Christmas at His Command (7 page)

For the first time in Marigold's life she was so furious that words failed her. Her eyes shooting blue sparks and her cheeks burning with angry, violent colour, she silently railed at the need to hold on to the crutches. She would have given everything she owned in that moment to be able to smack him hard across his arrogant, self-satisfied face, big as he was. However, there was absolutely no way she was going to risk falling flat on her face for the privilege!

She turned in one angry, sweeping movement and
made for the door, but Flynn was there before her, opening it with a flourish as he said calmly, ‘I'll get Wilf to bring your things down, shall I?'

‘Thank you!' It was a bark, which made his lips twitch. Marigold saw the amusement he couldn't hide and willed herself to ignore it, pattering down the hall as fast as she could and into the little corridor leading to her rooms. She opened the door to the sitting room with trembling fingers, so upset she didn't know if she wanted to cry or scream and nearly losing her balance in the process.

In the event she neither screamed nor cried, but sat waiting for Wilf with a straight back and a burning face once she had closed the suitcase and slipped on her thick fleece. Impossible man! Utterly, utterly impossible man! And she hadn't asked him for help in the first place. Well, reason interrupted, she
had
hoped for a lift to Emma's cottage when she'd flagged him down on the road, but that was all. She hadn't asked to come here. She hadn't asked to spend the night. And she definitely hadn't asked for his opinion on her, or her life.

It was a further ten minutes before Wilf knocked on the outer door, and by then Marigold was calmer, at least outwardly. Inwardly she still wanted to kick something—or someone to be exact. That someone was waiting in the hall when she followed Wilf into the main house, and as the other man continued outside with the suitcase Marigold said very stiffly to Flynn, ‘Would you thank Bertha for me for all her kindness?'

‘Certainly.' He reached for a leather jacket on a chair near by and pulled open the front door—which had swung partially closed—to enable her to pass through.

‘And I'll get Emma to pop the crutches back when
she arrives,' Marigold added tightly, hating the fact that he was coming outside to watch her depart.

Only he wasn't.

The massive 4x4 was parked on the drive with the suitcase on the back seats, but Wilf was nowhere to be seen. Marigold reached the vehicle with Flynn just behind her, and as he said, ‘Here, let me help you,' she found herself lifted into the passenger seat before she could utter any protest. He then proceeded to walk round the bonnet and climb into the driver's seat, as cool as a cucumber.

‘What are you doing?' She knew her voice was too shrill but she couldn't help it.

‘I thought you wanted to go to the cottage? Have you changed your mind?' he asked helpfully.

‘No, I have not changed my mind,' Marigold snapped testily. ‘I thought Wilf was taking me.'

‘I don't know who told you that. As far as I recall, I said nothing beyond Wilf would bring your case to the car.'

‘But I told you—'

‘Ah, but I won't be told, Marigold, as I thought we'd already ascertained,' Flynn said with unforgivable satisfaction. ‘I wouldn't dream of delegating the responsibility of seeing one of my guests to her new accommodation to Wilf, not when I'm available,' he added as the powerful engine kicked into life. ‘Wilf will drive your car over at some point in the next couple of days but, as you can't possibly drive with that foot, there is no hurry, is there?'

It was so reasonable that Marigold felt like a recalcitrant child, which no doubt was
exactly
how Flynn wanted her to feel, she thought irritably.

The 4x4 ate up the short distance across the valley to
the cottage before Marigold could blink, or at least that was what it felt like. She wouldn't have admitted to a living soul that her spirit shrank at having to enter the damp, dark little house again, but the pale winter sunshine did light up the outside of the cottage beautifully, she thought as Flynn parked at the small gate and then walked round the car to help her descend.

She steeled herself for the rush of damp air and chilliness as Flynn opened the front door with the key she had given him the day before so Wilf could get some heat into the cottage, but instead of the dank, dismal air she remembered the tiny hall was warm and welcoming.

He opened the door to the sitting room for her, and the fusty, damp room of yesterday had been transformed into a still undeniably crowded but bright, warm and charming room. A crackling fire was burning in the grate, two bowls of sweetly perfumed, colourful flowers added a real homely touch, and, with the drapes at the windows pulled back to disclose the white wonderland outside, the cottage couldn't have been more different from her memory.

‘We've kept the heaters on night and day so I'm afraid the electricity might be a bit heavy,' Flynn said quietly at her side. ‘But it was necessary. Wilf took them away today; now it's warmed through the fires in here and the bedroom will be enough to keep it up to temperature.'

‘It's lovely.' She couldn't believe how a bright log fire and bowls of flowers could bring such enchantment to a place, but they had. Everything seemed different. She was suddenly seeing the cottage through the eyes of Emma's grandmother, and her heart went out to the old lady who had fought so hard to remain in her home.

She limped through to the bedroom, where another glowing fire met her, along with fresh sheets and an
exquisite broderie-anglaise bed cover in cream linen. Marigold recognised the design. ‘This is one of your bedspreads from the house, isn't it?' she said slowly, her eyes taking in more flowers on the dressing table and chest of drawers.

Flynn gave the nonchalant shrug she was beginning to recognise. ‘Spares, apparently, which Bertha had in one of her cupboards,' he said dismissively.

‘And the flowers?'

‘Wilf has a couple of greenhouses in the grounds. He keeps Bertha supplied with flowers for the house and there are always more than we can use.'

Marigold wasn't fooled by the casual words. Flynn had organised all this and she was grateful, she really was, but she was frightened of how pleased she felt. He'd do the same for any foundling he discovered lost in the storm, she reminded herself with wry, caustic humour; this didn't mean anything. And that was fine, just fine, because she didn't
want
it to mean anything. She had just come out of one disastrous relationship—she didn't need anymore emotional turmoil.

‘It's so different.' He was right behind her, standing in the bedroom doorway as she turned, and when he didn't move she said quickly, ‘You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble but I do appreciate it. What do I owe you for the fuel?'

‘Don't be so ridiculous,' he said softly.

Marigold could feel her heart racing, a frantic, fast thud that made her unable to think coherently. She stared up at him, vitally aware of the broad male bulk of him and of her own fragility. ‘But I must pay you,' she insisted faintly. ‘I couldn't possibly—'

His head lowered as his hands gently gripped her upper arms and the kiss was everything she knew it would
be. It was gentle and exploring at first, his mouth caressing and warm and firm, and when she made no effort to push him away it deepened subtly into a sensual invasion that had her making small female sounds of pleasure low in her throat.

‘Your hair feels like spun silk,' he murmured against her soft lips, one hand entangled in the chestnut veil as he pulled her head back to allow himself greater access to her mouth. ‘And the colours in it are enchanting. I've never seen anyone with such beautiful hair; do you know that?'

Marigold didn't answer him; she
couldn't
answer him. She was dazed and shaking, utterly bewildered by the desire he had aroused with just a kiss. A
kiss
. She had never felt like this once in all her time with Dean.

He took her mouth again, biting gently and expertly at her bottom lip in between kissing her with increasing passion. He had drawn her onto the hardness of his male frame now, their bodies so close she could feel what the kiss was doing for him. One hand was warm and firm against the small of her back and the other was stroking her face, throat and shoulder, soft, sensuous, light caresses that were sending her nerve-endings into quivering delight.

He was so
good
at this; his mouth first languorous and then fierce, teasing and then demanding as it moved against hers with complete mastery. He was ravaging her inner sweetness now and dimly Marigold realised she was kissing him right back, just as passionately.

His fingers brushed against one full breast and then the other before exploring the slender width of her tiny waist, and then, with a low sound of protest deep in his throat, his mouth lifted from hers and he eased her away
from him very slowly, still taking care to hold her upright.

‘You see?' he said very softly. ‘Fire with fire.'

Marigold stared at him, her eyes slowly losing their dazed, fluid expression as reality dawned in all its chilling horror now he wasn't kissing her any more. This man was someone she didn't like; they had barely said more than two civil words to each other since they'd first met, and she had allowed him… She didn't like to think what she had allowed.

He must have sensed something of what she was feeling because his voice was dry when he spoke again, carrying the hidden amusement she'd heard several times before as he said, ‘It's all right, Marigold. It was just a kiss.'

No, it wasn't just a kiss, she thought with blinding humiliation, at least not to her. It was easily the most mind-blowing experience of her life and had taught her more about herself in a few moments than in the last twenty-five years; the most important thing being—she didn't have a clue who she really was. If anyone had told her she could lose her head like this she would have laughed in their face, but it had happened. It had happened. And it mustn't happen again.

‘Please let go of me.' Her voice was small but clear, and he complied immediately.

What must he be thinking? Marigold asked herself with silent desperation. One day she was telling him how she'd come to Emma's cottage to nurse a broken heart—the next she'd practically eaten him alive! She made no apology for exaggerating on both counts.

‘I'm not going to say I'm sorry for kissing you because I wanted to do so even from that first moment on
the road,' Flynn said with careful flatness. ‘Neither will I pretend not to notice that you enjoyed it.'

She didn't deny this—there would have been no point and Marigold had never been one for dodging the consequences of her actions. Instead she raised her small chin and slanted her eyes—her body language speaking volumes to the tall, dark man watching her so closely—and said tightly, ‘I would like you to leave now but first I must pay you for the logs and coal.'

‘It was a kiss, for crying out loud!' Flynn rasped irritably, raking a hand through his dark hair in a manner that spoke of extreme frustration. ‘Between two consenting adults, I might add. Now, if we had ended up in bed I might be able to understand you feeling slightly…manoeuvred.'

‘There was absolutely no question of that,' Marigold snapped angrily. He'd be telling her she was anybody's next! ‘I barely know you.'

Dark eyebrows rose mockingly as he crossed powerful arms over his chest. ‘Flynn Moreau, thirty-eight, single, and of sound mind,' he offered lazily. ‘Anything else you'd deem important?'

‘Plenty.'

‘Then we'll have to see to that in due course,' he said very softly, and suddenly he wasn't smiling.

‘I don't think so.' She tried very hard to make her voice sound firm in spite of the fact her stomach had turned to jelly. He was
interested
in her? She couldn't quite believe it. Men like him—successful, wealthy, charismatic and powerful—went for the tall, leggy blonde model types; Tamara types. Worldly women who knew all the right gossip and wore the right clothes, and who had a list of friends that ran like the current
Who's Who
. She was five-feet-four with straight chestnut-
brown hair and a skin that sprouted freckles in the summer, and even her mother couldn't call her a ravishing beauty. Perhaps he thought a little dalliance over the holiday period might be entertaining? Especially as she was on the doorstep, so to speak.

‘No?' His voice held the softest edge of irony and he didn't seem at all put out at her refusal to play ball. It confirmed her theory more than anything else could have done. ‘Still pining after what might have been?'

For a moment she didn't understand to what he was referring, and then she remembered Dean. Dean. Who hadn't stirred her senses or aroused her body remotely when compared to this man, and who now seemed a very distant memory indeed. Which was frightening, scary, when taking into account that but for Tamara she would now be Mrs Dean Barker. ‘Not at…' She stopped abruptly when the silver eyes glittered a challenge. ‘No, I am not pining for what might have been,' she said instead, very slowly and very firmly. ‘In fact, for some time now I've felt I had a lucky escape.' The time in question being since Flynn had kissed her and she'd known, for the first time, what it was like to actually meet a man passion for passion. She would never have felt like that about Dean, not in a million years.

‘But he's shaken your trust in the male of the species,' Flynn said intuitively. ‘Hasn't he?'

Yes, he had, and it was annoying that she hadn't realised that till now either, Marigold thought irritably. Mr He-Who-Knows-All-Things here would just love it if she admitted that little golden nugget. ‘I'm sorry if that's the only way you can accept that I don't want to get to know you any further,' she said primly.