The Big Bad Boss (17 page)

Freed from its wrappings, the small wooden chess piece lay in his palm. He stared at it for a long time.

‘I do have the rest of them,’ Bronte reassured him, ‘and I found the board in the attic, as well as the table you used to play chess on with Uncle Harry. I had them
renovated—they’re downstairs. I would have given them to you—’

Heath stopped her with a kiss, and from his expression when he pulled away Bronte knew she’d got it very right indeed.

‘That’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me,’ he admitted. ‘And now I’ve got something for you.’

‘What’s this?’ Bronte said, frowning when Heath handed over a large manila envelope. ‘Is it another contract? A permanent one?’

‘Why don’t you open it and find out?’ Heath suggested.

Tearing the envelope open, she started to read, and as she did her expression was slowly changing from interest into shock. ‘Heath, you can’t do this.’

‘Why can’t I?’ Heath said. ‘Hebers Ghyll is mine to do with as I like—so why can’t I give half to you?’

‘Be serious, Heath,’ Bronte exclaimed, laughing as she shook her head, ‘You can’t just hand over half of an estate like Hebers Ghyll.’

‘I expect you to take half the responsibility for it.’

‘Of course, and I’d love to do that, but—’

‘No buts,’ he said. ‘It’s done.’

‘Are you sure?’ Bronte murmured, still not able to believe what Heath was giving her.

‘Never more so,’ he assured her. ‘Oh—and there’s something else. I’ve been carrying this around all evening.’

What a great sight, Bronte thought as Heath leaned out of bed to rumble in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Just stay there,’ she said. ‘That’s a good enough gift for me right there.’

‘What?’ Heath said as he swung back to join her. Narrowing his eyes, he gave Bronte a stern look. ‘Were you staring at my butt?’

‘As if I would.’

‘I might have to punish you,’ he warned.

‘Please.’

‘Okay, your punishment is to wear this on every occasion—even in the stables when you’re mucking out.’

‘What is it?’

‘Guess,’ Heath said dryly, handing over the small red velvet box.

It was one of those ‘don’t dare to hope moments', but she did dare. She had always dared, or she wouldn’t be here, Bronte thought as Heath raised a brow.

‘Maybe I’d better put some clothes on before you open it,’ he said. ‘I feel a little underdressed.’

‘You’ll do just as you are,’ Bronte insisted.
Opening the box, she gasped. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘You have?’

‘You’re definitely underdressed. You should be wearing running gear—no way am I giving this back.’ Removing a ruby the size of a plum surrounded with fabulous brilliant cut diamonds, she allowed Heath to place it on her wedding finger.

‘Do you like it?’ His eyes were dancing with laughter. ‘I realise it’s a little bold for someone who lifts hay bales for a living.’

‘I’ll get round it,’ Bronte promised dryly. ‘But, seriously, Heath, you didn’t need to buy me anything—a piece of cord would do the job just as well.’

‘Would you settle for a tent instead of Hebers Ghyll?’

Bronte laughed as Heath drew her into his arms. ‘Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?’

T
HE
wedding was held in the newly renovated Great Hall at Hebers Ghyll a couple of days before Christmas. There was snow on the ground and a great spruce tree stood sentry outside the doors. Decorated with lights and stars and shimmering ribbons, it gave just a hint of the glorious scene inside. The log fire was blazing, and the hall was filled with workmates and friends, Bronte’s family and just about everyone from the village. They turned expectantly as she reached the door, but all Bronte could see was Heath, looking like some latter-day Mr Darcy—though much better looking, she thought as the breath caught in her throat. There was a touch of Heathcliff about him too—all that darkly glittering glamour. Heath’s hair was just as thick and black and as unruly as ever, though she knew he would have tried to tame it, just as he would have tried to shave so his face
remained smooth for longer than five minutes. Both attempts had failed, she was pleased to see, though his tail suit was magnificent and skimmed his powerful frame with loving attention to detail. He must have gone to Quentin’s tailor, she guessed as Heath’s groomsmen took their place at Heath’s side. Not even Quentin had dared to argue when Heath had named Quentin his best man.

The vast, welcoming space was decorated with Christmas flowers—spray roses, aptly named warm heart, crimson hypericum and frosted twigs, vivid gerberas and frowzy amaranthus, and the room was lit by candlelight, which gave the burnished wood panelling an umber glow. The scent of pine and wood smoke in the great stone hearth was such a wonderfully evocative smell, and as Bronte walked in on her father’s arm and saw everyone who had helped to make this possible wishing them well she felt she were being carried along on a wave of goodwill.

She had found her dream wedding dress in the city—a simple fall of cream chiffon that floated as she walked, it was cut straight across her breasts and the delicate fabric was swathed and draped over a boned bodice. The gauzy skirt was drawn up on one side over
a matt silk Dupion underskirt and had been formed into a delicate camellia on the hip.

Quentin, who had appointed himself wedding-advisor-in-chief, had all but swooned when Bronte had come out of the dressing room wearing this one. ‘Perfect,’ he’d said. ‘We need look no further.’ And then he had gusted with relief, because it had taken a solid week of looking for something that wouldn’t be too grand, as Bronte put it, but wouldn’t look as if she could cut it down to wear with flip-flops and toe rings either.

She had finally, after much argument, given way to Quentin over the veil. She hadn’t wanted to wear one, but Quentin had insisted, and so she was wearing a floating three-tiered confection composed of creamy cobwebby net, dusted with the tiniest sparkling diamanté that fell into a long, floating train behind her. Even Bronte had been amazed at how feminine it made her look.

‘Tiaras and tattoos?’ she had said, laughing when Quentin had agreed she could wear one toe ring.

‘Heath wouldn’t want you completely changed,’ Quentin observed, adding a discreet band of crystals to Bronte’s hair while he distracted her.

‘Quentin, you’re wicked,’ she had exclaimed.

‘I had the best teacher,’ Quentin had informed her and they both knew who he meant.

So now she was walking down the aisle towards the man she loved, dressed by royal appointment—as Quentin insisted she must think of it—in the stratospherically high heels Quentin had chosen for her. ‘Heath is so much taller than you,’ he had pointed out. ‘And I refuse to listen if you start to argue with me.’

The one thing Bronte couldn’t argue about was Heath’s size. Heath was built on a heroic scale in every department, she thought happily, keeping those thoughts under wraps as she did her best to glide gracefully in front of her bridesmaids, Maisie and Colleen, both of whom were dressed in powder-pink Grecian-style gowns. She was trembling all over by the time she turned to pass her wedding bouquet to Colleen. Lush cream orchids with an intimate flash of purple at their core, the bouquet had been created to Heath’s design, and when her father put her hand in Heath’s Bronte was sure everyone must have heard her swift intake of breath. At this range he was even more devastating with his stubble-shaded face, and dark, slumberous eyes. The sweeping ebony brows and thick black hair curling rebelliously over the collar of his winged shirt gave him
the appearance of some ruthless buccaneer who had sailed into this quiet harbour and taken it by storm—which was pretty much what had happened, Bronte reflected.

‘Okay?’ Heath whispered, heat and concern mingling in his eyes as he looked at her.

‘I am now,’ Bronte confirmed, meeting that fiery gaze. Now, if she could just concentrate on the ceremony and put the pleasures of their wedding night out of her mind, she might stand a chance of remembering what she was supposed to say and do.

And then Heath’s lips brushed her ear. ‘Good,’ he murmured, ‘because I’ve got plans for you …’

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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First published in Great Britain 2011
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

© Susan Stephens 2011

ISBN: 978-1-408-91743-5