Christmas at His Command (6 page)

Marigold suddenly frowned to herself. What on earth was she doing, thinking like this, anyway? Flynn's love
life was absolutely no concern of hers. Once she left here tomorrow she would never see him again.

She reminded herself of that several times as she got ready for bed when she found her mind wandering again, but once she had snuggled under the covers all thoughts of Flynn and anything else were gone. She was asleep almost immediately; a deep, dreamless slumber that even her swollen ankle couldn't disturb.

T
HE
next day dawned clear and bright, and when Marigold limped to the window and looked out into the crystal-white world beyond she was relieved to see the snow was only three or four inches deep. Nevertheless, the feathery mantle on the trees and bushes beyond the window had turned the small garden—which was obviously the flat's own private domain—into a scene from a Christmas card.

Someone, probably Wilf, had brought her suitcase in from the car the night before and placed it in a corner of the bedroom, but the box she had packed her toiletries and make-up in was still on Myrtle's back seat.

The dressing-table mirror told her she resembled a small, white-faced panda, and she groaned slightly as she looked at her reflection. She had only worn a little mascara and foundation the day before, but a little mascara went a long way when it wasn't removed properly and she had only washed her face with soap and water before climbing into bed.

Her injured ankle was throbbing with enough force to make her grit her teeth as she contemplated hopping into the
en suite
, but just as she rose from the dressing-table stool the door opened and Bertha stood there with a breakfast tray. ‘Oh, my, you're up bright and early,' the housekeeper said cheerfully as she walked further into the room. ‘I thought you'd sleep till I woke you after that pill Mr Moreau gave you—when I dislocated my
knee he gave me one, and I nearly slept round the clock. How is the ankle feeling this morning?'

‘Not too bad,' Marigold lied firmly, determined she wouldn't stretch Flynn's hospitality another day.

‘That's good. Well, you nip back into bed and eat your breakfast,' Bertha said, for all the world as though Marigold was five years of age instead of twenty-five. ‘And when you've eaten there's two more of the painkillers on the tray. I think Mr Moreau thought you'd need them.'

She certainly did, Marigold thought wryly, once she was back in bed again. Even the light duvet seemed like a ten-ton weight on her foot.

However, a good breakfast, followed by the painkillers, and then a somewhat wobbly hot shower helped Marigold's sense of well-being, and to her delight she found a gentle facial cleanser in the bathroom cabinet, which took care of the last of the mascara. After creaming her face, again courtesy of the bathroom cabinet, she hobbled into the bedroom and blow-dried her hair, and by the time she had delved into her suitcase and donned fresh underwear, jeans and jumper, she felt a hundred times better than when she had first woken.

At least her face had a little natural colour again, she thought critically as she surveyed herself from head to toe before leaving the room an hour or so later, but there was no way she could manage to wear a shoe, or even one of the socks she had packed, on her bad foot. But it didn't matter. She would manage somehow, she determined as she wound the bandage in place.

She found she could manage the crutches much better as she made her way out of the little annexe and into the main hall of the house, but then she nearly went sprawling when Flynn suddenly appeared in the doorway
of a room to the right of the drawing room where she was making for.

‘Good morning.' He smiled at her, a polite smile, and Marigold forced herself to return it as she grappled for control of her brain, which had decided to scramble itself. She had been unconsciously preparing herself for this moment ever since she had first opened her eyes this morning, but it didn't make it any easier when it was actually happening. He was wearing a black denim shirt and jeans, the shirt open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscled arms dusted with soft black hair, and he seemed to fill the doorway with his dark, flagrant masculinity.

He probably didn't mean to be so intimidating, Marigold told herself silently, but there was a magnetic quality to his good looks which drew even as it repelled. His whole persona gave off an air of remoteness and cool detachment, yet there was a seductiveness there that would make any woman worth her salt wonder what it would be like to be made love to by this man.

She killed the last thought stone dead as she replied very formally, ‘Good morning. I must thank you again for all your kindness yesterday.'

‘Not necessary.' His gaze moved over her steadily as he said, ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Fine.' She had noticed the smoky quality to his voice yesterday, she remembered, but today it was more obvious. Probably because at this moment in time he wasn't angry with her! ‘There's really no need for me to impose upon you any longer,' she said quickly, ‘but if Wilf could help me take everything to the cottage that would be an enormous help.'

‘I'm sure something can be arranged.'

Marigold was cross to find she felt hot and flustered,
and it didn't help that Flynn, in stark contrast, was the epitome of contained coolness. ‘Thank you.' She forced another smile. ‘I'll wait for him in my rooms, then, shall I?'

‘I know we got off to an unfortunate start yesterday, Marigold, but I don't actually bite, you know.'

‘What?' For a moment she wondered if she had heard right. Her eyes shot to his face and she saw there was a disturbing gleam at the backs of his eyes. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘You're like a cat on a hot tin roof as soon as you set eyes on me,' he said coolly, ‘and I know for a certainty that the ankle is not at all “fine”. In fact it must be giving you hell.'

‘Not at all.' It wasn't so bad, in truth, now the pills had dampened down the worst of the pain.

‘Even if you were Maggie's granddaughter you would be welcome to stay until you felt better,' Flynn continued, his gaze tight on her flushed face. ‘As it is, there is absolutely no need for you to scurry away like a nervous little mouse.'

Marigold stiffened, instantly furious. As an only child she had learnt at an early age to stand up for herself—there were no siblings to run to or to ask for help. Likewise she had realised that if she wanted friends for company after school and in the holidays she had to make them herself. She had never run away from a situation or a person, and had
always
taken the proverbial bull by the horns, and now this…this arrogant, self-opinionated, high-and-mighty stranger had had the cheek to think he could make a sweeping judgement like that!

‘Forgive me, Mr Moreau,' she said icily, ‘but I thought your qualifications were in the realm of brain
surgery, not psychology. That being the case, I'd keep the amateur psychoanalysis to yourself if I were you.'

He hadn't liked the tone of her voice; it was there in the narrowing of his eyes and the hard line of his mouth, but his voice was soft when he said, ‘So you are not afraid of me?'

‘I'm not afraid of anyone!'

‘This is very good.' There was the slightest of accents to his voice at times, or perhaps not even an accent but a certain way of putting things that made his mixed and somewhat volatile parentage very obvious. ‘Then perhaps you would like to have coffee with me?' he suggested silkily. ‘Bertha always brings me a tray at about this time.'

She stared at him warily. She couldn't think of anything she would like less but she couldn't very well say so, and so she nodded stiffly, still very much on the defensive as he stood aside for her to enter the room.

It was clearly his study. Books lined two of the walls and a third was taken up by a huge full-length window, which opened out on to a rolling lawn. A fire was burning in a black marble fireplace, and in front of it—stretched out comfortably on a thick rug as though it was a place he was very familiar with—was the big tabby cat. Flynn gestured to a large, plump leather chair in front of the big mahogany desk strewn with papers. ‘Make yourself comfortable.'

Comfortable was not an option around this man, Marigold thought ruefully as she duly seated herself, expecting Flynn to take the massive chair behind the desk, where he had clearly been working. Instead he stood looking down at her for a moment, his eyes wandering over the clear oval face and creamy skin and lingering
on the delicate bone-structure, before he perched himself easily on the edge of the desk in front of her.

‘I would like you to spend Christmas here,' he said coolly without any lead-up at all. ‘OK?'

Not OK. Definitely, definitely
not
OK. Rascal was now purring as he rolled on his back for a moment in the warmth from the fire, fanning the air with plump paws for a moment or two before he sank back into contented immobility.

Flynn probably viewed her like Emma's grandmother's waifs and strays, Marigold thought ignominiously, especially after she had revealed her reason for deciding to spend Christmas at the cottage all alone. Why, oh, why had she told him about Dean? Did he think she was playing for the sympathy vote? She steeled her humiliation not to come through in her voice as she said politely, ‘I really couldn't do that. You've said you already have guests coming to stay.'

‘I also said that one more won't make any difference,' he reminded her smoothly.

‘Nevertheless…'

‘You're not fit enough to be in that cottage alone and you know it,' he challenged quietly.

She'd been right. He
did
view her as poor little orphan Annie. ‘I disagree.' She smiled brightly. ‘I've food, warmth—and I intend to just veg out for a few days. Emma's coming at some point anyway.' She wished he'd move off the desk and into his chair; somehow he seemed twice as intimidating than usual in his present position, and she was uncomfortably aware of hard, powerful male thighs just a few inches away from her face.

‘So I can't persuade you?' the deep, dark voice asked silkily.

‘No, you can't.'

It was so definite the dark brows rose slowly in disparaging amusement. ‘Pity.'

Bertha tapped on the door at that moment and then entered with a steaming tray holding a coffee-pot, cup and saucer and a plate of what looked like home-made shortcake. ‘Another cup and saucer, please, Bertha, and milk and sugar. You do take milk and sugar?' he asked Marigold, who nodded quickly, and then felt herself deflate with relief when he slid off the desk and walked round to his chair as Bertha disappeared.

She searched her mind for something reasonably impersonal to say. ‘So you've lived here for a couple of years?' she said carefully. ‘Isn't it a little remote and far from London?'

He shrugged powerful shoulders and for a moment her senses went into hyperdrive before she got them under control again. ‘That's what made it so attractive when Peter decided to sell. I had a place in London at the time and although it was very comfortable in its own grounds—' she could imagine, Marigold thought waspishly ‘—I was always on top of the job, so to speak. I'd been looking for somewhere like this for some time but the right location hadn't presented itself. Peter and I did the deal in weeks, which suited his circumstances, and after buying the flat in London I moved most of the furniture here. The only stipulation from Peter was that I'd keep an eye on Maggie for him; he was very fond of the old lady and within a few minutes of meeting her I could understand why.'

‘I'm sure Emma's family didn't mean to be neglectful—' Marigold began, only to be interrupted by an abrupt wave of his hand.

‘Spare me any platitudes.'

She glared at him. He was the rudest man she had ever met by far! She had heard it said that medical consultants and such considered themselves one step down from the Almighty, and now she was beginning to believe it.

Bertha returned with the other cup and saucer before Marigold could think of an adequately scathing retort, and while they drank the coffee and ate the shortbread Flynn kept the conversation pleasant and easy. Marigold had briefly considered sulking, but in view of the fact that he had opened up his home to her she decided a few more minutes of tolerance weren't completely beyond her.

As soon as she'd finished, however, she launched herself a little awkwardly to her feet. ‘I'll be off, then,' she said quietly as Flynn rose in his turn. ‘Thank you very much indeed for all you've done.'

‘Flynn.'

‘What?' He'd said his name very softly.

‘The name is Flynn,' he persisted irascibly. ‘You've avoided calling me anything at all rather than say my name, haven't you?'

She'd call him lots of things if only he did but know it. ‘Not at all,' she lied quickly, knowing he was absolutely right. Somehow calling him Flynn took this situation to another dimension, and once she'd said it if they met again in the future—heaven forbid—she couldn't very well go back to Mr Moreau. And she needed to keep a distance between herself and this man; emotionally and mentally as well as physically. She didn't dwell on the thought; she didn't dare, not with Flynn right in front of her. She would examine it later when she was alone.

‘Not at all,' he repeated with velvety sarcasm. ‘That's
twice you've said those words this morning and each time you've been lying through your pretty white teeth.'

‘How dare you?' Marigold stared at him, her face flushed with guilty annoyance. ‘You've got no right to talk to me like that.'

‘Rights are something to be taken, not given,' he said with silky emphasis. ‘Did you call the tune with your fiancé all the time? Train him to walk to heel, that sort of thing?'

‘I don't believe I'm hearing this—'

‘Because it wouldn't do with a real man, my sweet little warrior,' he drawled coolly, his tone in direct contrast to her outraged voice.

‘And you're a real man, are you?' she shot back with furious indignation.

‘Oh, yes.' He had walked round the other side of the desk to stand just in front of her, the crystal eyes vivid in the dark tanned face and his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile as he viewed her shocked rage. ‘And a real man is what you need, Marigold. Fire needs to be met with fire if it isn't to gradually die and turn to ashes or, worse still, burn up itself and everything around it. For every woman who's an out-and-out shrew there's a weak man somewhere in the background.'