for a boss you don’t trust, Bronte? Well, could you?’ And when she didn’t answer, Heath raged, ‘Do you know what?’ His hair was sticking up in angry spikes where he’d raked it. ‘I used to think I was the one stuck in the past, but now I see it’s you, Bronte. You just can’t let go of who I used to be. You’ve kept those thoughts alive for all these years—thinking tough is good and hard is sexy. Well, here’s some news for you. I don’t want to be that man—and I especially don’t want to be that man with you.’

She looked at Heath open-mouthed. If only half what he said was true then she was bitterly ashamed. They changed each other, Bronte realised as she sucked in a shuddering breath. They brought out the best and the worst in each other. ‘Heath—’ she reached out to him ‘—please, I—’

Heath pulled away as if she had the plague. ‘Stay or don’t stay—I really don’t care what you do. The room’s paid for,’ he rapped. ‘Have it on me.’ And with that he spun on his heel and strode away.

Wound up like a spring, she watched him, and stood rooted to that same spot until she heard the engine roar and saw the Lamborghini speed away.

It was a much subdued Bronte who followed the housekeeper to her room. In her current bewildered state it was much better to stay put, she had concluded. After all, she had nowhere else to go. Her guilt doubled and doubled again when she was shown into the most sumptuous double room—well away from the elevators. Sumptuously decorated in shades of aquamarine, ivory and coral, with ornate plasterwork on the ceiling playing host to a glittering chandelier, it was a mocking reminder that she wasn’t always right, and that sometimes she was horribly wrong. She stood in the centre of the room when the housekeeper left her, inhaling the scent of fresh flowers from the market, beautifully arranged in a crystal bowl on the dressing table. If she had taken that bowl and smashed it she couldn’t have done more harm tonight. She had taken something beautiful and twisted it with her suspicion. She had killed any hope of Heath being a friend, and a friend was something more than a lover—something less than both, but something precious all the same.

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