Working With the Enemy by Susan Stephens Page B

Heath to come back here?’
‘He has to—look how much got done on his last visit. We have to be positive, Colleen. What?’ she said when Colleen’s gaze slid away.
‘I just don’t want to see you getting hurt, Bronte.’
‘I’m not going to get hurt,’ Bronte said firmly. ‘I know what I’m doing. This is business. Let’s get back to work, shall we? I can raid your wardrobe later.’
‘You can take whatever you want,’ Colleen assured her.
‘Then that’s settled,’ Bronte said cheerfully, but her friend’s concerned expression hadn’t changed.
The trade journals had picked up on his coup and were going crazy. The office was going crazy—and more crazy was exactly what he didn’t need. ‘What do you mean, you can’t cope?’ Heath thundered to the only man who didn’t quail when he let rip.
‘If I didn’t work with a bloody genius, you’d know,’ Heath’s harassed PA informed him testily. ‘You think everyone can work at your speed, Heath—i.e. the speed of light. Well, I’ve got news for you—I’ve only got one pair of hands—’
‘And if you spent less time slathering hand cream on them you’d have more time to spare for work.’
‘Woo-hoo. Bitchee. Now who’s suffering from a bad dose of Not Getting Any?’
‘And since when is that your business?’
‘I’ve made it my business. I have to suffer the backlash every day.’
‘If you weren’t—’
‘The only gay male friend you’re ever likely to have?’ Quentin interrupted smoothly.
‘The only friend I’m likely to have,’ Heath confessed ruefully.
Reaching up on tiptoe, Quentin threw a comforting arm around his boss’s powerful shoulders. ‘Take it from one who knows—you need to sort out that other problem first.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘Good, then perhaps you’ll calm down and stop carrying on like a bull with a sore head and we can get some work done around here.’
‘Get some help.’
Quentin pouted. ‘Now I’m offended.’
‘I mean, go get someone in to handle the interviews if you can’t cope.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Quentin smiled at the small victory as he examined his immaculately manicured nails. ‘Maybe a temp to handle some of the run-of-the-mill work, while I supervise the interviews. What?’ he protested. ‘Did you seriously think I’d allow anyone but me to start the interview process for such a vital position on your lordship’s new estate?’
‘Firstly, I’m not a lord—and believe me,’ Heath added dryly, ‘Hebers Ghyll is not the dream property you seem to imagine, Quentin. I’ve seen better slums in my time.’
‘And you’ve handled that sort of renovation perfectly. You’ll handle this,’ Quentin said, refusing to be dismayed.
‘Maybe,’ Heath growled. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.’
Quentin gave him a mock bow. ‘The master speaks and I obey.’
Heath cracked a smile. ‘Now find me an estate manager who thinks the same way you do.’
Quentin pulled a hurt face. ‘I can assure you, I am a one-off.’
‘And I couldn’t do without you,’ Heath admitted.
‘But I know what I’d do without you,’ Quentin shot back. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Save money at the salon—the stress lines I’ve developed since I started working for you—’
‘And no, you can’t charge your treatments to expenses.’
Quentin sulked for around a second. ‘I’ll get that temp in, then.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ Heath advised, returning to his screen.
She had never been put through such a gruelling grilling. Heath’s PA, a man who went by the name of Quentin Carew, turned out to be the most formidable style maven Bronte had ever encountered, and he would be conducting the first screening process, Quentin had informed her.
Then she was out, Bronte thought. She didn’t stand a chance. Quentin was infinitely better groomed than she would ever be, and Heath’s offices far surpassed anything that even Bronte’s lively imagination could have conjured up. A celebration