He made her look at him. She could see in his gaze what came next and how incredible it was going to be. His hand felt warm and gentle on her face. For such a big man, Heath could be incredibly sensitive—and intuitive. It was this mix of soothing balm and fiery passion she craved now. She was hungry for tenderness. Only-child syndrome, maybe, Bronte thought. With both her parents working there hadn’t been much time to spare for cuddling. And though there had been other children visiting Hebers Ghyll she’d always felt on the outside looking in—except with Heath. They had both been different, she supposed—the dreamer and the wild boy from the city. ‘Hey, come back to me,’ Heath insisted. She looked at him. They could both have used a hug back then. She had always been hungry for Heath. He had lit a fire no amount of common sense could hope to put out, and that fire had been smouldering for thirteen years. Could anything stand in its way now?
