The Big Bad Boss by Susan Stephens

not even staying at the hall,’ she protested faintly.
    ‘And I should be grateful for that?’
    She should be grateful for this, Bronte reflected, telling herself to relax and enjoy—would this moment ever come again?
    ‘When will you get it through your headthat Hebers Ghyll is not yours to do with as you like, Bronte?’
    Nor was Heath’s magnificent body, unfortunately. ‘We were only trying to help.’
    ‘Against my express instructions.’
    ‘We stayed away from the castle.’
    ‘Next time, do me the courtesy of asking if you can visit my property first. This obviously comes as a surprise to you, but this is my land, and safety is an overriding concern of mine.’
    How could it be when Heath’s chest hair was tormenting her nipples? The men she met on her travels were too busy fretting about their skin care regime or whether or not to wax their chest. Heath clearly suffered no such dilemmas.
    ‘Well, this is nice,’ he remarked, easing his position, which made her blink. ‘I never took you for a nudist, Bronte.’
    ‘And I never took you for Genghis Khan,’ she fired back in an attempt to blank the sensation currently flooding her veins.
    ‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Heath growled softly.
    Was it safer to stare into his eyes and see what he was thinking, or at Heath’s firm mouth and long to kiss him? She was in trouble whatever she did, Bronte concluded, while Heath was hot-wired to all her erotic pressurepoints. She took the only option left open to her, and closed her eyes, shutting him out.
    ‘Open your eyes, Bronte. This is no time to fall asleep.’
    Or to experience that first seductive brush of Heath’s lips, apparently. ‘Oh, clear off,’ she flared, trying to push him away. ‘What are you made of?’ she demanded when he didn’t yield. ‘Kryptonite?’
    ‘Flesh and blood the same as you.’
    ‘Not a bit like me,’ Bronte argued primly.’ I have manners.’
    ‘And a naked bottom,’ Heath commented mildly as she struggled to cover herself with an impossibly shrunken pair of leggings.
    ‘You’re such a barbarian.’
    ‘Come on—get dressed.’ As Heath sprang up he dragged her with him. ‘This has gone on long enough, Bronte. You’re still a trespasser with a lot of explaining to do.’
    Snatching her hands free, she was crouched down in a ball again. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now.’
    ‘Oh, can I?’ Heath demanded, planting his hands on his hips.
    ‘Honestly,’ she flared—though flaring was difficult from a crouching position. ‘I really can’t believe your ingratitude. We cleared
your
house—
your
grounds—’
    ‘And if a wall had fallen on
your
head?’
    ‘I already told you, we haven’t been anywhere dangerous.’
    ‘You’ve been back to the hall,’ said Heath, who showed no sign of going anywhere.
    ‘Do you seriously think I’d take the girls into a dangerous situation?’
    ‘No, but you’d walk blindly in,’ Heath argued. ‘And you’d probably be hit by falling masonry before you got halfway through the door.’
    ‘There’s no need to sound quite so thrilled by the prospect.’
    ‘Leaving me to clear up the mess,’ he finished, talking over her. ‘When I say don’t do something, there’s a very good reason for it.’
    Oh, why wouldn’t her clothes co-operate on damp skin? Her leggings had twisted round like a self-imposed chastity belt. All she could do was crunch over with her arms covering her chest as Heath threw her her top.
    ‘When were you going to tell me about the window, Bronte?’
    She froze mid-pulling it on.
    ‘What?’ Heath barked. ‘You thought I wouldn’t notice?’
    She hadn’t meant to do it and felt terrible. When she had forced the upstairs window tobreak into the hall the handle had come away in her hand. ‘Oh, Heath, I’m really sorry—’
    ‘Are you?’ he said impassively. His hands on his hips, he confronted her with a stony gaze.
    Displaying a truly magnificent chest, Bronte registered with a