Christmas at His Command (12 page)

‘You believe me, then?'

‘Of course I do.' He looked incredibly sexy sitting there, his eyes veiled and his countenance expressionless, and a shiver trickled hotly down Marigold's spine, curling its way into the core of her.

‘There's no “of course” about it,' he said evenly. ‘But I realised once I'd left that I'd expected a hell of a lot. You were in a crowd of people, none of whom you knew, and you hear a little idle talk from people who
should have known better. The thing is—' he paused abruptly, his jaw clenching, before he continued ‘—my private life is just that—private—and I don't appreciate it being under discussion. It's of no interest to anyone but me surely?'

Now, that was expecting too much, especially of the female of the species, Marigold thought as she stared back into the handsome face. Looking as he did and with the air of remote detachment he had about him, let alone the sort of work he did, where his skill and expertise was the difference between life and death, gave him a fascinating power and magnetic appeal which was irresistible to any hot-blooded woman.

The thought sent a wave of unease trembling through her as it hammered home her own attraction to Flynn. She didn't want to be attracted to him; she didn't want to be attracted to anyone for years and years until she had worked through the Dean and Tamara thing in her mind. But Flynn, with his abundance of male aggression and sexual appeal—he was the last man on earth to get involved with, however fleetingly.

Marigold plunged in before she had time to weigh her words and chicken out of what she knew she had to make clear. It still seemed incredible that Flynn might be interested in her, albeit mildly, but just in case… ‘Flynn, what you said earlier, about me believing what I wanted to believe? Well, you were right in a way,' she said feverishly, standing just in front of him with her hands clasped tightly together. ‘It's just that after Dean I don't feel I can cope with…with a new friendship,' she finished weakly, aware the last few words sounded ridiculous.

‘I think we are both aware it wasn't altogether friendship I had on my mind.'

His voice was quiet but carried the velvet, smoky undertones she'd heard before and brought the colour which had recently subsided back to her cheeks again.

He was offering her an affair, a brief relationship, and probably from his point of view that was perfectly OK—certainly from what she'd overheard in the cloakroom he'd gone the same route many times before since Celine. But how did a woman bounce back after Flynn Moreau? Marigold asked herself silently as she looked into the rueful eyes fixed on her face. The others must have managed somehow, but she wouldn't. It would be a case of going from Dean's frying-pan into Flynn's fire, and she'd have no excuse with Flynn. She'd be walking into this relationship with her eyes wide open.

‘The thing is…' She stopped, wondering how she could make him
see
. ‘The thing is…'

‘What is the thing?'

‘Those…those women said you'd had other relationships since Celine, all temporary,' she managed at last. ‘And that's fine,' she added quickly, ‘if it's what you and your girlfriends wanted. But I don't think I'm like that, and it's too soon after Dean to even start thinking about… And you're wealthy and successful and always meeting new people and everything, and I'm—'

‘Delightful.' He'd stood up, and as strong arms caught her against him she looked up into a hard male face that appeared mildly amused.

‘Flynn—'

He cut off her voice by the simple expedient of taking her lips and as she stiffened, determined not to give in to the thrill of being in his arms again, the smell and feel of him surrounded her and she knew she was lost. The thing was, he kissed so
well
, she told herself helplessly. She had never met anyone who kissed like Flynn.

She sighed against his mouth and immediately, as he sensed her submission, the kiss deepened with masterful intent, his lips moving against hers and bringing forth a response she was unable to control.

She felt herself beginning to melt as before, and although his power over her senses was frightening it was so exhilarating she curved into him, hungrily searching for more. She had never considered herself a particularly cold person, but before Flynn lovemaking had been a mildly pleasurable experience at best, an irritation at worst when she hadn't really been in the mood.

But this,
this
was like something you read about in novels—mind-blowing, dazzling, and in spite of herself Marigold admitted to a feeling of excitement and satisfaction that she could actually experience such passion. Being in Flynn's arms like this made her feel desirable and wholly feminine, one half of a two-piece, flesh and blood jigsaw.

His mouth moved to the honey-tinted skin of her throat, nuzzling, caressing as she shivered with delight, her body arched backwards as he leant over her. He kissed her ears, her eyelids, tracing a scorching path back to her mouth, which opened obediently at his touch. His hands had moved under the lacy top, his fingers firm and warm as they stroked the silky skin of her narrow waist before moving upwards to run over the soft swell of the top of her breasts beneath her lacy white bra.

Her hands had splayed up into his thick black hair, her fingertips softly massaging his scalp in a sensual abandon which would have shocked her if she had been able to think coherently.

His mouth had parted her lips and he was tasting the inner sweetness with tiny darting movements, causing electric vibrations that had her trembling against him.
Marigold was enchanted, enchanted and beguiled, avidly searching for something she had never had but which she now sensed was within her grasp.

Flynn's breathing was heavy when he at last lifted his head, his lips releasing her mouth, but his arms still holding her close to him.

Marigold opened dazed eyes to find the silvery gaze fixed on her face, and for a moment she had the insane impulse to beg him to
really
make love to her; to follow her into the bedroom next door where they could lie on the big, soft bed with the glowing fire illuminating their naked bodies and all thoughts of the outside world banished.

It was enough to bring her out of the stupor and back down to earth with a bump. And he knew, instantly; the hungry, watchful expression on the hard male face changing to one of wry regret. ‘You're doing it again,' he murmured softly.

‘What?'

‘Thinking instead of feeling.'

She moved back a little in his arms, pushing at the broad, muscled chest and he let go of her immediately. ‘You don't approve of rational thought?' she asked in as light a voice as she could manage, considering she was feeling utterly bereft. ‘I would have thought it was a necessity in your line of work.'

‘There's a time and place for everything.' He smiled a slow, sexy smile and her heartbeat went haywire.

‘Flynn—'

‘I know, I know.' He interrupted her softly, tilting her chin to look into the deep violet-blue of her eyes. ‘You aren't ready for a relationship. It's too soon. We're miles apart in lifestyles. Right?'

Marigold nodded shakily. ‘Right.' In the space of
three days this man had turned her world upside-down. How had he done that? And in spite of all she had said if there hadn't been the mental image of Celine in the background, she wasn't at all sure that she wouldn't have thrown caution to the wind and just gone with the flow.

‘Marigold, we both know that if I hadn't stopped a minute ago we'd be making love on the rug in front of the fire right now,' Flynn said in such a conversational tone of voice that for a moment she didn't take it in.

She stiffened, angry with him for telling the truth. ‘If you believe that, why
did
you stop?' she challenged tightly.

‘Because this is not the right time or the right place,' he returned silkily, ‘and contrary to what you might think I consider that important. There's something between us you can't deny; it's been there from the first moment we laid eyes on each other and there can only be one possible conclusion to such raw physical attraction. But you have to accept me into your life before you accept me into your body, I can understand that, otherwise, being the sort of woman you are, you'd tear yourself apart.'

She stared at him, utterly bemused by the straight talking and the fact that he clearly considered an affair between them was just a matter of time. ‘I can't believe you're saying this,' she said weakly.

‘Why?' he asked casually, turning away and pouring them both a cup of coffee, before he added, ‘Cream and sugar?'

Cream and sugar? Was he mad or was it her? He had just calmly stated that regardless of all she had said he intended to make sure he slept with her at some point in the immediate future, hadn't he? ‘Flynn, you can't
ride roughshod over all I've said,' she stated more firmly, ignoring the coffee tray.

‘I wasn't aware I was,' he said mildly. ‘I have taken into account all your objections but I have a predilection for the truth, Marigold, and it's the truth that you're really objecting to.'

Marigold looked at him in exasperation. He had an answer for everything! She opened her mouth to argue some more but then shut it abruptly. She'd never win in a war of words with Flynn, but then she didn't have to, not really. He had said he'd wait until she had accepted him into her life before pressing his case—at least that was what she thought he had said—and so it was quite simple really. She would be on her guard for the next few days while she was here in Shropshire, and then when she left, that would be that. No contact, no telephone calls or anything else. She'd be ruthless; she would have to be because Flynn was right about one thing. This physical attraction between them
was
raw and powerful, and far too compelling to play about with. For her at least.

‘Cream and two sugars, please,' she said sweetly.

‘What?' Marigold had the satisfaction of seeing him blink before he said, ‘Oh, yeah, the coffee.'

And the coffee was all he was going to get, this night or any other, Marigold told herself firmly, even as a little voice in her mind reminded her nastily, until he chose to kiss her again…

W
HEN
Marigold awoke on Christmas Day it was to the realisation she had promised to have lunch and tea with Flynn and his friends, and she rolled over onto her stomach, pulling a pillow on top of her head as she groaned loudly. She was mad, quite mad!

Flynn had behaved perfectly for the rest of the time in the cottage the night before. He had drunk two cups of coffee, eaten most of the biscuits and made small talk, which had the advantage of being amusing and interesting. After inveigling her agreement regarding the next day he had given her a brief peck on her forehead and left immediately, leaving Marigold with the unwelcome—but faintly exciting—thought that Flynn was a man who would always get what he wanted.

After a long, hot soak in the bath Marigold inspected the meagre contents of her limited wardrobe. The black jeans would have to be utilised again, and a long, thick cream sweater with a large rolled neck would fit the bill for today. She felt a thrill of anticipation and elation shoot through her, and it was enough for her to spend the next hour or two warning herself she couldn't afford to let her guard down for a moment.

Flynn was the type of man who would whisk her into his orbit and keep her there for as long as it took for the attraction between them to burn itself out. And then? Then she'd be left floating in the middle of nowhere. It had been stupid to agree to go the house today, but this would be the last time she would concur with what he
demanded. And there
was
a houseful of guests around. It wasn't as though they were there alone, she comforted herself briskly as she put the last touches to her make-up. It would be fine, just fine.

And it was. He came for her just after eleven o'clock and Marigold was ready and waiting, determined to give him no excuse to be alone with her in the cottage.

She hastily shut the front door as the big vehicle drew up outside the garden gate, her ankle allowing her to walk almost normally as she hurried down the snow-covered path.

Flynn had climbed out of the 4x4 and opened the passenger door as she reached him, her senses registering six foot plus of gorgeous manhood encased in black jeans and a black leather jacket. ‘Hi.' His voice was soft and he grinned, dropping a quick kiss on her lips before he helped her up and closed the door behind her.

It took Marigold all of the drive to the house to get her racing heart under control, but his manner once they were there—warm and friendly and not at all threatening—relaxed her sufficiently to allow her to have a wonderful day.

Bertha, along with Wilf—whom the housekeeper had commandeered to help her—excelled herself with Christmas lunch, her pièce de résistance in the form of two enormous Christmas puddings, flaming with brandy and accompanied by lashings of whipped cream, bringing forth a round of applause from everyone at the dining table.

Replete, everyone played silly games all afternoon, although again Marigold noticed Flynn was more of a benevolent spectator than participator, and after a magnificent buffet tea they all gathered in the drawing room, where Flynn played the grand piano and everyone sang
carols before the party broke up, and people began to leave for the drive home.

‘I didn't know you could play the piano.' Flynn had tucked Marigold's hand in his arm, thereby conscripting her to stand with him on the doorstep, where he was watching his guests leave, and she spoke primly, trying to put things on a less intimate footing. With ninety-nine out of a hundred men, standing close like this would present no problems at all, but Flynn was the hundredth, as her racing pulse testified.

‘There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Marigold,' he answered evenly, but with the smoky inflexion in his voice which gave it a sensual kick that was pure dynamite. ‘Something I would be only too pleased to rectify, given half a chance.'

His eyes stroked her face for a moment before he looked down the drive again. ‘I enjoy playing the piano and I'm told I can make a half-reasonable noise on the trombone. I like parasailing and scuba-diving; I prefer American football to English football or rugby and I loathe golf. But of course there are other…activities which give me more pleasure than all the rest put together.'

She didn't ask what they were, keeping her gaze on the car in front of them, from which the passenger was waving frantically, as she said, ‘Scuba-diving? I've done a little of that, enough to get my PADI open-water certification.' She had tried to persuade Dean to do the course with her, thinking they could dive together in the warm waters of the Caribbean on their honeymoon, but he had only gone a couple of times before dropping out, claiming trouble with his inner ear. Privately she had thought he was scared. He had never coped well with a new challenge.

‘So you're a water baby?' The moonlight caught the shining jet of his hair and turned the grey eyes to mercury as he turned to look down at her. ‘That doesn't surprise me. I had you down as gutsy as well as beautiful.'

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,' Marigold said as lightly as she could manage.

‘I wish.' It was very dry. ‘And it is not flattery. I told you before, I only tell the truth.'

‘That would make you a man in a million,' she said with a trace of bitterness she couldn't quite disguise.

‘Just so.' He smiled lazily. ‘It's nice you've recognised the fact so quickly.'

And then he stiffened as he looked down the drive, his voice gritty as he said, ‘Who the hell is that, driving like a maniac? He's just caused Charles to swerve and nearly go off the road. I don't recognise the car.'

Marigold followed the direction of his gaze and then swallowed hard.
She
recognised the car and it didn't belong to a him but a her.

Emma was driving the smart little sports coupé her doting father had bought her the year before, and she executed a flamboyant halt in front of the house which sent gravel scattering far and wide. ‘Goldie, darling!' She was calling even as she unfurled herself from the leather interior. ‘I've had a nightmare of a journey.'

‘It's Emma,' Marigold murmured desperately. ‘She wasn't supposed to arrive for another couple of days.'

‘Lucky you.' It was caustic, antagonism bristling in every plane and line of his hard male face as narrowed eyes took in the tight leather trousers and three-inch stiletto heels, the dyed blonde hair and carefully made-up, lovely face.

‘I was waiting outside the cottage and one of the cars
stopped and told me you were here,' Emma continued as she walked towards them, speaking to Marigold but with her big green eyes fixed on Flynn. ‘Darling, I
had
to get away from London. Oliver and I have had the most
awful
row and I never want to see him again in all my life,' she finished dramatically, before adding, as though she had suddenly realised her lack of manners, ‘Oh, I'm Emma Jones by the way,' as she held out one pale beringed hand to Flynn.

He made no effort to reach out and take it, merely nodding as he said, ‘Maggie's granddaughter. It figures.'

Emma stopped abruptly. She was used to men going down before her shapely figure and batting eyelashes like ninepins, not having them growl at her with a face like thunder. However, Emma was made of sterner stuff than she looked, and her voice didn't falter as she said, ‘What exactly does that mean?'

‘I was a friend of your grandmother's and cared about her; I think that says it all.'

‘Really.' Emma lifted her small chin and slanted feline eyes, but it was obvious she knew exactly what Flynn meant when she said, ‘Daddy said there were some rather rude individuals in this neck of the woods.'

‘Daddy was right. And this particular rude individual is now asking you, politely, to get off his property,' Flynn said evenly.

At some point during the discourse Marigold had disentangled her hand from Flynn's arm and now she said hurriedly, ‘I'll get my bag if you want to wait in the car for me, Emma.'

‘Sure.' As Emma turned and began to saunter away Marigold fled into the house, grabbing her bag from where she'd left it in the drawing room and retracing
her footsteps into the hall, where she found Flynn waiting for her.

‘You don't have to go.'

‘I do.' Marigold bit her lip. ‘You know I do.'

‘Can I see you tomorrow?' he said quietly.

‘I don't think that's a good idea.'

‘I disagree,' he said, still very softly. ‘It's an excellent idea.'

‘Please, Flynn—'

‘What are you so scared of anyway, Marigold? Is it me? As a man, I mean? Or is there something more? Something in your past concerning this ex-fiancé of yours? Did he ill-treat you in any way?'

‘You mean apart from sleeping around in a way that ensured everyone knew but me?' Marigold asked derisively, and then she paused, taken aback at her own bitterness. Right up until this moment in time she hadn't realised how deep the wound had gone, and for a second she hotly resented Flynn forcing her to see it. She didn't want to think of herself as damaged or a victim, she thought furiously. She had to get the victory over this.

‘I have to go.' She gestured towards a scowling Emma, sitting looking at them from the gently purring coupé. ‘Emma's waiting.'

‘Damn Emma.'

‘I have to go.' She backed into the doorway and out beyond, running to the car in a way that played havoc with her injured ankle.

Once Marigold was inside the car, Emma wasted no time in leaving, her speed indicating quite clearly she was mortally offended even if she had handled the situation with surprising coolness.
‘What an awful man!'
They hadn't got out of the drive and onto the lane beyond the gates before Emma let rip. ‘How dare he talk
to me like that? And what were you doing in his house anyway?'

‘I beg your pardon?' OK, so Emma might be upset but no way was she going to apologise for being in Flynn's home. ‘I wasn't aware it was out of bounds,' Marigold challenged quietly.

Emma sent a swift glance Marigold's way and her tone was less confrontational when she said, ‘Of course it isn't; I just wasn't aware you knew the owner, that's all.'

‘I don't—I didn't,' Marigold corrected. ‘It happened like this…' She explained the circumstances of her first meeting with Flynn, leaving out his comments relating to Emma and her family and finishing with, ‘I think he thought quite a bit of your grandmother, Emma.'

Emma shrugged offhandedly. ‘I barely knew her,' she admitted indifferently. ‘I know she drove my parents mad with her refusal to go into an old people's home, and that she had a load of flea-ridden animals, but my father usually visited her on his own.'

‘How often was that?' Marigold asked quietly.

‘Now and then.' It was cursory. ‘She had plenty of friends hereabouts.'

‘It's not like family though, is it?'

‘Don't
you
start.' Emma skidded to a halt by the side of Myrtle and Marigold could almost see the small car flinch as the sports car missed her bumper by half an inch. ‘My grandmother had the chance to go into a home where she would have been looked after and which my parents could have visited more easily, but she insisted she wanted to stay in the cottage. My father is a busy man; he's got an important job. He can't waste time running about all over the place, besides which he and Mother entertain a lot—important people, necessary for
his position at work. Anyway, they didn't get on, my grandmother and father. Just because my father was unable to attend my grandfather's funeral, my grandmother said she'd never forgive him.'

‘Why couldn't he go to the funeral?' Marigold stared at Emma's disgruntled face and wondered why she'd never realised that she really didn't like this girl at all.

‘Pressure of work,' Emma said perfunctorily. ‘You have to make sacrifices if you want to get to the top.'

‘Yes, I suppose you do.' Marigold opened her door as she added, ‘I'm leaving in the morning, Emma; there are things I need to do at home. Are you still intending to sell the cottage?'

‘I might be.' Emma glanced at her as they walked to the cottage door whereupon Marigold handed the other girl the front-door key. ‘Why?'

‘I'd be interested in knowing how much you want for it, that's all.' Somehow she couldn't bear the thought of Emma owning the beloved home of the young, sweet-faced bride in the photograph, or selling it to someone who wouldn't appreciate the blood, sweat and tears old Maggie had put into the last years. ‘Along with the furniture, the pictures, everything,' she added quietly.

‘All that old rubbish?' Emma looked at her as if she was mad, and she probably was, Marigold admitted wryly to herself. ‘Whatever would you be interested in that for?'

‘It fits the cottage, that's all.'

‘Doesn't it just!'

 

Marigold slept the night on the sofa in the sitting room despite Emma's insistence that she could share the bedroom, and by nine o'clock the next morning she was on her way back to the city. If she had stayed any longer
there would have been a very real possibility of her and Emma having a major fall-out, and she didn't want that. Not so much because it would make things difficult at work as because she felt old Maggie was relying on her to buy the cottage and make it a real home again.

It might be fanciful, Marigold admitted as her car chugged cheerfully along, this link she felt she had with Emma's grandmother, but she felt it in her bones and she couldn't get away from it.

As she drew nearer to London, Marigold found she couldn't stop Flynn from invading her thoughts as he'd done all night; his image in her mind seemed to increase with the miles. He had accused her of being scared of him; was she? she asked herself, hating the answer when it came in the affirmative. She had run away this morning, she acknowledged miserably; for the first time in her life she had run away from something—or, more precisely, someone. Admittedly she would have left the cottage after her conversation with Emma; it had grated so much she couldn't have stayed and pretended everything was all right as far as the other girl was concerned, but she should have popped to see Flynn on the way and told him she was leaving. After all he had done for her it would have been courteous if nothing else.