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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?’
‘At least you’re being honest,’ Heath said.
‘You’re so modest,’ Bronte countered, stirring the soup as if her life depended on it. ‘You know my only interest in being here is the future of Hebers Ghyll.’
‘Liar,’ Heath said softly.
‘Could you put these bowls out for me, please?’ She plonked them in his hands. Anything to keep Heath’s hands occupied and give herself space to think.
‘I have made you feel better, haven’t I?’ Heath sounded pleased with himself as he came back to prop a hip against the side.
‘So good I hardly know what to do with myself,’ Bronte agreed, sticking the salt pot and pepper grinder in his hands. ‘Now move. You definitely can’t stand this close to the heat without—’
‘Without both of us getting burned?’ Heath suggested.
‘Without the soup getting burned,’ she corrected him. ‘Excuse me please…’ Would her heart stop thundering? Hands on hips, she waited for Heath to move. Her only alternative was to stretch across him—and risk rubbing some already highly aroused and very sensitive part of her body against him? Not even remotely sensible to try.
‘I’m still wondering what you came back for,’ he said, ‘and I mean the real reason.’
‘Okay,’ she said, staring him in the eyes. ‘I’m serious about wanting the job and I thought if I came here and made myself useful—doing anything I could to help—you might remember me when it came to handing out interview times.’
Leaning back against the Aga rail, Heath crossed his arms and gave her one of his looks. ‘So you’re here so you can keep on reminding me how good you’d be?’
That wasn’t quite the way she would have put it, but yes. ‘I thought cooking supper for you would be a start.’
‘And you’re not a conniving woman?’
Heath’s face was very close—close enough to see how thick his lashes were, and how firm his mouth. ‘On the contrary,’ Bronte argued, ‘I am a conniving woman. And I know what I want.’
‘And so do I,’ Heath assured her as he straightened up.
‘Well, seeing as you’ve shown willing.’ Heath laughed.
And now he was standing in her way again. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she said politely.
What was she supposed to do with a man who took up every inch