The Big Bad Boss. Susan Stephens
COULDN’T believe how screwed up inside Bronte made him feel. And this didn’t help. Heath was staring at the old hall, seeing it for the first time through adult eyes. He had thought he knew it well, and that he remembered every detail. But he hadn’t bargained for the memories flooding in.
Thankfully, he was alone. There had been a moment just then when, despite priding himself on his fitness. It had felt as if his chest were in a vice. He could hear police sirens in his head. He could hear his mother screaming at his father not to hit her. He could see a small boy locked out of the house until his parents got home late at night, relieving himself against the back wall, the neighbours shouting at him. And he could feel the difference here at Hebers Ghyll all over again: the stability; the kindness shown to him; the patience that people had given a boy who believed he deserved none, the care he had so badly needed. He felt that same hunger again—not just the hunger for food, but the hunger for something different. He hadn’t even known what was driving him back then. But he did know that here at Hebers Ghyll was where anger had started to grow like a weed twining round him as he turned from bewildered child into disaffected youth. The anger had been thick and fast and ugly, and he had expressed it with his fists.
If he stayed very still the echoes of those years were stronger—the first time he’d been to Hebers Ghyll he’d felt resentful and out of place. Seeing Bronte again had rubbed salt in that wound. The first time he’d seen her, his jaw had dropped to think such innocence existed—it was the first time he realised not every family was at war.
But however much Bronte wanted him to come back to Hebers Ghyll and work some sort of miracle—and she did—he couldn’t shake off that old certainty that he didn’t belong here. Who would want to be reminded of his past—of what he’d been—of what he could be? Back then there had only been one certainty—one overriding conviction. He could never be good enough for Bronte.
And now?
She had taught him to read, for God’s sake.
Shame washed over him as he remembered. It made him want to jump in the car, drive home to London and never come back. Why shouldn’t he do just that? He’d put this place on the market—leave the past where it belonged, buried deep in the countryside at Hebers Ghyll.
Decision made, he headed back to the car, but then a sound stopped him dead in his tracks. It jerked him back into the present even as it threw him into the past. He turned and stared at the old bell Uncle Harry had hung outside the front door so he could call the bad boys in for supper. Heath’s mouth twisted as he shook his head. Whatever he thought about it, the past wasn’t ready to let him go yet. Leaving the bell to its capricious dance, he jogged up the steps to the front door and let himself in.
He felt a sort of grief mixed up with guilt land heavily inside him as he stared around the entrance hall. How could this have happened so quickly?
What had he expected? A log fire blazing, the smell of freshly baked bread? There was no one living here—no one had been living here for months. The scent of pine and wood-smoke he remembered belonged to another, happier era. The air was stale now, and cold, and stank of damp. He walked around—touching, listening, remembering …
If there was one thing Uncle Harry had insisted on, it was that the log fire was kept burning so that visitors felt welcome. And the table where his uncle had taught him the fundamentals of chess before Heath crossed over to the dark side—where was that? Where was the board? Where were the chess pieces?
Melancholy washed over him and it was an emotion he had never thought to feel here. Bronte was right to think he had arrived with the sole intention of developing the property and selling it on to make a quick profit—until she had planted that seed of doubt in his head, reminding him of the old man who had done so much for both of them. Credit for his artistic flair and business savvy, Heath could claim, but the fuel that had fired his hunger to do better had been all Uncle Harry.
Raking his hair as he looked around, he thought the word dilapidation didn’t even begin to cover this. Bottom line? He didn’t have time for Hebers Ghyll. His life, his work—everything—was in London. His impressive-sounding inheritance was little more than a ruin—a hall, with a tumble-down castle in the grounds, whose foundations had been laid in Norman times, and whose structure had been added to over the years with a mixed degree of success.
Make that heavy on the failure, Heath thought as he leaned his shoulder against a wall and heard it grumble. He had to wonder what Uncle Harry had been thinking on the day the old man had written his will. It was common knowledge Heath hated the countryside. Even as a youth he’d scorned the idea that owning a castle was grand; it was just a larger acreage of slum to him—still was. There was nothing here but rotten wood and cracks and holes, and leaking radiators.
But at least he was no stranger to this sort of mess.
His talent was in inventing computer games and running a company soon to go global, but his hobby was working with his hands. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d called a team together to work on the renovation of an ancient building.
Yes, but this was a huge project. He gave himself a reality check as he continued his inspection. Rubbing a pane of glass with his sleeve, he peered through an upstairs window … and thought about the dormitory Uncle Harry had set up in the barn for Heath and the other boys from the detention centre. They’d had fun—not that Heath would have admitted it at the time. They’d told ghost stories late into the night, trying to spook each other—and during the day they’d ridden bareback on the ponies, or risked their lives wrestling bullocks. The space and silence had got to him, but the village hadn’t been without its attractions. A challenge from the leader of the country lads with their burnished skin and glossy hair had led to a fight and Heath had established quite a reputation for himself. When he returned to the city he took things one disastrous step further, fighting for cash in dank, dark cellars—until the authorities caught up with him. After a chase the police had arrested him here, of all places—at Hebers Ghyll. He’d returned like a homing pigeon, he realised now. He’d gone back to the detention centre for a longer stretch.
It was only in court that he discovered Uncle Harry had shopped him. To save him, the old man said. The memory of how he’d hated Uncle Harry for that betrayal came flooding back—as did the follow-up, which made him smile. The old man had sent him a computer—'courtesy of his conscience', the greeting card had said. Heath had left it unpacked in his cell until one day curiosity got the better of him—and the rest was history.
His stint inside had left him wiser. He could make money, but not with his fists. Uncle Harry’s computer was the answer. On his release he set up an office in his bedroom where no one could see him or judge him, and no one knew how young he was, or how poor. All he had to do was click a mouse and the world came to him. And the world liked his games.
Heath moved on as the wall he’d been leaning against shuddered a complaint. He was stronger than he knew—which was more than could be said for the fabric of this place. One good shove and the whole lot would come tumbling down. It would be easier to flatten it and start again—
Since when had he embraced easy?
His fingers were already caressing the speed dial on his phone to call his architect when thoughts of plump pink lips and lush pert breasts intruded. Another pause, another memory—the last time he’d seen Bronte at Hebers Ghyll she’d been trying to save him from the police. She’d overheard Uncle Harry on the phone, and had run down the drive to warn him they were coming. When that had failed, she’d kissed him goodbye. He shook his head as he tried to blank the kiss. He’d better check she’d reached home safely.
He found Bronte still at the side of the road where she was having a bit of a disaster. The strap on her rucksack had given way and she was kneeling on the rolled-up groundsheet, lashing it into submission with a yard of rope and a clutch of nifty knots. Drawing the car to a halt, he leapt out. ‘Wouldn’t a regular buckle make things easier for you?’
‘The buckles broke in Kathmandu.’
He curbed a grin. ‘Of course they did.’
‘No,