Working With the Enemy Read Free

wrecking crew to knock everything down, and then you’d build a shopping centre—’
‘And what if I did?’
Panic hit her at the thought that he might— that he could—that he had every right to. ‘What about Uncle Harry?’
‘Uncle Harry’s dead.’
Heath might as well have stabbed a knife through her heart. Heath had always been closed off to feelings except on those rare occasions when he had lightened up in front of Bronte or Uncle Harry. Sometimes she wondered if they were the only people he had ever opened up to. And that was a memory so faint she couldn’t believe it had ever happened now. ‘For goodness’ sake, Heath, you’re his nephew—don’t you feel anything?’ To hell with the job she had intended to apply for. ‘Does Hebers Ghyll mean anything to you? Don’t you remember what Uncle Harry used to do—?’
‘For kids like me?’ Heath interrupted her coldly. She’d taken him back to the past, and his father, Uncle Harry’s wastrel brother—the poor relation with the taste for violence. Only at the court’s insistence had his father agreed to a period of rehabilitation for Heath at Hebers Ghyll under Uncle Harry’s direction. And how he’d fought it. Heath had thrown Uncle Harry’s kindness back in his face. A fact he’d spent his adult life regretting.
‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ Bronte assured him. ‘Uncle Harry loved having you around. You must have known you were the son he never had?’
‘Don’t use those tactics on me, Bronte.’
‘Tactics?’ she exploded. ‘I’m not using tactics. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t pretend you don’t care, Heath. I know you better than that—’
‘You know me?’ he snarled, dipping his chin.
‘Yes. I know you,’ she argued stubbornly, refusing to back down.
‘You knew me then,’ he said. And he didn’t like reminders of then.
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Heath.’
Her voice had turned softer. Bronte backing down? That had to be a first. Had the years smoothed her out? Remembering her welcome, he guessed not. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. But even as their eyes met and held he knew this small concession was the first step on the road to damnation, the first nod to his libido. Bronte was still as attractive as ever—more so, when she was all fired up.
‘It’s important Uncle Harry’s work here continue,’ she told him, her brow creasing with passion. ‘And with you at the helm, Heath,’ she added with less conviction.
His senses stirred. She was magnificent with those green eyes blazing and that dainty jaw jutting. She was unflinching. Boudicca of the Yorkshire moors. But she was also uneasy and unsure of him. She was unsure of what he’d do. Thinking back to what seemed like another life to him now, he couldn’t blame her. ‘You’ll be the first to know when I make my decision. But know this: I don’t do weekends. I don’t do holidays. And I don’t need a country house. You work it out.’
‘I think that answers my question,’ The green gaze remained steady on his face.
‘If you care so much about Hebers Gyll, what are you going to do about it?’ he said, turning the tables on her.
‘I won’t walk away without a fight.’
He didn’t doubt it. ‘And in practical terms?’
She tilted her chin at a determined angle. ‘Whether or not you keep the estate, I’m going to apply for the job of estate manager.’
He laughed out loud. She really had surprised him now. ‘Making jam tarts with your mother at the kitchen table hardly qualifies you for that.’
‘You’re not the only one to have made something of yourself, Heath,’ she fired back. ‘I have qualifications in estate management—and I’ve travelled the world, studying how vast tracts of land and properties like this can be managed successfully.’
Now she had his interest.
‘It’s only natural I want to know what your plans are,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t want to be wasting my pitch on the wrong man.’ Out came the chin.
‘My