By Request Collection 1. Jackie Braun

fell silent as this sank in. Even if she won the job there would be no Heath.

      ‘You can’t run a place like Hebers Ghyll on good intentions, Bronte. Look at Uncle Harry—’

      ‘Yes. Look at him,’ she said fiercely.

      And now they were both quiet.

      She was moving their mugs to the sink one minute—the next she had grabbed the paintbrush, jabbed it in the paint-tray and come looking for him.

      ‘You want a fight, do you?’ he challenged, dodging out of her way.

      So much, Bronte thought.

      ‘You deserved that,’ she told him, backing off having given Heath a stripe of paint across his arm.

      ‘Did I?’ He circled round her. ‘The countryside is just a lot of empty space to me,’ he taunted. ‘Just think of all those potential building plots—’

      ‘Stop it,’ she warned him, making another lunge, which he just managed to evade.

      ‘The noise and the rush of the city?’ He backed her slowly towards the wall as he pretended to think about it. ‘Or the silence and emptiness of the countryside? Hmm. Let me think.’

      ‘Empty?’ she exclaimed, making a double stab at him before slipping away under his arm. ‘The countryside empty? You should open your eyes and look around, Heath.’

      He wiped the paint off his cheek. ‘My eyes are wide open, believe me,’ he assured her, moving in for the kill.

      ‘I don’t know why you even came here,’ she said as he held her firmly with the brush dangling a tempting inch or two from her face.

      ‘Profit, wasn’t it?’ he growled, easing her wrist so the brush laid a dainty paint trail across her cheek.

      ‘Why, you—’

      ‘Barbarian?’ he suggested, directing the brush across her nose.

      ‘I’ll never forgive you for this.’

      He wasn’t concerned. Bronte’s eyes told him something very different—and so did the swell of her mouth. He wouldn’t leave a paint trail there, he decided, removing the paintbrush from her hand and putting it in the sink. That would definitely be against his best interests. ‘I’m confiscating this,’ he said, running water over the brush. Next, he dampened a cloth. ‘And now I’m going to clean you up.’ He raised a challenging brow when she threatened to resist him.

      ‘I should go,’ she said breathlessly, one step ahead of him as she stared at the door.

      ‘No,’ he argued softly, ‘you should come.’

      She drew in a sharp breath as she turned to look at him. ‘Is everything a joke to you, Heath?’

      ‘Is this a joke?’ Wielding the warm, moist cloth with the utmost care, he swung an arm around her shoulder to draw her close and wiped the paint smears off her face. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he murmured, noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeded up.

      ‘Have you?’ There was only the smallest ring of vivid green around her pupils as she stared at him. ‘This will all be worth it if I have persuaded you to keep Hebers Ghyll, Heath.’

      He smiled into her eyes. ‘Sorry to disappoint. The most I’m prepared to commit to at this moment in time is that I will keep the place alive and continue with the renovations. Don’t look so surprised,’ he teased. ‘A demolition site is worth far less to me than a stately home.’

      ‘I’ll get the paint again,’ she threatened him.

      ‘Then I’d just have to wash you all over again.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

      ‘Are you sure of that?’

      ‘What do I have to do to stop you?’

      He didn’t miss the note of pent-up excitement in her voice.

      ‘Everything I tell you,’ he murmured. ‘What’s the catch?’ she said suspiciously. ‘There is no catch.’

      ‘Then tell me what I have to do—’ She followed his gaze to the door. ‘Heath, we can’t—’

      ‘Why not?’ Angling his chin, he stared down at her.

      ‘Because it’s outrageous,’ she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement.

      ‘You don’t do outrageous?’ Dipping his head, he kissed her neck.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      HEATH’S hand cupped Bronte’s chin. He made her look at him. She could see in his gaze what came next and how incredible it was going to be. His hand felt warm and gentle on her face. For such a big man, Heath could be incredibly sensitive—and intuitive. It was this mix of soothing balm and fiery passion she craved now. She was hungry for tenderness. Only-child syndrome, maybe, Bronte thought. With both her parents working there hadn’t been much time to spare for cuddling. And though there had been other children visiting Hebers Ghyll she’d always felt on the outside looking in—except with Heath. They had both been different, she supposed—the dreamer and the wild boy from the city.

      ‘Hey, come back to me,’ Heath insisted.

      She looked at him. They could both have used a hug back then. She had always been hungry for Heath. He had lit a fire no amount of common sense could hope to put out, and that fire had been smouldering for thirteen years. Could anything stand in its way now?

      ‘This isn’t so outrageous, is it?’ Heath demanded, tightening his grip on her when she exhaled shakily.

      ‘You’re a very bad man indeed.’

      Heath smiled, and then his lips brushed her cheek. He was making her tremble. He was making the ache inside her turn into a primitive hunger that lacked every vestige of romance.

      And then he brought her in front of him and Heath’s steady gaze didn’t leave her eyes as his hands moved slowly down her arms. He could read every thought and she felt violently exposed, yet glad that Heath could see her hunger for him. She exclaimed softly when his thumb pad caught the tip of her nipple—but it moved on. This was all intended. Heath had caught her in his erotic net. And she wasn’t interested in escaping. She was only interested in what came next.

      Heath’s hand was moving lightly down her spine towards her buttocks. Her breathing sounded ragged as that experienced hand continued on, and when it reached the hollow in the small of her back it fitted so neatly, she relaxed, but when he moved on to map the swell of her bottom that was too much. With a shaking cry, she arched her back, offering herself for pleasure. Heath’s hands maintained a detailed exploration—sensitively seeking, and yet never quite giving her the contact she craved. ‘Oh, please—’ She was shivering with anticipation, shameless in her need. ‘Please don’t tease me like this, Heath.’

      Heath said nothing as he continued to stroke and prepare. Her breathing sounded noisy in the silence, and she knew he must feel her heat through the flimsy protection of her clothes. She was moist and swollen—ready for him, and the only thought in her head was, Don’t stop.

      ‘And if I stop now?’ Heath said, pausing.

      ‘Have you read my mind?’ She heard the smile in his voice, and could picture the curve of Heath’s lips, even with her face buried in the soft wool of his sweater. ‘You can’t stop now,’ she said, gazing up at him, ‘Because I can’t stop now.’

      ‘So, what’s the answer?’ he said, frowning.

      ‘You have to kiss me.’

      ‘Is that a command?’ Heath’s lips curved with amusement.

      ‘Yes, please,’