Working With the Enemy (14 page)

‘Do you remember that sloe gin we made?’ Heath interrupted.

‘Do I remember it? I remember how sick we were after we drank it.’

‘And then your mother threw it down the sink,’ Heath said, laughing. ‘She probably saved our lives.’

‘Almost certainly …’

Bronte fell silent as a pang of regret swept over her. She missed her parents and wished she’d had the opportunity to tell them how much she loved them, and what a happy childhood they’d given her, before they left. She’d call them the first chance she got and make sure they knew. She had taken so much for granted, Bronte realised now this chance to see life through Heath’s eyes reminded her that he had enjoyed none of her benefits, and yet had always looked to the future with optimism and confidence, while she had been restless and dissatisfied when she had so much. ‘Your turn,’ she said, prompting him. ‘What else do you remember?’ She grimaced as soon as the words left her mouth, thinking about Heath’s difficult youth. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean—’

‘Hey—get over it. I have,’ Heath said. ‘Fun?’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘Sorting out this place.’ He glanced around. ‘It was a dump when I bought it. It was the only way I could afford something in central London—’

And then he started to tell her about the city he had grown to love with its galleries and museums, and the ancient buildings he loved to visit that had whetted his appetite for preservation and restoration. ‘I enjoy the concerts too.’

‘You like music?’

‘Jazz, rock, classics—of course I like music. What?’ he demanded when Bronte seemed surprised. ‘Do you think I spend all my time working out and eating nails for breakfast?’

‘Don’t you?’

He laughed.

‘And what about Hebers Ghyll, Heath? What good things do you remember about your visits?’

‘Your mother’s cooking,’ he said immediately. ‘Hot meals—Uncle Harry teaching me chess.’ He fell silent.

‘I’m sure Uncle Harry enjoyed those visits as much as you did.’

‘We had a—’ Heath pulled a face ‘—let’s just call it a pretty explosive relationship, but chess was our meeting ground. The game was all about tactics, Uncle Harry said. He told me that whatever happened to me in my life, I would always need to use tactics—so I’d better get my head around them whether I liked chess or not.’

‘That sounds like Uncle Harry,’ Bronte said, smiling as she remembered. ‘And did you?’

‘Did I what?’

Heath was gazing at her lips. ‘Did you like the game?’ she said, wiping them surreptitiously in case some of their breakfast spinach was still hanging around.

‘I like the game,’ Heath said, transferring his level gaze to her eyes.

What were they talking about now? Tingles ran down her spine.

‘Would you like me to complete the guided tour?’ Heath suggested, stretching his powerful limbs as if the inactivity was starting to get to him.

‘I’d like that very much,’ she said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
HEY
left the kitchen and walked deeper into the house, crossing wonderful rugs in shades of marmalade, clotted cream and russet that softened the marble hall and gave the space an inviting glow. Heath had created something wonderful and she guessed he must have dreamed of living in a house like this when he was a boy. Heath had not only fulfilled those dreams, but had done so with his own hands, which must have been doubly rewarding for him. There was a wood-panelled library where a worn leather chesterfield sat on a faded Persian rug and a log fire blazed in the hearth, as well as a high-tech studio where Heath could work. ‘And below us in the basement I’ve got a cinema room, a home gym, and an indoor swimming pool,’ he explained.

‘Of course you have,’ she teased him, but this was all seriously fabulous, even for such an upscale area of the city.

‘Upstairs?’ he suggested.

‘Why not?’ With this new understanding between them, why should there be any no-go areas?

They were easy together. They were going to have a good working relationship, Bronte thought as she followed Heath up the stairs. They’d had their explosion, their resolution, and now they were starting afresh.

Heath was so athletic she had to run to keep up with him, though he barely seemed to exert himself as he sprinted up the beautifully restored central staircase. ‘The bathroom,’ he said, opening one of the doors with a flourish.

She was still admiring the light-drenched landing. ‘You are kidding me?’ She stood on the threshold of the bathroom, staring in. ‘This is fantastic, Heath.’ The bathroom was clad in black marble and brightened with mirrors. There was a huge, walk-in drench shower, with a spa bath big enough to swim in. ‘And I bet the floor is heated.’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘It is.’

‘You don’t exactly go down to the lake to freshen up.’

‘Maybe not—but I know where to look when I need a refit.’

‘It will cost you.’

She tore her gaze away when it held and locked with Heath’s. Heath was at his most feral and the dreamweaver was back, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so when she should have left the room and allowed Heath to continue on with his tour she leaned back against the door, trapping them both on the bathroom side.

‘Stop it,’ Heath warned in an undertone, but then his lips tugged in a teasing smile. ‘Don’t you have a train to catch?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. What was she thinking? She pulled away from the door, and Heath, ever the gentleman, leaned across to open it for her. Their bodies brushed. Electricity fired. This wasn’t meant to happen—

‘No,’ he said, as if responding to her. ‘No, Bronte,’ he said more firmly.

Her eyes searched his.

‘I’m no good for you,’ he said.

She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. ‘And I’m stuck in the past? Stop it—stop it now, Heath.’ Some primal instinct made her lift her arm and put her hand across his mouth. ‘I don’t want to hear that ever again,’ she said.

Heath’s eyes were laughing as his tongue went on the attack—tickling, and licking—

‘Stop it,’ she warned him, whipping her hand away.

‘You stop it,’ Heath said, laughing.

She exclaimed as he dragged her into his arms. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded as he swept her off her feet and headed for the drench shower. ‘No!’ she screamed when Heath’s intention became clear.

‘I need to cool you down,’ he said. ‘And if words won’t do it—’

She watched him turn the shower to the coldest setting and screamed again, but it was pointless fighting Heath. And now he was under the water with her, holding her in place with embarrassing ease. ‘Have you had enough yet?’ he said, holding her in front of him.

They were both soaked through. ‘What do you think?’ She couldn’t even pretend to be angry. Flicking her hair out of her eyes, she started laughing, and once she’d started she couldn’t stop. Then Heath was holding her, and they were both laughing.

‘Do you know what I think?’ he said as she gasped for breath. Without waiting for her answer, he turned the shower off and, yanking her close, he kissed her—and this time there was no brushing, or teasing, or delay. They were hungry for each other and Heath kissed her in a way she had never been kissed before—in a way no one would ever kiss her again. He made her feel powerful and sexy and safe and more at risk than she had ever been in her life.

Life was a risk.

Love was a risk.

Was she going to spend all her life dreaming?

When Heath pulled back she waited. She was expecting the worst—planning for it—trying to work out how she could stalk out of his house with her head held high in soaking wet clothes. ‘Not against the wall,’ he murmured, his face creasing in a smile as he stared down at her.

‘Been there—done that?’ Bronte’s brows rose.

She laughed softly against his face as Heath swung her into his arms, and then protested, ‘We can’t,’ when Heath carried her straight out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

‘I can do what I like in my own house.’

‘We’ll make the bed wet.’

‘You can count on it,’ Heath promised as he stripped off his clothes.

‘No,’ he said when she started to do the same, ‘that’s my job.’

He undressed her slowly, kissing her naked flesh as he removed each garment with the utmost care. It was like the first time for her, Bronte thought as Heath stared down.

Bronte’s naked body was a revelation to him—everything in miniature. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—a work of art. She brought out the best in him. She made him draw on tenderness he hadn’t known he possessed. He had always expressed physical emotions in a very different way. He embraced her gently, wanting nothing more than to protect her, and to forget all the reasons why he shouldn’t be making love to her.

This was a moment out of time for both of them, a moment to give and receive pleasure, though she was so small against him—he couldn’t believe what had happened in the kitchen at Hebers Ghyll. That had been a mindless frenzy, the result of years of pent-up need for both of them, but this was different … better. He could take his time and draw it out for both of them. And however fierce she was—and Bronte could be fierce—he would only use a fraction of his strength in response—and even the thought of that self-imposed curb aroused him.

‘You’re holding back,’ she accused him, emerald fire blazing out of rapidly darkening eyes, ‘and I want all your attention—’

‘And you shall have it,’ he promised, moving down the bed.

‘I’m not complaining,’ she hurried to assure him when he eased her legs over his shoulders. ‘I’ll never complain again.’

And as she groaned with pleasure he parted her lips and gave her his undivided attention for a considerable amount of time.

Her world exploded in a starburst of crystalline sensation, like firework night with constant repeats, Bronte thought as she heard herself exclaiming with guttural appreciation again and again. When she came to enough to take account of her surroundings and what she was doing, it was to find Heath cradling her in his arms. ‘Oh…’

‘Oh?’ His lips tugged up as he dropped a kiss on her mouth. ‘More?’

‘What do you think?’ she said, gasping as his hand found her.

‘I think you’ve been missing this,’ Heath said, easing her over the edge again with a few well-judged passes of his forefinger. ‘That’s it, baby … let yourself go,’ he instructed, cupping her buttocks to hold her in place as she bucked and screamed for what seemed like for ever.

For two people who had decided absolutely that this must never happen, they were making a very good fist of it, Bronte thought wryly as Heath moved on top of her. ‘You’re so much bigger than me.’

‘Somewhat,’ Heath agreed wryly. ‘I like that you sound so thankful.’

‘Oh, believe me, I am…’

‘Wider,’ Heath murmured.

‘Is that an instruction?’ she challenged, giving Heath one of her looks as he pressed her knees back.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I’m going to like this…’

‘I think we both are.’

She cried out softly as he eased inside her. Filling her completely, he rested still for a moment, and when he began to move it was slow and deep, and all the while he was holding her in his arms and making love to her, Heath was kissing her, gently and tenderly, and with such a look in his eyes, Bronte wondered if anyone before them had known anything like this. She was so turned on by the extremes of pleasure it was almost inevitable her teeth would sink into him at some point.

‘Wildcat,’ Heath accused her, tumbling Bronte onto her back. And then they were rolling and tumbling and wrestling, until they managed to play-fight their way off the bed.

Lucky for them, there was a well-placed rug—lucky for Bronte when Heath cushioned her fall. ‘This relationship relies far too much on my landing on you,’ she said, pretending disapproval as she raised herself up on her forearms to stare down into his face.

‘I just move faster than you do.’ He grinned up.

‘Your reflexes are perfectly tuned,’ she agreed with satisfaction. ‘I couldn’t improve on them if I tried.’ And with a contented sigh she nuzzled her face against his shoulder.

He caressed her, stroking her hair, knowing Bronte had a permanent place in his life even if it was impossible to see how those pieces could ever fit together. He would never mislead her. He would never promise Bronte anything he couldn’t deliver.

‘You feel so good,’ she whispered, turning her head to kiss him gently on the chin. ‘You’re a marshmallow beneath all those beer cans and motorbike parts.’

‘Don’t break your teeth on this marshmallow,’ he warned. ‘I’m no Prince Charming, Bronte.’

‘More Alaric the Visigoth? I love Visigoths,’ she assured him, and then he was kissing her again, and she was kissing him back, and the future with all its complications faded away.

Heath’s rough hands on her buttocks were so firm and thrilling, and yet they could turn so gentle when he was caressing her breasts. His fingers knew just how to torment her nipples and his hands were more than persuasive when he used them to cup her face to kiss her. She had never thought to be kissed like this—to be kissed by Heath like this. He made her feel as if anything were possible, as if she could feel this way for ever.

For ever starts tonight, Bronte thought, writhing in ecstasy on the bed beneath Heath. And when he thrust one powerful thigh between her legs she refused to listen to the cynic inside her who insisted feelings as strong as this couldn’t possibly last.

‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she gasped as if in pain.

‘Never better,’ she said fiercely, and, staring into his eyes, she wrapped her legs even more tightly around his waist.

‘Relax,’ Heath soothed, pulling back.

Heath was so gentle with her it stoked her hunger until, refusing to suffer any more delay, she thrust her hips, claiming him, and only then did she see the slow smile on Heath’s lips suggesting that was exactly what he had planned for her to do.

This slow, lazy way of making love was incredible. Breathing steadily instead of hectically, she was able to appreciate the sensation of being stretched and filled so completely, fully for the first time. She had always been in such a rush before.

‘Are you okay?’ Heath murmured when she thrashed her head on the pillow in extremes of pleasure.

‘Your fault,’ she gasped. ‘You’re so big.’

‘Fault?’ Heath queried, his lips curving with amusement. ‘I’ve never heard it called that before.’

‘I’m not complaining. I just have to get used to it each time,’ she told him, lacing her fingers through his thick dark hair.

‘I’m going to slow you down,’ Heath told her when the urge became too great and she tried to hurry him.

‘No,’ she complained, increasing her grip on him, working muscles even she hadn’t known she had.

‘Yes,’ Heath argued, and then he worked his hips—and not just back and forth with a compelling and irresistible rhythm, but from side to side, massaging persuasively until she screamed out her release in his arms.

‘Better?’ Heath murmured against her mouth.

‘The best ever,’ she groaned, still pulsing with pleasure and holding him in place.

That grip was all it took to make him hard again. They were good together. They were outstanding. He moved in response to Bronte’s fierce instruction—hard—fast—deep. He could do that. With pleasure.

‘Do you realise we’ve rocked the rug from one side of the room to the other?’ he asked her some time later. ‘I think it’s time we took this to the bed.’

‘You won’t find any argument from me,’ Bronte assured him, laughing against his mouth. Scooping her up, he carried her across the room.

‘Do you think you’ll ever get tired?’ she said when he lowered her onto the sheets.