.

that!

      Forget that how? Heath’s blatant masculinity blazed in the frame of the intricate graphics framed in his office. He was both an artist and a warrior—and as hard as nails. She could forget those romantic notions she’d been nursing for the past thirteen years. Heath had no intention of softening towards her—towards anything.

      ‘Is it that time already?’ he said, glancing at his watch.

      Her shoulders slumped. She’d barely been in his office ten minutes. Was that it?

      ‘Shall we go?’ he said, staring directly at her.

      We? ‘Go?’ Bronte frowned. ‘Go where, Heath?’

      ‘As I told you, I’m running late, and I have an appointment I can’t break. We can talk on the way.’ He held the door for her.

      She let out a tense breath. ‘Of course.’ It was an unusual interview, but it was an interview.

      The Lamborghini was waiting at the steps of Heath’s office building. They climbed in and shot away at speed. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t like Heath’s decisive manner or that the electricity between them hadn’t increased in the confines of his car. ‘Where are we going? she said casually.

      ‘To the launch of one of my games.’

      ‘Great.’ Hmm. Okay. Not an interview opportunity—perhaps that would come later, but interesting all the same.

      The grand reveal took place in London’s most prestigious store. People had been queuing round the block all night in the hope of securing the latest in the long line of hits, and now Heath had explained his premise to her Bronte could understand the enthusiasm that greeted this new game. The little guy putting one over on the bad guys would be a winner every time. And who knew better than Heath about the bad guys? Bronte mused as he escorted her inside the building with a light touch on her arm.

      Heath and his team received ear-splitting applause when they took the rostrum. They looked more like a cool rock band than anything else in their motley tops and well worn jeans, fists raised to acknowledge their fans. Heath stayed on to give autographs until Bronte was sure his hand would seize up. He shot her a look halfway through that could be interpreted as: This is my home. This is where I belong—here in London with my team. It was a reminder that the only thing Heath was capable of feeling passion for was his business empire. Sex was a sporting activity like running, or sparring, or working out at the gym—something he enjoyed and was very good at, but realistically sex was only one more way to work off Heath’s excess energy.

      Which didn’t prove to be nearly enough to wipe out how she felt about him.

      When the signing was over they said brief goodbyes and Heath escorted her back to the car. She thought he might go back to the office, but their next stop was an upscale restaurant. Good venue to talk, she thought, initially approving Heath’s choice. But seeing him again and spending time with him had shaken her up, and she wasn’t sure she could relax in such refined surroundings. ‘Must we?’ She bit her lips, but it was too late. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Heath asked. ‘I know I am.’

      Did Heath’s stare have to be quite so direct? ‘Well, yes, I am,’ she said honestly, finding it impossible to think up an excuse while Heath was raiding her thoughts. She glanced up at the chi-chi sign. Heath had brought her to one of the most famous restaurants in London. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate this…’

      ‘But?’ he said, angling his chin.

      ‘It’s just a little stuffy. I don’t know if I could be myself.’ As she answered he hit the hazards and left the car. She watched him walk towards the restaurant. Not that Heath walked anywhere—he struts, he strolls, he strides, hummed through her head. Mostly, he moved as he was doing now with that confident, sexy swagger.

      But it was a relief not to be entering the hallowed portals, Bronte reflected as Heath disappeared inside. Her emotions were red raw, and she didn’t fancy putting them on show for the other diners. She sat forward as Heath breezed out. ‘Well?’ she demanded as he swung back into the car.

      ‘I cancelled the table.’

      ‘I’m sorry—I hope it wasn’t a problem?’ Nothing was a problem for Heath, she thought as the Lamborghini roared. ‘So where to now?’

      ‘Somewhere I hope you like better—somewhere fun, where you can relax and we can talk.’

      ‘Sounds perfect.’ They hadn’t done enough of that. But would Heath relax? Glancing across at him, Bronte felt her cheeks burn when Heath caught her staring at him. She could tell he was still buzzing after the signing—still high on adrenalin. She wondered where he’d take her next, and decided to find out—the roundabout way. ‘Am I dressed okay for wherever we’re going?’

      Heath glanced over. ‘So long as you think you’ll be warm enough.’

      ‘We’ll be outside?’ She had hinted that she would like to eat somewhere less stuffy than the upmarket restaurant, and there were plenty of hot-dog stands and fast food stalls around London.

      ‘We’ll be outside,’ Heath confirmed.

      ‘Will I like it?’

      ‘I know I will.’

      Heath looked worryingly pleased with himself. She hazarded a guess. ‘Why’s that? Is there a pool table?’

      ‘Better than that,’ Heath said, stopping at the traffic lights.

      Okay …

      ‘I hope it isn’t too noisy,’ she said as the lights turned to green.

      ‘Stop digging, Bronte. It’s somewhere you will have to relax—and when you do, maybe we can get a serious discussion going.’

      Fun and a serious discussion? How did that work? she wondered, falling silent.

      ‘Still hungry?’ Heath demanded, powering away from the traffic lights.

      Sadly, for all Bronte’s good intentions, she was starving—and not just for food.

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      THE Lamborghini sliced through the congested traffic like a well-trained panther, sleek, fast-moving, and effortlessly responsive, while Heath’s mind was full of Bronte—the taste of her, her scent, her heat, the way she cried out with pleasure at the moment she let go. It was hard to concentrate with all that running through his head. He made a conscious effort to slow the car, to drive responsibly, to think of Bronte in a purely non-sexual way. He couldn’t remember anyone forcing him to look at things and people differently, but Bronte had. He should have known she would follow through with the job—and was glad she had. Bronte had turned out to be by far the best candidate with a wealth of experience, as well as local knowledge second to none. She was right about age having nothing to do with this. Had she been fifty years older he’d still have felt the same.

      ‘Why are you laughing?’ she said.

      ‘Nothing,’ he said, knowing Bronte had a definite advantage that had nothing to do with professionalism or age. He came up with a suitably distracting reply: ‘I was just wondering how you’re going to take it when I tell you it will take a while to get where we’re going.’

      ‘I think I can hang on,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m not a baby who needs feeding on the hour.’

      ‘Or rocking to sleep?’ he suggested, his mind taking her back to bed again.

      ‘I prefer to keep my eyes open while you’re around.’

      She was sparking again. That was better. Banter between them was the best cure for tension he knew. Maybe it was time for him to wind down too.

      ‘We’ll get there,’ she soothed when they got snarled up in a jam.

      Driving