Christmas at His Command (10 page)

His fingers were warm against her skin as he fixed the
orchids in place and Marigold was glad he was concentrating on the corsage for two reasons. One, his touch was doing the strangest things to her insides, and two,
ridiculously
the fact that every woman at the party was receiving the same gift had hurt for a moment.

‘But I chose this one myself.' His voice smoky warm, he added, ‘There was something about the delicate beauty on the outside of the flower married to the fierce, passionate colour within which reminded me of you.'

That suggestion again that she was passionate, fiery… Marigold wrenched her eyes from his as she looked down at the orchids, their scent heady and the rich, vibrant scarlet inside the graceful blooms a magnificent contrast to the cool loveliness of the exterior.

‘That's very flattering,' she managed fairly lightly, ‘especially for someone called Marigold Flower. I've never imagined myself being likened to an orchid.'

‘Oh, I'm not underestimating the beauty of the marigold, I assure you.'

He was still very close, too close, and she didn't like how her nerves tingled but found her body's response was quite outside of her control.

‘I think they're exquisite flowers, as it happens,' he continued silkily, his eyes intent on her flushed face. ‘The French marigold with its yellow and chestnut-red flowers and the full, delicate African variety are just as lovely as the dwarf with its small single orange flowers, and they are all fighters, did you know that? Hardy and determined to survive as well as beautiful. Of course, they prefer sunny, tranquil places and a trouble-free existence, but when adversity and storms arrive they find they can grow almost anywhere.'

Marigold was quite aware Flynn was talking about more than garden plants. She stared at him, wondering
how it was that the veiled compliments should give her such enormous pleasure when she had only known him for forty-eight hours or so. And then she took hold of the feeling of excitement and gratification as a little warning voice deep in her mind spoke cold reason. As a chat-up line it was pretty good and he had obviously done his homework on marigolds, she thought wryly, but all this didn't mean anything beyond a brief flirtation.

‘You certainly know your flowers,' she said as offhandedly as she could manage.

‘No, just marigolds.' He was watching her closely, seriously, and a little trickle of something she couldn't name shivered down her spine. And then the firm, stern mouth relaxed, a smile twisting along his lips. ‘Come on, everyone will be wondering where we've got to,' he said evenly. ‘Have you got a wrap or coat or something?'

She had only brought her fleece and cagoule with her and neither was remotely suitable for this evening, Marigold thought distractedly as she hurried back to the bedroom. But other than freeze she had no choice but the fleece; she hadn't even brought a cardigan with her—just several chunky jumpers.

She reached for her black purse, which she'd emptied of money a few minutes earlier and replaced with a lipstick and comb, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so. The tight black jeans, waist-length lacy top and black pumps
did
look good.

She glanced at her faithful old fleece, which had seen better days, and decided to freeze.

Flynn was using the snowboard that had been propped against the wall of the cottage to clear the path when she locked the front door and popped the key into her
purse, so the walk to the big 4x4 parked just outside the garden gate was problem-free.

Marigold paused before climbing into the vehicle, glancing up at the sky, which was now clear of snow clouds. A host of twinkling diamonds set in black velvet stretched endlessly in the heavens, timeless and enchanting, and below the frost had already formed crystals on the surface of the snow like a carpet of diamond dust. It was a beautiful,
beautiful
Christmas Eve, Marigold thought wonderingly. And she was going to spend it in the company of this commanding, enigmatic man, Flynn Moreau.

And the strange thing, the really fanciful thing was that she'd been fighting a feeling all day that somehow this was meant to be. Fighting it because she knew, in the heart of her, that a man like Flynn would be treating this as a pleasant interlude, no more. And because every instinct she possessed was screaming the warning that he was a dark threat to her peace of mind, her well-being, and if she let just the tiniest chink in her armour fail she would regret it for the rest of her life.

I
T WAS
halfway through the evening—when Marigold admitted to herself that she was having the time of her life—that she found she could actually smile at her ridiculous notions concerning Flynn. Of course, by then she had downed several glasses of the champagne that seemed to be flowing as freely as water, but that had only relaxed her a little, she told herself firmly. Flynn's friends were a great bunch and they had welcomed her as if they had known her all their lives, and Flynn himself was a charming host.

The house was a Christmas dream, decorated with traditional holly and ivy and deep-red velvet ribbons, and the enormous Christmas tree standing in the hall was a vision of red and gold, tiny flickering candles and shimmering baubles vying with streams of glittering tinsel and fairy lights.

Marigold found she was never alone, even though she had refused several offers to dance because of her ankle. Somehow she'd been drawn quite naturally into a group of Flynn's colleagues who were about her age or a little older. As the evening progressed she found they were wonderful company, funny and often outrageous, teasing each other with a naturalness that declared they all knew each other very well.

Flynn seemed to be near by even when he wasn't actually with her most of the night, but his attentiveness—if that was what it was—was merely the kind that a good host would display to a guest who didn't really
know anyone else, Marigold reminded herself umpteen times during the evening.

At midnight there were howls of excited laughter and little shrieks when Father Christmas, complete in red suit and white beard, appeared, delving into his enormous sack for presents for everyone. All the women had items of jewellery and the men gold cuff-links, and as Marigold unwrapped her gift—a pair of tiny gold hoops with a single red stone enclosed in a teardrop hanging from them—she happened to glance at Flynn, intending to mouth ‘thank you' across the heads between them.

He was leaning back against the wall close to where she was sitting, arms crossed over his chest and a faintly brooding expression on his dark face, and for a disquieting moment she got the impression he was viewing them all from a distance, like a scientist forced to inspect some rather uninteresting bugs under his microscope.

Marigold felt the impact of the thought like a shower of cold water and lowered her eyes quickly, making an excuse about visiting the cloakroom in the next moment and escaping from the noisy throng.

Once in the cloakroom, which had been designated for use by the ladies only, the gentlemen having to use one on the floor above, Marigold went into one of the two cubicles and closed the door, needing some privacy to marshall her whirling thoughts. Flynn's whole charming, amenable-host act had been nothing more than that—an act, she told herself flatly. None of them had seen what the real man was thinking or feeling tonight. That look on his face; it had been unnerving, disturbing.

Marigold glanced down at her ankle, which was beginning to remind her it was still around, and breathed deeply several times to control her racing heartbeat. It was what she had sensed in him all along, this auton
omy. The women had been flocking around him tonight and even the men searched out his company, obviously enjoying his companionship, but all along he had been… What? she asked herself. And the answer came, absent from them. Flynn was here in the physical but mentally a million miles away.

She sat in the cubicle for a few moments more, angry with herself that the revelation had bothered her so much. All this would seem like a dream when she got back to the reality of her life in London; none of it mattered, not really.

And then, as though to call her bluff, she heard the door to the cloakroom open and the sound of voices.

‘But who
is
she? Surely someone knows?'

‘Darling, you know as much as me. According to Flynn she's a friend, that's all. She's staying in that dear little cottage we pass to get to the house apparently.'

Marigold had intended to rise and leave her hidey-hole but had frozen at the first words, knowing they were talking about her.

‘Friend? Well, there are friends and friends!' The other woman giggled, not nastily but in a way that brought a pink tinge to Marigold's cheeks.

‘Janet! You're terrible. You don't know anything's going on, now then. Anyway, don't forget there's always Celine in the background,' the other woman warned in a much more sober fashion. ‘Whoever this girl is and whatever the relationship between her and Flynn, she'll go the same way as the rest.'

‘He's such a dreamboat, though, isn't he?' Janet sighed, long and lustily. ‘One night with Flynn and I bet you'd be ruined for any other man.'

‘Janet!' Now Marigold could tell the other woman was definitely shocked although she was half laughing
when she said, ‘You've only been married six months; you should still be in the first throes of married bliss and thinking only of Henry! Right, that's my face repaired; are you coming?'

‘Yes, all right. Let me just put on a bit more lipstick…'

There was a brief pause before the sound of the door opening and closing again, and then silence.

Marigold sat absolutely still for a full minute. Celine. Whoever this other woman was, she would have to be called something like that; something more ordinary just wouldn't fit the bill. Celine, Tamara… Were they born with names like that or did they choose them themselves when they decided to turn into
femmes fatales
? So, Flynn had a Celine in his life, did he? A Celine who he always returned to, by the sound of it.

Marigold stood up slowly, anger beginning to replace the sick feeling of disappointment. He'd had no right to kiss her when he was involved with someone else. ‘Whoever this girl is and whatever the relationship between her and Flynn, she'll go the same way as the rest.' The woman's words burnt in Marigold's mind.

Clearly Flynn and Celine had one of these open relationships, or perhaps the other woman just put up with the status quo because she knew she was different to a casual affair? That she had his heart if not exclusive rights to his body?

Marigold looked down at her hands and realised her fingers were curled into her palms so tightly they were hurting. She forced herself to relax them finger by finger, took a deep breath and then opened the door of the cubicle, stepping out into the carpeted area where the two washbasins reposed against a mirrored wall. It was quite empty.

She splashed her wrists with cold water for a few moments before dabbing some on the back of her neck. She had no reason to feel angry and let down, she told herself miserably, but she did. He had only kissed her a couple of times when all was said and done.

And then she frowned. No, this line of reasoning was flawed, she declared militantly to herself. Flynn had told her he was a single man, and maybe he was—technically. But with Celine around, in her book he was definitely not up for grabs. Not that she would have grabbed him anyway, Marigold reassured herself fiercely. But the fact remained he had not been totally honest with her, even if he
had
told everyone she was just a friend. At least those gossipy women hadn't been sure if there was anything between her and Flynn. Which, of course, there wasn't, never had been and never would be, Celine or no Celine, she added vehemently.

So…she would go back out there and behave just as she had been doing all evening. She'd laugh and joke and be friendly, and when Flynn took her home—
if
he took her home; he might well get Wilf to do the honours, for all she knew—she would thank him politely for a wonderful party and make a graceful exit out of his life. And that—
most definitely
—would be that. She would be quietly dignified and decorous, and would never intimate she knew anything at all about Celine. He was entitled to live his life exactly as he chose, but as far as she was concerned she thought it stank!

She stood a moment or two more, staring at herself in the mirrors. She would make it abundantly clear she did not fancy him or want anything at all to do with him; if nothing else he would remember her a little differently from
the rest
. Those words had got right under her skin, she admitted ruefully. There was some
thing terribly humiliating in being herded under such a heading.

She applied fresh lipstick, ran her comb through her hair so it fell in shimmering wings against her soft skin, and then squared her shoulders.

Right, Flynn, she thought with a trace of dark amusement. This is where you start having to face the fact that you are not God's gift to the whole female race!

Couples were dancing to a popular Christmas hit in the hall as she made her way back to the drawing room, edging carefully round gyrating bodies. Still more were jigging about on the perimeter of the drawing room and the buzz of conversation and laughter was deafening. Everyone was having a wonderful time.

‘I missed you.' Flynn must have been waiting for her because no sooner had she put her nose through the door than he was at her side, the intensity of his gaze making her skin burn in spite of herself.

‘Oh, I doubt that.' She forced a light laugh she was inordinately proud of.

‘Then I'll have to convince you somehow,' he murmured softly, smiling his slow smile. ‘Let's find a quiet corner.'

Oh, no, she wasn't having any of this. If he wanted a Christmas intrigue—Celine obviously being elsewhere—he had picked the wrong girl, Marigold told herself tightly. She flashed him a brilliant smile. ‘I wouldn't dream of taking you away from your other guests,' she said brightly, turning away from him in the same instant and making her way over to the group she had left earlier, inwardly seething.

Those two women had known about Celine and no doubt the existence of the other woman was common knowledge among the rest of the folk here, or a certain
number of them at any rate. How
dared
he come on to her in front of everyone?

She had half expected Flynn to follow her and press his cause, but when there was no firm male hand on her shoulder or soft voice in her ear she assumed he hadn't thought it was worth the effort—that
she
wasn't worth the effort.

The talk within the group had shifted to medical matters when she rejoined them, several of the party being doctors and nurses. One of the other women—married to a young surgeon who was just relating the complications he'd encountered when he took the appendix out of some unfortunate soul—leant across to Marigold as she sat down. ‘It always turns to work,' she murmured conspiratorially. ‘If I've heard about one operation at a dinner party or some function or other, I've heard about hundreds! It's so boring. Oh, sorry, I never thought—you're not in the profession, are you?'

‘Not me.' Marigold smiled back into the rosy face topped by blonde curls. She had noticed this particular couple earlier; the wife was about seven months pregnant and always laughing and cuddling her doctor husband, and he was blatantly besotted with his pretty wife. Marigold had found herself envying them with all her heart, which had surprised her at the time. Even when she had been engaged to Dean she had been in no particular rush to settle down and have babies, and now that was definitely on the back burner. But something about this couple had made her terribly broody. It must be wonderful to be pregnant by the man you love, she thought with a sudden painfulness which amazed her afresh.

‘Good, I'm glad you're not a doctor or nurse. We can talk fashion and hairstyles and soaps—
anything
but hos
pitals and operations!' The pretty face smiled at her and Marigold smiled back, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation rather than do what every nerve in her body was willing her to do and to turn round and see where Flynn was.

At one o'clock Bertha appeared with hot mulled wine and a stack of mince pies and a Christmas cake which would have fed a small army, and at half-past one the first of the guests began to leave—some to their rooms within the house, and others to the village inn some miles away where Flynn had apparently booked rooms. According to Marigold's new friend, those guests staying at the inn were returning in the morning for Christmas lunch and tea.

Flynn had joined the group some fifteen minutes or so after Marigold but he hadn't singled her out for any special attention, keeping everyone amused with a dry, wicked wit that could be slightly caustic, and which had everyone—Marigold noted with acid cynicism—hanging on his every word. He was clearly the big fish in this particular pond, and the other guests' adulation—which bordered on reverence in Marigold's jaded opinion—grated unbearably.

‘The offer's still open for you to use the annexe tonight.' Marigold had walked across to the laden trolley at one side of the room to leave her glass and empty plate with the others deposited there, and she hadn't been aware Flynn had followed her until his deep voice stroked across the back of her neck.

‘No, thank you.' She tried, she
really
tried to keep her voice light and friendly, but even to her own ears it sounded strained.

‘OK, out with it, Marigold,' Flynn said coolly. ‘What's the matter?'

‘The matter?' She nerved herself to turn and face him, wiping her face of all expression. ‘Sorry, I don't understand. I thought I'd made it clear yesterday I intended to sleep at the cottage?' And definitely,
definitely
not in his bed. If he thought he could use her as a bed warmer till Celine turned up, he'd got another think coming.

‘Forget where you're sleeping. I asked you what was the matter.'

She stared up at him, at the stern mouth and firm jaw, and it was with deep self-disgust that Marigold realised she envied Celine more than she would have thought possible. ‘Nothing is the matter,' she lied steadily.