Heath Stamp was a very bad boy growing up. If there was a fight, he fought. If there was a woman, he took her to bed. If there was a sweet, innocent girl with big doe eyes - he ran a mile. Bronte Foster-Jenkins sure as hell isn't looking at him with big doe eyes any more. Instead she's shooting daggers in his direction. All grown-up, Heath is rich, arrogant and ready to raze his family estate to the ground - even if Bronte will do anything to stop him. He'll do it with a glint in his eye and happily take her down with him. For, make no mistake, Heath Stamp has gone from bad...to irresistible!
Chapter One
Dawn. And in front of us the idyllic English country scene.
Smell that grass - Look at that thin stream of sunlight driving
night-shadows down the velvet hills —
How long did he have to stay here?
With an exasperated roar, Heath flipped channels, silencing the
farming programme. All he’d smelled so far was cow dung.
And it was raining.
Resting his chin on one arm he slammed his foot down on the
gas. The Lamborghini roared drowning out the birdsong. Perfect.
He missed the concrete jungle — no smells —
no mud — no cranky plumbing. Why Uncle Harry had
left him a run-down country estate, remained a mystery. Heath
was allergic to the country – to anything that didn’t
come with dot-com attached. His empire had been built in a bedroom.
What did he need all this for?
And it was only after asking himself that question that he spotted
the tent someone had erected on a mossy bank just inside the gates…
spotted the small pink feet sticking out of the entrance. Forget
hating the place. He felt proprietorial suddenly. What would he
do if someone pitched a tent outside the front door of his London
home?
Stopping the car, he climbed out. Striding up to the tent, he
unzipped it.
A yelp of surprise ripped through the steady drum of falling
rain. Standing back, he folded his arms, waiting for developments.
He didn’t have long to wait. A strident pixie crawled out,
screaming at him that it was the middle of the night as she sprang
to her feet. Red hair flying, she stood like an irate stick insect
telling him what she thought of him in language as colourful as
the clothes she was frantically tugging on - a camouflage top,
and shot-off purple leggings that displayed her tiny feet. One
furious glance at his car and he was responsible for everything
from frightening the local wildlife to global warming, apparently,
until finally, having got over the shock of being so rudely awakened,
she gulped, took a breath, and exclaimed, “Heath Stamp…”
Clapping a hand to her chest, she stared at him as if she couldn’t
believe her eyes.
“Bronte Foster-Jenkins,” he murmured, taking her in.
“I”ve been expecting you —”
“So I see,” he said, glancing at the tent.
Expecting Heath to arrive? Yes, but not her reaction to it. He wasn”t
supposed to arrive at dawn, either. Around midday the postmistress
in the village had suggested. Heath Stamp, hip, slick, rugged,
tough, and even better looking than his most recent images in
the press suggested. This was a vastly improved version of someone
she”d dreamed about for thirteen years, two months, six
hour, and —
“You do know you’re trespassing, Bronte?”
And as delightful as ever.
The years melted away. They were at loggerheads immediately. She had to remind
herself Heath was no longer a violent youth who’d been locked
up for bare-knuckle fighting, and who used to visit Hebers Ghyll
on a release programme, but a successful internet entrepreneur
and the new owner of Hebers Ghyll, the country estate where Bronte
had grown up, and where her mother had been the housekeeper and
her father the gamekeeper. “The estate has been deserted
for weeks now —”
“And that’s an excuse for breaking in?”
“The gates were open. Everything’s gone to pot,” she told
him angrily.
“And that’s my fault?”
“You own it. You tell me.” Heath’s inheritance had a special
hold on her heart for all sorts of reasons, not least of which
she considered the estate her second home. While Heath had gained
nothing in charm, Bronte registered as he turned his back. Heath
couldn’t care less what people thought of him. He never
had.
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