Christmas at His Command (13 page)

But… She gritted her teeth at the but. She'd known deep in the heart of her but not admitted till now that she'd wanted to see him too much as well as not at all. How was that for a contradiction? she thought ruefully.

Was she thinking of buying Emma's cottage because it would mean Flynn would be her neighbour? Marigold tried to take a step backwards and answer her question honestly. No, she didn't think she was, which was a relief. But neither did Flynn's presence just across the valley make her think the notion was impossible, which,
if she wanted nothing at all to do with him, wasn't sensible, was it?

Oh, this is crazy, stupid! Why was she tearing herself apart like this over a man she hadn't known existed a week ago? He probably wouldn't give her another thought once he found out she'd gone—if he bothered to enquire, that was.

Marigold honked Myrtle's horn long and hard at a smart Mercedes that cut her up from an approach road and felt a little better for letting off some steam.

If her buying the cottage worked out—great. If it didn't, so be it. Either way she'd still put her plans for the future into operation and go self-employed. One stage of her life was finishing, another was just beginning, and it was up to her what she made of things.

She was not going to think of Flynn Moreau any more. He was a brief interlude, a little bit of Christmas magic maybe, but Christmas was over, as was her flirtation with Flynn. She nodded resolutely to the thought and then, as she caught the eye of the passenger in the car alongside, pretended to be nodding along to a song. Look at her, she told herself crossly once the car had changed lanes and disappeared, she was going barmy here! Enough was enough. Decision made. Autonomy for the immediate future and definitely,
definitely
no men in her life.

 

Marigold spent the next two days of the holiday cleaning her small flat in Kensington from top to bottom, and catching up with several domestic jobs she had been putting off for ages. She didn't allow herself to think, keeping the radio or TV on at all times and ruthlessly curtailing any stray thought which crept into her consciousness and might lead down a path to Flynn.

She returned to work on Wednesday morning with her notice already typed and in her bag. Patricia and Jeff were sorry to accept her notice but promised her work on a freelance basis, and after she'd agreed to stay until the end of March all parties were happy. Emma was on holiday until the new year and Marigold wasn't sorry, despite her desire to set the ball rolling with regard to her purchase of the cottage. The other girl's callous attitude about her grandmother had bothered Marigold more than she would have liked.

The first day back at work was quiet, what with quite a few firms having taken an extended break until after the new year, so for once Marigold left the office on time and was back home before six o'clock. The phone was ringing as she walked into the flat; it was her mother, insisting she join the rest of the family and friends for a New Year's Eve bash at her parents' home.

After promising her mother she would think about it—an answer Sandra Flower was not particularly happy with—Marigold managed to put down the phone some twenty minutes later; her mother having bent her ear about everything from her cleaner's bad leg to the state of the nation.

Marigold hadn't taken one step towards the kitchen for the reviving cup of coffee she'd been literally tasting for the last few minutes, when the front doorbell rang followed by an imperious knock a second later.

‘Give me a chance…' Marigold grumbled to herself as she went to the door, pushing back her shining veil of hair with a weary hand. The hard physical work in the flat over the last two days, added to the twinges her ankle still gave which kept waking her up in the night, had caught up with her after a day at work and she was
looking forward to a long, hot soak in the bath with a glass of wine, followed by an early night.

‘Hello, Marigold Flower.'

It was Flynn. Bigger, more handsome and twice as lethal as she remembered, his dark hair tousled by the strong north wind which had been blowing all day and his grey eyes narrowed and faintly wary. He looked tired, she noticed with a detachment borne of shock. Exhausted even.

Marigold said faintly, ‘How did you know where I lived? Emma didn't…?'

‘No, Emma didn't,' he assured her drily. ‘Let's just say Emma took great pleasure in slamming the door in my face and leave it at that.'

‘You
were
awful to her,' Marigold said weakly, still trying to take in the fact he was right here on her doorstep.

‘She got off damn lightly and she knows it.' Flynn was dismissive.

‘So how
did
you find me?'

‘Process of elimination. There aren't too many M. Flowers in London, and your number was about the fifth my secretary tried. Your answer machine provided the name Marigold…' Dark eyebrows rose above brilliant eyes. ‘Do I get invited in?' he asked softly.

‘Oh, yes, of course.' She was so flustered she nearly fell over her own feet as she quickly stepped to the side and ushered him through.

‘I've been in London for the last thirty-six hours,' he continued quietly. ‘Emergency call from the hospital.' And then he stopped in the doorway of her small sitting room, glancing round appreciatively as he said, ‘This is charming.'

‘Thank you.' Marigold had spent every night for a
month painting and papering her tiny home in the immediate aftermath of the break with Dean, needing the hard work as therapy to keep her from caving in to the pain and rage and bitterness. She had gone for bright, bold colours to offset her internal bleakness, and the sitting room with its radiant yellow walls reminiscent of sunflowers and pinky terracotta sofa and curtains on a pale wood floor was daring and adventurous. ‘I like it.'

He turned to her, his grey eyes smiling. ‘It suits you.'

Oh, wow, he was something else. Impossible, dangerous and more attractive than any man had the right to be. Marigold sternly took hold of her wildly beating heart and said evenly, ‘Why are you here, Flynn?'

‘To see you.' He stated the obvious with a wry smile. ‘You never said goodbye, remember?'

‘You came here to say goodbye?'

‘Not exactly.' he pulled her against him, bending quickly and kissing her with hard, hungry kisses that brought an immediate response deep inside her. He kissed her until she was limp and breathless against him and then raised his head, his voice slightly mocking as he said, ‘No, not exactly, but then you knew that, didn't you? Just as you knew I'd follow you.'

‘I didn't!' she said indignantly, her voice carrying the unmistakable ring of truth.

He frowned, tilting her face upwards with a firm hand. ‘Then you should have,' he said softly, without smiling.

Probably, but then she wasn't versed in all the intricate games of love like his more experienced women friends. She was just herself; a not very tall, rather ordinary, hard-working girl with the unfortunate name of Marigold Flower. And she dared not let herself think this could mean anything.

‘I came to ask if we could try getting to know each
other for a while,' he said smoothly, reading the confusion and withdrawal in her face with deadly accuracy. ‘OK? No heavy stuff, just the odd date now and again when I'm in town. Dinner sometimes, a little sightseeing, visits to the theatre, that sort of thing. Just being together with no strings attached.'

She stared at him uncertainly. What exactly did all that mean? Did the dinner dates end up in bed? Was that part of the getting to know each other? ‘As…as friends?' she asked shakily.

He looked down at her with a wry expression which made him appear twice as handsome. ‘Is that what you want?'

She nodded quickly. ‘I'm not ready for anything more.'

He was still holding her chin in his warm fingers and now his gaze intensified, pulling her into its mercurial depths until she felt he was drawing her soul out for inspection. And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled his devastating smile, drawing her against the hard wall of his chest so that his chin was resting on the top of her head. ‘Good friends,' he qualified lazily.

The warmth of him, the smell and feel was sending her heady, and over all the surprise and shock and uncertainty was an exhilaration and excitement that he had sought her out, that he was
here
. And she was glad. Too glad. ‘I'll make some coffee.' She drew away slightly and after one moment of holding her close he let her go.

‘I could use some.' He stretched powerful shoulders beneath the big overcoat he was wearing. ‘It's been a hell of a day. A bad accident is never pretty but when the injured party is only eight years old it takes on a different picture.'

‘The emergency call?' she asked quietly. His voice
and face had changed as he'd spoken, and suddenly his exhaustion was very evident again.

‘Uh-huh.' He shook his head wearily. ‘And it could have been prevented if the parents had checked the boy was strapped in. How can you expect an eight-year-old to remember seat belts when he's taking his new remote-controlled car to show his grandparents?'

‘But he's going to be all right?'

‘Two major operations in the space of thirty-six hours and two pints of blood later, yes, he's going to be all right. But it was touch and go for a time and we came damn near to losing him more than once.'

‘You haven't been working for thirty-six hours?' she asked as the reason for his exhaustion really hit home.

‘More or less.' He shrugged offhandedly. ‘It's an all-or-nothing type job.'

He was an all-or-nothing type guy. ‘Have you eaten yet tonight?' Marigold thought gratefully about the extensive spring clean of the last couple of days and the sparkling fridge newly stocked with food.

He shook his head. ‘I think I ate some time yesterday but it's been coffee and biscuits in short bursts today. I was going to suggest I take you out for dinner if you're free?'

She stared at him. He was dead on his feet. ‘Did you drive here?' she asked quietly.

‘Taxi.'

‘In that case I'll get you a glass of wine while you take off your coat and make yourself comfortable,' she said briskly. ‘Lime and ginger pork with stir-fried vegetables OK?' It gave her great satisfaction to see the way his eyes opened in surprise. She might not be a Bertha, but she could still rustle up a fairly edible meal when she wanted to.

‘That would be great,' he said softly, the tone of his voice bringing a tingle to her skin. ‘If you're sure?'

Sure? She hadn't been sure of a thing since the first time she had laid eyes on Flynn Moreau! ‘Quite sure.' She smiled in what she hoped was an efficient, I'm-totally-in-control type of way, walking across to the little living-flame gas fire and turning it on full blast as she said, ‘Sit down and get warm. Red or white wine?'

‘Red, please.'

He was shrugging off his overcoat as she turned, and the perfectly ordinary, non-sexual action sent nerves racing all over her body. It was worse when she returned from the kitchen with the wine. He had clearly taken her at her word regarding comfort. His suit jacket was off and he'd loosened his tie so that it hung to one side of his pale grey shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal the dark shadow of body hair on his upper chest as he stood inspecting a photograph of her parents.

For a moment Marigold forgot how to walk, and then she managed to totter over to him without spilling anything. ‘Your parents?' he asked, inclining his head at the photograph.

Marigold nodded, handing him his glass of wine as she said, ‘It was taken last year.'

His eyes returned to the picture of the entwined couple; the man grey-haired and somewhat sombre as he stood with his arm tight round his laughing wife, who was petite and sparkling.

‘I like it because it sums them up very well,' Marigold said softly with a great deal of love in her voice. ‘Dad is a solicitor and very correct and proper, and Mum—well, Mum's not,' she admitted ruefully. ‘But they think the world of each other.'

‘It shows. Are you close to them?' he asked as he raised his eyes, watching her.

‘Yes, I think so. Perhaps not quite so much in the last little while since I moved out and got a place of my own, but that change was necessary as much for Mum as me,' Marigold said quietly. ‘She always wanted lots of babies but there were complications after me. Consequently I became the focus of all her attention and because we're very different that caused problems at times. But we're fine now. She accepts I'm an independent adult with my own way of doing things…mostly,' she added with a smile. ‘How about you? Do you see much of your parents?'

‘Not much.' He turned back to look at the photograph as he said flatly, ‘They divorced when I was five, got back together when I was eight and divorced again when I was approaching my teens. They've had several marriages between them since then. My mother married Celine's father when I was eighteen, which is when Celine and I met for the first time. It was her father's third marriage.'

Marigold didn't know what to say.

‘Our parents lasted three years but by the time they divorced Celine and I were close. We understood each other, I guess, having had the same sort of fragmented childhood.'

Marigold nodded. It hurt more than she would have thought possible to hear the other woman's name on his lips, which was a warning in itself.

‘I was brought up in an atmosphere of too much money and too little purpose.' He was speaking more to himself now than her. ‘I needed to break the cycle before it broke me, hence the medical profession. I could put something back there, you see, do something lasting.
The idealism of youth.' He glanced at her, a cool smile twisting his mouth. ‘And it turned out that by some fluke I found my niche. I was a good student, and neurology had always fascinated me. The rest, as they say, is history.'