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

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      ‘He is,’ Colleen assured her with the resulting impact on Bronte’s pulse.

      ‘Well, let’s get on,’ she said, sounding rather like her mother, Bronte thought.

      Inwardly, she was anything but. Her mother was calm and logical, while Bronte was a dreamer on a roller-coaster ride out of control. Her heart refused to stop thumping as Colleen and Maisie, having put Heath out of their minds, started laying up the long, scrubbed table. Then another horrible thought occurred—if her fantasies were an open book to her friends, they must be clear to Heath as well!

      ‘Why wouldn’t you be interested in a man like that?’ Colleen demanded, doggedly returning to the subject as she came back for the spoons. ‘You haven’t been putting bromide in your tea, have you, Bronte?’

      ‘Just sugar,’ Bronte murmured distractedly, jumping back from the window too late to stop Heath seeing her.

      Holding onto Bronte’s shoulders so she could stare over them, Colleen observed, ‘Licking that chunky-hunk is all the sugar I’d ever need.’

      ‘Supper’s in ten,’ Bronte pointed out briskly, ‘and I need those herbs before I serve up.’

      ‘On it,’ Colleen promised. Grabbing Maisie by the wrist, she left Bronte to her own devices in the kitchen.

      Heath came into the room moments later. He grunted. She grunted. She didn’t trust herself to turn around. She could hear him moving around behind her—hanging up his jacket, putting his hard hat on the side, taking off his boots and leaving them on the mat by the door.

      Had her senses ever been this keen before? Warm man … a little ruffled, a little windswept, his hair a little damp—his jeans definitely wet, and clinging lovingly—

      ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ she said, jumping with alarm as Heath brushed past her.

      ‘Stealing soup,’ he said. ‘It smelled so good—’

      ‘Hands off,’ she said, smacking his hand away. ‘And there’s no need to sound so surprised.’

      Heath’s expression was deceptively sleepy, Bronte thought, with his face so close, and his eyes… ‘Must you creep up on me?’ Must you look so sexy? she thought, taking in the damply dangerous man who looked exactly like the answer to her every sex-starved dream.

      ‘I didn’t creep.’ The sexy mouth tugged up in a grin. ‘I think you’ll find on closer acquaintance that I never creep.’

      No, he never did, and that sluice-down in the yard had really intensified the scent of warm, clean man. And what did he mean by closer acquaintance? As she tried to work it out she dragged in greedy lungfuls of Heath’s delicious scent when what she should be doing was watching the food on top of the cooker to make sure it didn’t burn.

      Her gaze started at ground level with Heath’s sexy feet, and then rose steadily to take in the hard thighs stretching the seams on his damp jeans. She resolutely refused to notice the button open at the top of his zipper, or the belt hanging loose—and moved on swiftly to Heath’s impressive chest, which was currently clad in the deep blue heavy-knit sweater he’d pulled on at the door—

      She yelped with shock when he took hold of her elbows and lifted her aside. Heath shrugged. ‘I’d hate you to burn that soup. And I owe it to the men to make sure you know what you’re doing,’ he added, stealing another spoonful. ‘What?’ he said, angling his chin as Bronte planted her hands on her hips. ‘You didn’t think I’d give you a completely free rein, did you?’

      ‘You don’t frighten me, Heath Stamp. Now, get out of my way—’

      ‘Not before I’ve had another spoonful. This soup isn’t bad,’ Heath admitted. His amused glance made Bronte wonder if he was remembering her naked.

      ‘If you want to catch your death in those wet jeans go right ahead,’ she said.

      ‘They’re not drying as I’d hoped,’ Heath said, his lips pressing down. ‘Why don’t you sling them over the Aga rail for me?’

      ‘Like I want your wet clothes hanging in my kitchen? And don’t even think of lounging round in your boxers while I’m making a meal.’

      ‘You’re making two assumptions there,’ Heath told her, ‘both of which are wrong.’ One: it wasn’t her kitchen, it was Heath’s. And two?

      Don’t even go there, Bronte thought, noting the humour in Heath’s eyes. ‘I was merely suggesting you might want to change into some dry clothes before supper,’ she told him primly.

      ‘And if I had some dry clothes with me, I might do that.’

      Heath had lightened up. Maybe breaks in the country were good for him, Bronte reasoned. Pity they weren’t good for her composure.

      And while she was musing on this Heath stole some more soup from the pot. ‘There’ll be none left,’ she protested spreading out her arms to take command of the Aga. ‘Here,’ she said, opening the oven door. ‘Why don’t you stick your butt in there? You’ll soon dry off.’

      ‘That’s a little drastic, isn’t it?’ Heath observed.

      ‘It’s an accepted method of warming up.’

      ‘Really?’ Heath said, making her wish she hadn’t spoken. Folding her arms, she angled her chin as she waited for him to take her advice.

      ‘Thank you, but no,’ he said, allowing her a small mocking bow. ‘I’m sure my body heat will take care of it.’

      It was certainly taking care of her.

      ‘Do I make you nervous, Bronte?’

      ‘As if,’ she scoffed. ‘Though you do make me a bit nervous,’ she said on reflection.

      ‘Oh?’ Heath’s gaze flared with interest.

      ‘You’re eating all the soup,’ she told him deadpan. ‘Now clear off—’

      She exhaled sharply as Heath caught hold of her arm as he brushed past. ‘Why did you really come back to the hall, Bronte?’

      ‘Why did you come back?’ she said, feeling unusually flustered as she stared up at him.

      ‘I asked you first.’

      ‘I took pity on you—and, okay, I made a fuss about you doing something with your inheritance. I could hardly sit at home twiddling my thumbs after that.’

      ‘To think, I almost drove you away,’ Heath said, heaving a heavy sigh. ‘Where did I go wrong?’

      ‘I don’t know, Heath.’ She met the humorous gaze head on—and wished she hadn’t. Hadn’t she made enough mistakes for one day?

      ‘Let me repeat myself,’ Heath said, ‘What are you really doing here, Bronte?’

      ‘I couldn’t stay away from you,’ she said in her most mocking tone. ‘Does that make you feel better?’

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