Christmas at His Command (11 page)

‘Marigold, part of the job of being a good surgeon—and I am a damn good surgeon—is to know when people are tense and worried, when they're keeping something back,' he said evenly. ‘Something has happened tonight and I want to know what it is.'

The arrogance was outstanding. Marigold looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Just because I don't want to stay in your house—' or sleep in your bed ‘—doesn't mean there's anything the matter,' she said firmly, hidden desperation helping the lie to trip more easily off her tongue. ‘I'm tired, that's all, and I want to go back to the cottage, but I've had a lovely time and thank you for asking me.'

She sounded for all the world like a small child primed by her mother to thank the hostess at the end of a birthday party. Flynn's eyes narrowed as they moved over her uplifted face. ‘So you'll be joining us for lunch tomorrow?' he asked silkily.

‘Thank you but no. The ankle's really sore tonight so I'll probably spend most of the day in bed.' Lying the second time was easier, she realised detachedly.

Flynn nodded, his face holding all the warmth of a block of cold granite. ‘I'll take you back to the cottage.'

‘Oh, right.' Somehow she hadn't expected him to capitulate so swiftly. She'd won, she told herself silently as she said goodbye to everyone and made her way with Flynn to the front door, so why did it feel as if she'd lost?

Once they were sitting in the big vehicle she knew it was because she
had
lost. One or two couples who were obviously staying at the inn had followed them outside into the clear, icy air, and now their cars roared off into the freezing night, but Flynn made no effort to drive away after starting the engine.

Marigold turned to him after a few seconds had ticked by with excruciating slowness.

‘We aren't budging until I get the truth,' he said pleasantly. ‘There's a full tank of petrol and we can sit here all night with the engine running to keep us warm.
Are
you warm enough?' he added.

She was absolutely frozen but would sooner have walked on red-hot coals than admit it. ‘I'm fine.'

He didn't actually call her a liar—reaching into the back seat and lifting over a thick car rug was eloquent enough—but Marigold didn't put up a protest when he wrapped it round her; her teeth were chattering too much.

It was a full five minutes before anyone spoke again, and the silence had got so loud it was deafening, when Marigold—warm again, buried as she was in the soft folds of the rug—said tightly, ‘This is perfectly ridiculous, you know that, don't you? People will wonder what on earth we're doing out here.'

‘I've lived for thirty-eight years without caring what people thought; I don't intend to start now.' He'd shifted
in his seat to face her when she had spoken and his voice was perfectly calm.

Now, that was probably the most honest thing he had said to her since they'd met, Marigold thought bitterly. ‘So you live by your own codes and values, regardless of anyone else, do you?' she flung back, goaded into saying more than she had intended.

‘I wasn't aware I'd said that.'

‘But it's the truth,' she stated fiercely. ‘Well, I'm sorry but I happen to believe in monogamy within a relationship for as long as it lasts.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning, I presume, that I don't?'

‘Are you saying you do?'

‘Whoa, lady.' He had been affable up until a moment ago; now the handsome male face was as cold as the scene outside the window and his eyes were steely. ‘I'm getting the distinct impression I'm being set up for a fall here, and I don't intend to defend myself to you or anyone else.'

What a very convenient attitude, Marigold thought hotly.

‘Now, I don't know what's going on in that pretty head of yours, but for the record I think fidelity is the foundation for any man-woman relationship, whether the parties intend it to be a permanent one or not. Does that answer your question?'

Oh, the
hypocrisy
of it! Marigold was so mad she forgot all her noble intentions. ‘And Celine?' she asked icily. ‘Does she hold to your views and still kiss every man in sight? Or perhaps fidelity in your book is something different to the dictionary definition?'

For a moment there was absolute stillness within the vehicle, her words seeming to hover in the air and echo
all about them, and even before Flynn replied Marigold knew something was desperately wrong. She'd made a terrible mistake.

She braced herself for the explosion that was sure to come if the look on his face was anything to go by, her stomach muscles knotting and her mouth suddenly dry.

‘Celine?' His voice was quiet, expressionless. ‘Who spoke to you about Celine and what was said?' His very quietness was more intimidating than any outward show of rage.

‘No one; it wasn't like that. They didn't know I was there. In the cloakroom…' Her voice trailed away; she was making a mess of this. But he hadn't denied there was a Celine. She took a deep breath and said quickly, ‘I was in the cloakroom and two women were talking. They said…' She stopped abruptly, trying to remember the exact words.

‘Yes?' One word but painfully chilling.

‘They said Celine was always in the background, even when you…when you were with someone else,' she faltered uncomfortably, wishing with all her heart she had never started this.

‘What else?'

‘Nothing, not really. Just that it sounded as though there had…well, been quite a few…'

‘Affairs?' he put in ruthlessly.

‘Yes.' Well, it
had
sounded like that. ‘All the rest'. How else could she take that?

‘So you assumed from this snippet which you overheard that I have a lover but indulge in brief affairs with other women when the fancy takes me. Is that it? And you did not think it pertinent to ask me about it? You preferred to freeze me out all night?' he grated softly, looking as though he would like to shake her or worse.

Marigold stared at him. What had she done? Oh, what had she done? ‘I…I didn't freeze you out—'

‘The hell you didn't,' he said grimly, starting the engine as he spoke and then swinging the large vehicle so violently round the drive in a semicircle that Marigold nearly screamed.

The set of his jaw warned her to say nothing more as he drove—far too fast in view of the treacherous conditions—back to the cottage. Marigold sat hunched in her seat, her mind numb and all her senses concentrated on getting out of the vehicle in one piece.

By the time they drew up outside the garden gate Marigold felt weak with relief that they weren't in a ditch or wrapped round a tree, and as Flynn left the car she just managed to pull herself together sufficiently to shrug off the rug before he opened the door, holding out his hand to help her down.

She glanced at his coldly impassive face. ‘Thank you.' Her voice was very small but as she descended he said nothing, merely holding her arm as she limped along the path, which was now a sheet of ice.

She had to have two tries at sliding the key in the lock before her trembling hands could negotiate the point of contact, and once the door swung open he turned and began to walk away. Marigold stared after him, her heart racing, and knew she had to say something,
anything
. She couldn't just let him go like this. ‘Flynn?' Her voice was shaking.

He stopped but didn't turn round. ‘Yes?'

‘If I got it wrong, I'm sorry. Truly. But they made it sound…' Her voice trailed away. ‘I'm sorry,' she said again.

‘You believed what you wanted to believe,' he said flatly.

Marigold opened her mouth to deny it but the words hung on her tongue unsaid. He was right. She stared at the big figure in front of her, appalled. He was absolutely right. There could have been all manner of explanations for what she'd overheard, but she'd jumped to the obvious one because she had needed to distance herself from this man. From the moment she had met him he had been a threat somehow.

When she remained silent he swung to face her, and now a mirthless smile twisted the hard mouth briefly as he read the truth on her face. ‘Don't worry, I won't bother you again; you can have your quiet Christmas,' he said wearily, turning and walking on down the path again.

‘Flynn?' She had no right to ask and it was probably the height of presumption in view of all that had been said, but she would never sleep again if she didn't
know
. ‘Who is Celine?'

For a second she thought he was going to ignore her but then he halted again, his back to her as his voice said flatly, ‘Celine was my fiancée; you may have heard of her—Celine Jenet?'

Marigold
had
heard of her; there probably wasn't a woman in the western world who hadn't heard of the beautiful French model.

‘We were together for a while some years ago but we parted a week before the wedding. It caused a great deal of interest at the time; probably, in view of what you heard tonight, it still does.' There was a biting note of cynicism running through the cold voice now. ‘It deeply disappointed the media, and to a lesser extent our friends and families, that we didn't choose to tell all or rip each other apart, but at the risk of sounding tedious we were friends. We still are, but that's all we are.'

Marigold didn't know what to say but in the event it didn't matter because Flynn obviously considered the conversation finished. He walked on, climbing into the vehicle without even a nod of his head or a wave of his hand.

Long after the lights of the 4x4 had disappeared Marigold continued to stand on the doorstep, only entering the house when she became aware she was chilled to the bone.

Celine Jenet. She sank down onto the rug in front of the glowing fire in the sitting room, removing the guard she had put in place before she left for the party and placing several small logs on the red embers, which leapt into immediate, crackling life.
Celine Jenet.
She was gorgeous. Six feet of sultry, large-eyed, tousled sex-kitten appeal, and she had been his fiancée. No wonder those women had said no one else could match up to Celine. Why had she left him? For another man? Because of her career maybe?

Marigold stared into the flames, her heart thudding. Whatever the reason, it had not caused Flynn to hate Celine, but did he still love her? He had said they were only friends but that didn't mean he didn't secretly wish for more, perhaps even hoped they might get back together some day.

She held out her cold hands to the fire but found the chill came from within rather than without. Flynn might not hate his ex-fiancée but it was a sure-fire bet he hated her, Marigold thought miserably. And now she thought about it, especially in view of his explanation about the Frenchwoman, she didn't understand why she had behaved so badly. She didn't normally jump to erroneous assumptions about people; in fact she was just the opposite. If she hadn't given Dean the benefit of the doubt
on various occasions she would have realised what he was up to long before she had. But with Flynn…

With Flynn it was different. For some reason this man affected her like no other human being she had ever met.

Marigold bit hard on her lip, hating the way she was feeling but unable to conquer the utter desolation that had swept over her. So much for a quiet, peaceful Christmas by herself to recharge her batteries and get strength to face the changes she intended to make in the future. She wished she'd never set eyes on this cottage, or Flynn, or—

The knock at the door startled her so much that for a second she was in very real danger of overbalancing into the fire. She put a hand to her thudding heart, rising quickly and limping across the room and into the hall. She went right up to the front door, her voice small and cautious as she said nervously, ‘Who is it?'

‘Father Christmas, who else?' Flynn's voice said sardonically.

Flynn! Marigold opened the door with a certain amount of embarrassment, her head whirling. She hadn't expected to see him again and she'd been amazed how badly that had made her feel, but now he was here she was warning herself, This doesn't mean anything, not a thing. After Celine Jenet, how could it?

As the door swung open Flynn just stood and looked at her steadily for a moment or two before saying, ‘Hello, Marigold. Can I come in?'

‘Oh, yes, of course.' She was so flustered she hardly knew what she was doing and was quite unaware she'd kept him standing on the doorstep.

Once they were standing in the sitting room she had the presence of mind to say quickly, ‘Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine, or coffee or hot chocolate?'

‘Coffee would be great.'

‘Right.' She could feel her cheeks burning and desperately needed a few minutes to compose herself away from his searching gaze.

‘Can I help?' he asked softly, for all the world as though the last caustic hour hadn't happened.

‘No, you sit down,' she said a little weakly. ‘I won't be a minute.'

By the time she'd prepared a tray with the coffee-cups and a plate of biscuits, Marigold's colour had subsided though the secret excitement and nervous agitation bubbling away in the depths of her hadn't.

Flynn was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire when she walked back into the room with the tray, and he appeared perfectly relaxed, one knee crossed over the other and his arms stretched along the back of the cushions. It was a very male pose, but she had noticed that about him—every movement, every gesture was overwhelmingly masculine. If Flynn was a man who was in touch with his feminine side, he hid it very well.

‘I just want to say I really am very sorry for jumping to conclusions about…about what I heard,' Marigold said before she lost her nerve, setting the tray down on the little table Flynn had obviously placed in front of the sofa before he sat down.