Christmas at His Command (14 page)

Marigold wanted to ask him more about Celine; when they'd realised they'd fallen in love; when they'd got engaged; what had caused the break-up. But she realised the brief glimpse into his past was over when he raised his glass, his voice changing as he said, ‘To Maggie.'

‘To Maggie?' She stared at him in surprise as she raised her own glass.

‘Of course. Without the cottage being left to Emma we wouldn't have met, so we have Maggie to thank for it.'

‘If Emma hadn't suggested I use it for Christmas we wouldn't have met,' she corrected factually.

‘If you think I'm toasting Emma, think again.' He grinned with a sexy quirk of his sternly sensual mouth and she acknowledged defeat.

‘To Maggie,' she agreed quickly, taking a great gulp of wine for much-needed support before she backed away from him, saying, ‘Sit down and relax while I see to dinner. The remote for the TV is on the coffee-table,' before she turned tail and fled into the fragile safety of her small kitchen.

Once the oven was on and she had placed the pork loin steaks in the roasting tin, Marigold quickly made the glaze, mixing together lime rind and juice, soy sauce, honey, garlic, ginger and the other ingredients before she poured the mixture over the chops. She popped the tin into the oven and finished her glass of wine, pouring herself another before taking the bottle and walking into the sitting room to see if Flynn wanted a refill.

He was half lying in a somewhat awkward position on the sofa, as though the onslaught of sleep had caught him unawares—which it probably had, Marigold thought dazedly through the frantic beating of her heart. One hand was thrown back over his head and the other was still round his empty glass, and she was breathlessly aware she was seeing him vulnerable and defenceless for the first time.

He looked different in sleep; younger, more boyish, the deep lines round his eyes and mouth less pronounced, and his thick dark eyelashes adding to the illusion of youth. Not so his body; the broad, muscled torso and powerful thighs spoke of a man in his prime, and even sleep couldn't negate the flagrant maleness that was an essential part of his appeal.

Marigold moved forward, she couldn't help it, even though part of her was objecting that if their positions had been reversed and she had been asleep she would have hated Flynn being able to examine her at leisure.

His suit was beautiful and clearly wildly expensive, as was the silk shirt and tie, but he had looked just as good in the old jeans and sweater he'd worn to bring in the Christmas trees, she thought faintly.

She looked at his mouth, relaxed now but still so sexy it made her want to put her own lips against it, and at the hard, square male chin where black stubble was clearly visible.

What would it be like to be made love to by this man? Even the thought of it made her weak at the knees. The firm power of his naked flesh, the warmth of his body heat, the delicious and unique smell of him encompassing her in wave after wave of exquisite pleasure…

She knelt down by the sofa, telling herself she only wanted to remove the glass from his nerveless fingers
and put it safely on the coffee-table, where she could fill it with wine ready for when he awoke.

This close, his aura of masculinity was disturbingly sensual, the combination of brooding toughness and little-boy susceptibility almost painful. She took the glass very slowly, easing it out of his fingers and placing it on the floor by the side of the sofa without turning to the coffee-table. She found she couldn't tear her eyes away from the sleeping face. His childhood, the break with Celine, the things he saw every day in his work must have all contributed to the cool, distant, cynical expression which veiled his countenance when he was awake, but like this she could almost imagine those things had never happened.

She touched the rough male chin very lightly with her lips, she couldn't help herself, and when there was no response, no stirring, she dared to move upwards to the firm mouth. She had never found over-full lips attractive on a man and Flynn's were just right; cleanly sculpted and warm. She shut her eyes for just a moment, knowing she had to move away and return to the kitchen, and when she opened them again silver orbs were staring straight into shocked violet.

She seemed to be incapable of doing anything but look back into his gaze, shock freezing her reactions, but then his arms came round her and she found herself drawn upwards and onto him so that she was lying half across the big, powerful frame. ‘Nice…' It was a contented male murmur and he was holding her so closely, so securely, there was no point in struggling. She didn't want to anyhow.

His mouth teased at hers as he stroked over her compliant, soft body, exploring her curves and valleys with a leisurely enjoyment that sent tiny thrills cascading
down her nerves and sinews. Languorously her head fell back to expose the curve of her throat as his mouth searched lower, and then it returned to her lips, the kiss more urgent as he made a low, deep sound of satisfaction in his throat.

It was as he moved her hips, drawing her against him in a manner that guaranteed she couldn't fail to become aware of his body's arousal, that she became aware of what she was allowing. She stiffened, but immediately he sensed her withdrawal, his voice soft and husky as he said, ‘It's all right, sweetheart, it's all right. I'm not an immature boy who is going to insist on more than you want to give. Relax…'

‘I…I have to see to the dinner.' She sat up, her voice breathless, and he made no effort to hold on to her by force.

‘Damn the dinner.' But his voice was lazy rather than annoyed.

‘I brought you some more wine.' She stood up quickly, her cheeks flushed as she endeavoured to straighten her clothes and brush back her tousled hair.

He sat up straighter himself. ‘That's very kind.' It was mildly amused, and made Marigold feel about sixteen years old.

‘The glass is by your feet.' She stepped back a pace as she spoke. ‘Help yourself to the wine. I'll just go and see to the vegetables or the pork will spoil.'

‘Heaven forbid.'

She gave a weak smile and scurried into the kitchen, furious with herself. How could she have kissed him like that? she asked herself angrily as she took out her aggression on a hapless onion, slicing it with savage intent. After all she had said about being friends she practically
had to go and eat the man! Talk about sending mixed signals. And she just
hated
women who did that.

Did he call all his women sweetheart?

The thought came from nowhere and stopped her dead, and she stood for a full thirty seconds, staring at the carrots waiting nervously for her ministrations after they had seen her behaviour with the onion.

And then she shook herself irritably. It didn't matter if he did or not, she told herself firmly. By his own lips he was just going to ask her out on the occasional date when he was in town in order that they could get to know each other a little better. She thought of the hard, hot arousal she had felt against the soft flesh of her belly before she had sat up, and her cheeks burnt with brilliant colour.

Their getting to know each other had taken a giant step forward all of a sudden, but that had been her fault, not his, she reminded herself honestly. The poor man had been utterly exhausted and fast asleep and she'd leapt on him like a raving nymphomaniac!

She groaned faintly before taking a long, hard gulp of the wine, just as the poor man spoke from the kitchen doorway, his voice somnolent. ‘Need any help?'

‘No, I'm fine.' She slung the onion into the oil heating in her large frying-pan and went to work on the carrots without turning round. ‘I'm sorry I woke you,' she added quickly. ‘I didn't mean to. I was only going to pour you a glass of wine…' Her voice trailed off. Buy that, buy anything.

‘I'm glad you did—wake me, that is.'

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck and she just knew the wretched man was grinning, although she didn't dare turn round. ‘As you're awake now, could you perhaps set the table in the sitting room?' she asked
primly. Her little pine table was tucked away in a small alcove and she rarely used it except when she had a guest, but it was just the right size for two. ‘You'll find mats and glasses and everything in that cupboard.' She turned and pointed to the wall cupboard by the kitchen door as she spoke, studiously avoiding his eyes.

‘Sure thing.'

Which was probably exactly what he thought
she
was tonight after the little scenario in the sitting room, Marigold thought tightly.

However, once she had served up the pork and vegetables ten minutes later, garnishing the aromatic food with fresh slices of lime, she had calmed down sufficiently to face him with a bright smile as she walked into the sitting room, carrying the two plates.

‘Wow!'

She had cooked plenty—he'd had the look of a hungry, as well as exhausted, man—and her reward was in seeing his face light up at the sight of his loaded plate. ‘Hazelnut pie and ice cream for dessert—shop-bought, I'm afraid,' she said lightly. ‘Or there's some cream rice pudding I made yesterday if you prefer?'

‘Got any strawberry jam to go with the rice pudding?' he asked hopefully, totally unsettling her again as he pulled out her chair for her to be seated before sitting down himself.

None of her other boyfriends, Dean included, had treated her with such old-fashioned courtesy, and it was very nice—too nice. She didn't dare get used to it. Not that Flynn
was
a boyfriend, of course, she clarified silently. ‘Strawberry jam? I think so.'

‘Great.' He grinned at her and she wondered how many of his female patients fell in love with him at first sight, or whether there were any who took a little longer.

Whether it was because Flynn put himself out to relax her or the two glasses of red wine she had consumed on an empty stomach Marigold didn't know, but she found she thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the evening.

The meal was leisurely, finishing with coffee and brandy after dessert, and Flynn was nothing more threatening than an amusing, agreeable companion who regaled her with fascinating and often hilarious stories about his life and work. She had the sense to realise he was giving her the success stories and upbeat moments, and that there was a darker side to his work, but she just went with the flow, enjoying every second. Much of his humour was self-deprecating and it was a surprise to find he could poke fun at himself, mocking his position and status and the esteem in which he was held. It was also very endearing, and more than once Marigold had to take a hold of her susceptible heart.

When he made noises about leaving round eleven o'clock Marigold braced herself for a passionate goodnight kiss, or even maybe the veiled suggestion that he could be persuaded to stay given half a chance. Instead Flynn rang for a taxi and put on his jacket and coat, kissing her once—but very thoroughly—before walking to the front door.

‘Will you let me buy you dinner tomorrow as a thank-you for tonight?' he asked softly as they stood on the threshold.

Marigold nodded; the kiss had left her breathless.

‘Eight-ish?'

She nodded again.

‘Goodnight, sweetheart.'

And he was gone.

T
HAT
night was the first of many spent in Flynn's company. He wined and dined her, taking her to the theatre, to various nightclubs, to parties and for meals out with his friends.

If he was in London at the weekends they would browse in art galleries and book shops, go for long walks along the Thames or spend the day at the private gym and leisure centre of which Flynn was a member. Lunch at charming, out-of-the-way places; tea at the Ritz; dinner at the Savoy—they did it all, and not once in the weeks leading up to the beginning of March did Flynn act as anything other than attentive escort and charming friend.

It was driving Marigold mad.

It was useless to tell herself that he was acting this way because
she
had insisted upon it, that she'd laid down very definite rules and boundaries because of her conflicting emotions where Flynn was concerned, and that this was the best, the very best way to proceed.

Every time he took her hand or pulled her against him, every time he kissed her goodnight or sat with his arm round her or stroked her hair, she waited for him to make the next move. And he didn't. He just didn't!

Most nights, and especially following the evenings when she saw him, Marigold tossed and turned for hours before she could fall asleep, her mind racing and her body burning. She tried to convince herself her restless
ness was due to all the changes occurring in her life, and there were plenty of those.

Emma had agreed to the sale of the cottage as soon as she had returned to the office in January. Apparently she had had a dreadful time there; being unable to light the fires without filling the cottage with smoke, struggling with the ancient stove and blocking the sink were just a few of the mishaps she'd suffered.

The final straw had occurred when a mouse had decided to investigate the bedroom one night, Emma had reported, and then added insult to injury by choosing one of Emma's sheepskin slippers for a nest.

In view of the isolation of the cottage and not least Emma's new-year decision to travel round Europe for a while with one of her friends, purportedly to recover from her broken heart at Oliver's exit from her life, the asking price for the small house was very reasonable. A sizable bequest by Marigold's maternal grandparents some years ago which she had resisted touching until now meant she could afford a fifty-per-cent deposit on the cottage, and after she had shopped around a little she found a bank who were prepared to put up the rest. The deposit meant her mortgage repayments were gratifyingly low, and, with Emma including all the furniture and household effects right down to her grandmother's dustpan and brush, her immediate outgoings would be negligible.

Marigold had given notice she would be vacating the flat at the end of March, which was when she intended to move to Shropshire, and had printed myriad copies of her CV with an accompanying letter explaining she intended to freelance in her new location, and sent them to every contact she'd ever made. To date she'd had several promising replies which could lead to work in
the near future but, apart from the partners at her present firm promising they would continue to leave the new designs for the greeting cards in her capable hands, nothing concrete.

And then, at the beginning of March, several events happened within the space of twenty-four hours and with a speed which left Marigold breathless.

At ten o'clock on a blustery March morning the cottage finally became hers; at eleven o'clock she was contacted by a small firm on the borders of Shropshire who had been given her name by their parent company in London. Would she be interested in a new project they were considering regarding a range of English countryside calendars, cards, diaries, notelets, et cetera?

Indeed she would, Marigold answered enthusiastically.

They would market the proposed venture very much on the lines of a ‘local country artist' thrust, which was why she had been approached. They understood she was moving to Shropshire shortly?

At the end of March, Marigold confirmed, her heart beating excitedly.

Her CV stated Miss Flower had already had the experience of setting up a new section within her present firm. If their scheme was successful—and they had every reason to think it would be, as their parent company was intending to back them to the hilt—would Miss Flower be prepared to think about spearheading the development of this work?

Miss Flower would be only too delighted!

At three in the afternoon of the same day the telephone on her desk rang for the umpteenth time. Marigold picked it up, a lilt borne of the happenings of
the morning in her voice as she said brightly, ‘Marigold Flower speaking.'

There was a brief pause before a male voice said quietly, ‘Marigold? It's Dean. I…I wondered how you were?'

‘Dean?' If the person at the other end of the line had been the queen of England she couldn't have been more taken aback.

‘Don't put down the phone.'

His voice was urgent, and Marigold wrinkled her brow before she said, ‘I wasn't going to.'

Dean must have taken her honest reply as some form of encouragement, because he said with intensity, ‘I've missed you. Hell, I've missed you more than words can say. I was such a fool, Marigold. Can you ever forgive me?'

She held the telephone away from her ear for a moment, staring at the receiver blankly. And then she said, ‘It happened and I found it hard at the time, but it's in the past now, Dean.'

‘But do you forgive me?'

Did she? Marigold considered for a second and realised she'd barely spared a thought for Dean and Tamara in the last two months. ‘I've moved on,' she said steadily, ‘so that must mean I forgive you.'

‘I'm not with Tamara any more. She drove me mad half the time. Always wanting attention and never satisfied with anything. She wasn't like you, Marigold.'

Two spoilt brats with egos to match. No, she could imagine things might not have gone too well.

‘I know I hurt you but there's never been anyone like you, you have to believe that,' he said softly. ‘You've always been my anchor, the one person I could count on.'

She had to stop this. She didn't want to be anyone's anchor, she wanted far more than that, and she realised with absolute clarity that Dean would never be able to give of himself. Dean was what mattered to Dean. ‘Dean, if things had been right between us you wouldn't have gone with Tamara in the first place,' she said steadily. ‘It was just as well we found that out before we got married.'

‘No, no, that's not it at all.' He sounded desperate and she was surprised to realise she felt sorry for him. It was like listening to a child, a selfish child who had broken his toy in a tantrum and was now demanding that it be put back together. But the toy had been an engagement, a commitment to get married. Flynn had said she could die waiting for Dean to grow up and he had been absolutely right. She had done her stint of babysitting him.

‘It was your decision to go off with Tamara,' Marigold said firmly, hating the conversation with its distasteful connotations. ‘And frankly I think it was the best thing for both of us. You obviously weren't ready for marriage and it would have been a disaster. There'll be someone for you in the future, Dean, but it won't be me. Goodbye.'

She put down the phone on his voice, her heart thudding fit to burst. It rang again almost immediately but she didn't pick it up, letting the answer machine click on. ‘Marigold? Pick up. Please, Marigold, pick up.' A few seconds' silence followed, and then his voice came again, a petulant note creeping in as he said, ‘I know you're there. Look, if you want me to grovel I will, but you know we're meant to be together. You love me, you always have done. I need you.' A few more moments of silence and then the receiver was replaced at the other end.

Marigold became aware she was holding her breath and let it out in a big sigh. Six months, and he expected he could pick up where he'd left off all that time ago at the drop of a hat. It would be laughable if it wasn't so tragic.

She sat staring at her paper-strewn desk, her mind racing on. He hadn't once asked her if she was with anyone—that clearly hadn't crossed his mind! It was incredible, but he thought she had sat at home just waiting for his call since they had finished! He didn't know her at all, but then she hadn't known him either. Which was scary.

It wasn't the first time she'd thought along these lines and the faintly panicky, disturbed feeling which always accompanied such reflections brought her nibbling at her lower lip. There
were
people who got it right and stayed together all their lives—her parents were a prime example—but there were plenty who got it terribly wrong, as she would have done if she'd married Dean. How on earth did you know if something was going to last or not?

She took a sip of the coffee Emma had brought everyone a few minutes before the call from Dean had come through, and grimaced. Somehow Emma managed to make perfectly nice coffee taste like dishwater! The thought of the other girl led her mind on to the cottage and then Flynn, and she knew her previous deliberations had nothing at all to do with Dean and everything to do with Flynn. She was in too deep. She liked him too much. This getting to know each other as friends hadn't been such a good idea after all.

She stood up restlessly, walking across to the big plate-glass window and looking down into the busy London street beneath. Dean had hidden his real self
from her and she hadn't had the experience or where-withal to recognise the signs of his deceit. But compared to Flynn, Dean was like a little boy, so how on earth could she ever know where Flynn was coming from? She had made one big, big mistake with Dean; she didn't need to make another. Even without the spectre of Celine forever hovering in the background, Flynn Moreau was way, way out of her league.

All the excitement regarding the cottage and the wonderful offer of work faded, and she had the ridiculous urge to burst into tears. Instead she turned away from the view, marching back to her desk and attacking her mountain of paperwork with resolute grimness. No more thinking; no more ifs and buts. She had work to do.

She left the office later than usual, and almost got blown away by the wind as she stepped onto the pavement outside the building. There was a storm brewing, a bad one, she thought as she raised her eyes to an angry sky.

She did some shopping on the way home to the flat, struggling into the street of three-storey terraced houses with her arms feeling as if they were being pulled out of their sockets. She had just put the bags on the doorstep, delving into her handbag for the front-door key as the wind howled and the darkness surged all around her, when a hand on her shoulder nearly caused her to jump out of her skin.

‘Sorry, did I make you jump?'

‘Dean!' She'd swung round and knocked one of the bags full of groceries flying, and as they scrabbled about retrieving the food she said tightly, ‘What on earth are you doing here? I thought we'd said all that needed to be said this afternoon.'

‘I had to come.' He straightened with the bag of shop
ping clasped in his arms, and as she stared at him Marigold wondered why it was she had never noticed how weak his mouth looked. He was good-looking, in a boyish, charming manner, but almost… What was the word? she asked herself silently. Foppish. That was it. He was almost too well-dressed, too well-groomed.
And she'd planned to marry this man.

‘Dean, there's no point to this.' She held out her hand for the bag but he ignored it. ‘Please, just go.'

‘You don't mean that.' He moved closer, causing her to step backwards until she was pressed against the front door. ‘You can't. We're meant to be together.'

The hell they were! The words sounded so like something Flynn would have said that Marigold blinked, as though she'd heard his voice. ‘It's taken you long enough to find that out. It was the end of August we split, wasn't it?'

He stared at her, taken aback by her tone. He had clearly expected her to fall into his arms in grateful surrender after he'd made the big gesture of coming to her, Marigold thought grimly. She was relieved to find she didn't feel a shred of emotion at seeing him again beyond mild irritation. Hearing his voice so unexpectedly this afternoon had been a shock and it had upset her a little, raking up all the trauma. Now, faced with Dean himself, she knew he meant nothing to her any more.

‘I'll make it up to you, Dee.' His pet name for her was annoying but that was all. ‘I promise.'

He was still amazingly sure of himself, although Marigold thought she had detected just the slightest edge of uncertainty behind the arrogance, which made it all the more surprising when he suddenly lunged forwards, his free arm grabbing her as his mouth descended on hers.

For a moment Marigold was too startled to react, but then out of the corner of her eye she was aware of a vehicle pulling up on the road below them. She knew who was inside. Even before her eyes met ones of silver ice, she knew it had to be Flynn. It was fate, kismet.

She pushed Dean away, her voice sharp as she said, ‘Don't! Don't touch me.'

‘But Dee…' And then, as he saw her eyes were focused on something beyond him, Dean swung round, the shopping bag still in his hand. And then he saw the stony, cold face looking at them.

Marigold saw the metallic gaze take in what appeared to all intents and purposes a cosy shopping trip, and with the kiss on the step she half expected Flynn to order the driver to pull away.

Instead the door swung open and Flynn unfolded himself from the rear of the taxi cab, his height and breadth swamping Dean's slim five feet nine. ‘Hello, Marigold.'

If one hadn't been looking into his dark, angry face, Flynn's voice could have appeared perfectly normal, Marigold thought a touch hysterically.

‘I just stopped by for a quick visit,' he continued with the softness of silk over steel, ‘but I can see you're otherwise engaged.'