Free Working With the Enemy by Susan Stephens Page A

decide yes or no and then take the consequences for her decision whatever it might be.
Everyone else had left the kitchen to return to work. No one stopped until a job was done now, Bronte had noticed, even thought it was quite late. Heath’s influence, she supposed. He never seemed to tire. She had asked him to mend a fuse for her before he went back to join the others. ‘Seems I can’t get rid of you now,’ she teased him as he straightened up.
‘Isn’t that what you want?’ he said.
She was staring at his lips again, Bronte realised, shifting her gaze to Heath’s work-stained top. ‘Do you really think I find the scent of spark plugs and engine oil irresistible?’
‘I think you love a bit of rough.’
‘I—’
Before she had chance to deny it, Heath had dragged her into his arms.
‘It might have escaped your notice,’ she told him, coolly, ‘but I’m in no danger of falling over at the moment.’
‘You’re right,’ Heath agreed, lips pressing down. ‘You’re in no danger at all.’ He lifted his hands away.
The master tactician was at it again, Bronte suspected, feeling the loss of him before Heath had even left the room. There was more to foreplay than she had ever realised. Turned out Heath was master of that too. Still, he’d gone now, which would give her chance to cool down. She’d clear up the kitchen—and then, as she’d announced over supper, she would paint the wall Heath had plastered. The plaster had dried out now, and she didn’t feel like going down to the pub. Sometimes she liked to be alone with her thoughts—though where that would get her tonight was anyone’s guess.
    CHAPTER SEVEN
E VERYONE was going down to the pub in the village after work. Heath wasn’t and neither was Bronte. She was still fixing up the kitchen. Having cooked and cleaned and cleared, she had declared her intention to paint the wall. He could hardly leave her to it.
Stubborn as ever, he thought, catching sight of her through the kitchen window. It looked cosy and welcoming inside with the lights casting a warm glow, and something Bronte had prepared for tomorrow bubbling away quietly on the Aga. She was up a ladder with her hair tied back beneath a bright emerald-green scarf—and she was wielding a roller—
God help them all. Cream paint extended down to her elbow, and there was a smudge of it on her nose. He’d better get in there before she painted herself to the wall.
‘Knock it off now, Bronte,’ he said as he walked into the room. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’
‘Past your bedtime?’ she teased him.
He wasn’t even remotely tired.
Turning, she planted her hands on her hips, daubing her jeans with another generous lashing of paint.
‘I hope that paint washes off.’
‘You know something, Heath,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You said I’d made a bad start. Well, now I’m wondering if I want a job here at all. The thought of you bossing me around all day and all night—’
‘Is irresistible,’ he said, easing onto one hip to stare up at her. ‘You know you’d love it. Just think—you’d be able to argue with me nonstop.’
She sighed. ‘Sadly, I don’t have your stamina.’
Something he’d like to put to the test. But shouldn’t. Mustn’t. ‘Now I know you’re joking. I’ve seen that tongue of yours do the marathon. And, didn’t I just tell you to stop?’
Her jaw dropped in mock shock. ‘I obey you now?’
‘Didn’t I tell you that’s part of the job description?’ Cupping his chin, he pretended to think about it—and cursed himself for forgetting to shave. Barbarian? She was right.
She hummed. ‘We may have a serious problem, in that case. Unless…’
‘Unless?’ he prompted.
‘Unless you’re offering to make me a drink?’ she said perkily.
‘Gin and tonic?’
‘Coffee,’ she said in a reproving tone.
Coffee won. Climbing down the ladder, she tried to muscle him out of the way when he took over the cooker. No contest. He was skipper of the Aga tonight.