Seduced by the Rebel: The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens

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.