by Helen Brooks
‘Here.’ As Flynn handed her the drink she could read nothing in his expressionless face, and after he had seated himself in an easy chair a few feet away he took a long swallow of the brandy before crossing one knee over the other and leaning back in his seat. ‘I take it you do have permission to use the cottage?’ he asked evenly.
‘Of course,’ she said indignantly, appalled he could think otherwise. ‘I work with Emma.’
He nodded slowly, settling further back in the chair and continuing to look at her, obviously waiting for her to explain herself.
Marigold stared at him, wishing he wasn’t so big, so male, so irritatingly sure of himself. But she did owe him an explanation, she admitted to herself silently. He had rescued her when all was said and done, and then brought her here, to his home. She took a deep breath and said steadily, ‘I work with Emma, as I said, and she—’
‘Doing what?’ Flynn interrupted coolly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said you worked with her,’ he said impatiently. ‘In what capacity?’
‘I’m a designer.’ Marigold hesitated and then said quietly, ‘Emma’s the company’s secretary. It’s a small firm, just eight of us altogether, counting Patricia and Jeff, the two partners.’
‘You enjoy your work?’
‘Yes; yes, I do.’
At some point when she had been asleep Flynn had exchanged his thick sweater for a casual silk shirt in midnight-blue. It was buttoned to just below his collarbone, and in spite of herself Marigold’s eyes were drawn to the smidgen of dark curling body hair just visible above the soft material. That, along with the very masculine way he was sitting, made his aura of virile masculinity impossible to ignore.
Marigold gulped twice and went on, ‘Anyway, Emma offered me the cottage over Christmas a few days ago and I accepted. It…it was all decided in a bit of a hurry, I suppose.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She stared at him. ‘Why what?’
‘Why is someone as attractive as you spending Christmas all alone? You can’t tell me you didn’t have plenty of offers to the contrary,’ he said expressionlessly.
It was a compliment of sorts, she supposed, although his voice and his face were so cool and remote it didn’t feel like one. She didn’t know quite how to answer for a moment, and then she said carefully, ‘Personal reasons.’ She was grateful to him, she was really, but there was no way she was going to give this arrogant, authoritative stranger her life history.
‘Ah…’ He inclined his head and took a pull at the brandy. The one word was incredibly irritating.
‘Ah?’ Marigold challenged immediately. ‘What does “ah” mean?’
He uncoiled his body, stretching lazily and finishing the brandy in one gulp before saying, “‘Ah” means you are running away from a man.’
She had been having some trouble preventing her eyes from following the line of his tight black jeans, but the cynical and—more to the point—totally inaccurate statement was like a dose of icy water on her overwrought nerves. ‘I am not,’ she declared angrily. How dared he make such an assumption?
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘But a man is at the bottom of this seclusion somewhere.’
It was so arrogantly smooth she could have hit him, as much for being right as anything else. She could feel the hot colour in her cheeks, which had nothing to do with the roaring fire in the grate and everything to do with Flynn Moreau, and now her back was ramrod-straight as she glared at him, her mind frantically searching for an adequate put-down.
‘You have a very expressive face.’ Flynn stood up, not at all concerned about her fury. ‘I should have known back there on the road you couldn’t possibly be old Maggie’s granddaughter.’
She didn’t want to give Flynn the satisfaction of her asking the obvious but she found she couldn’t help it. ‘Why couldn’t I be?’ she asked tightly.
‘Because from what Peter told me Maggie’s family are a cold lot,’ Flynn stated impassively, ‘whereas you’re all fire and passion.’
The last word hung in the air although he seemed unaware of it as he walked across and casually refilled his glass, returning a few moments later and settling himself in the chair again, in the same disturbing male pose.
It wasn’t ethical for a venerable brain surgeon to be so sexy, surely? Marigold asked herself waspishly. Weren’t men in Flynn’s position supposed to be past middle age, preferably balding, married, with children and grandchildren? Reassuring father or grandfather figures who were slightly portly and about as sexually attractive as a block of wood. She could just imagine the furore he created when he walked on to a ward, especially with the cool, remote and somewhat cynical air he had about him. An air that said he’d seen and done everything and nothing could surprise him. Although she had!
The thought, silly as it was, was immensely gratifying, but after the comment about her expressive face she should have been on her guard, because in the next moment Flynn said, ‘OK, let’s have it. What’s amused you?’
‘Amused me?’ she prevaricated weakly, hastily wiping all satisfaction from her face. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He shrugged easily. ‘Have it your own way. So, who’s the guy and is he still in the background somewhere?’
‘I didn’t say there was a man,’ she objected sharply, any lingering smugness gone in an instant.
‘Ah, but you didn’t say there wasn’t, which is more to the point.’
One more ‘ah’ and she’d throw her glass at his arrogant head, Marigold promised herself, before thinking, Oh, what the heck? She was never going to see him again once she was out of here, so she might as well humour him.
‘The man was my fiancé,’ she said abruptly, ‘and at present he is on what was supposed to be our honeymoon with his new lady friend. OK? Does that satisfy you?’
If nothing else she had surprised him again but somehow it gave her no pleasure this time.
Flynn had sat up in his seat as she had spoken, expelling a quiet breath as he looked at her taut face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said very softly, astonishing her with the deep sincerity in his voice, which was smoky warm. ‘The guy is a moron but of course you are already aware of that.’
She blinked at him. She’d received various words of comfort and condolence since she’d thrown Dean’s ring at him and sent him packing, but not quite like this.
She relaxed a little, her voice steady as she said, ‘Apparently, if one or two mutual friends are to be believed, she probably wasn’t the first. We were together for three years and I never suspected a thing.’ She gave a mirthless smile. ‘What does that make me?’
‘Lucky.’ It was very dry. ‘That you’re now rid of him, I mean. You could wait around all your life for him to grow up and die waiting. Let someone else have the job of babysitting him while you have a life instead.’
She’d never heard it put so succinctly before but Marigold realised he was absolutely right. Even when they had still been together, she thought suddenly, she had carried Dean and been the source of strength for them both. She had never been the sort of girl who couldn’t say boo to a goose and expected the man in her life to make all the decisions, mind you, but with Dean she had found herself constantly making the decisions for both of them simply because he wouldn’t. It had been a flawed relationship in every sense of the word, and the main problem had been—as this stranger had just pointed out—that Dean hadn’t grown up. He was still a Jack the lad and not ready for a permanent relationship. Perhaps he never would be; some men were like that.
She raised her head now and looked at Flynn, and the mercurial eyes were waiting for her, their depths as smoky as his voice had been. ‘Her name is Tamara, the resident babysitter,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Apparently she’s five feet ten, blonde and blue-eyed, and has legs that go right up to her neck—so I’ve heard.’
‘The mutual friends again?’ he asked quietly.
Marigold no
dded.
‘Seems to me you could do with some new friends, too.’
She’d been thinking along the same lines; hence the increasing urge for a change. She was still too closely linked with Dean in London. They had had the same group of friends for years, went to the same restaurants and pubs, even their places of work were within a mile of each other. As yet she hadn’t bumped into him but it was only a matter of time, and this whole thing—Tamara and the broken engagement—had brought about some deep introspection. And as she had examined her mental and emotional processes she’d discovered several things.
One, she could survive quite well in a world in which Dean wasn’t the be-all and end-all. Two, there were only a handful of their so-called friends who were what she would really term friends. Three, if it wasn’t for Dean and their marriage plans she would have spread her wings and gone self-employed ages ago, and probably moved away from the big city now she had enough contacts within the business world to have a healthy shot at working for herself. Four, she needed to do something for herself right now, and, whether she succeeded or failed in the world’s eyes, the doing would be enough for her. It was time to move on.
Marigold’s thoughts had only taken a few moments but when her eyes focused on Flynn again she saw that his gaze had narrowed. ‘About to tell me to mind my own business?’ he asked mildly, surprising her.
‘Not at all.’ She hesitated a moment, and then told him exactly what she had been thinking, including the change in her working lifestyle. The whole evening had taken on something of a surreal quality by now; whether this was due to the painkillers making her light-headed or the fact that somehow she’d found herself in this palatial house with this extraordinary man, Marigold wasn’t sure. Whatever, she could talk quite frankly and he was a good listener—probably partly due to his line of work, she supposed.
He had folded his arms over his chest and settled himself more comfortably in the chair as he studied her earnest face, and when she had finished he nodded slowly. ‘Do it,’ he said softly, just as the housekeeper opened the door, holding a pair of metal crutches.
‘Here we are,’ Bertha said brightly. ‘These will do the trick. And dinner’s ready, if you’d like to come through to the dining room.’
Marigold found it a bit of a struggle as she made her way out of the drawing room and into a room at the end of the hall. Like the magnificent drawing room, this room was a mix of modern and traditional but done in such a way the overall effect was striking. Pale cream voile curtains hung on antique gold poles. The maple-wood floor complemented the intricately carved table and chairs, which were upholstered in a pale cream and beige, with a splash of vibrant colour here and there in the form of a bowl of scarlet hot-house roses and a magnificent five-foot vase in swirling cinnamon, coral and vermilion hues.
The table was large enough to accommodate ten diners with ease, but two places had been laid close to the roaring fire set in a magnificent fireplace of pale cream marble. Marigold eyed the two places with trepidation as it suddenly dawned on her she would be eating alone with Flynn. ‘This really wasn’t necessary…’
‘I always eat in here when I’m home.’ Flynn’s voice was just behind her. ‘Bertha has merely set another place.’
Did that mean he normally ate alone? Marigold didn’t like to ask outright but it appeared that was what he had meant, and she found it curiously disturbing. This massive house and all the luxury that went with it, and yet he ate alone. But she hadn’t for a moment assumed he was married, she realised suddenly. Why was that? She frowned to herself as she carefully sank down onto the chair Flynn had pulled out for her.
‘You are allowed just one glass of wine with those pills.’ Flynn indicated the bottle of red and the bottle of white wine in front of them. ‘Which would you prefer?’
‘Red, please.’ Marigold answered automatically because her brain had just informed her why she’d sensed Flynn was a bachelor. There was an innate aloofness about him, a cool detachment that spoke of autocratic autonomy, of non-involvement. He would have women, of course, she told herself as she looked into the dark, handsome face. His need for sexual satisfaction was evident in the sensuous mouth and virile body. But he was the sort of man who always kept something back; who gave just enough to keep his lovers satisfied physically but that was all.
And then she caught her errant thoughts self-consciously, telling herself not to be so ridiculous. How on earth did she know anything at all about this man? She had never set eyes on him before today, and she wasn’t exactly the greatest authority on men! She had had the odd boyfriend before Dean but they had never got beyond a little fumbling and the odd passionate goodnight kiss, and even with Dean she had insisted they keep full intimacy as something special for their wedding night. She was enormously glad about that with hindsight. Even the degree of intimacy they had shared made her flesh creep now when she knew he had been making love to other women whilst they were engaged.
‘To chance encounters.’ Flynn had filled her glass and then his own, and now he raised the dark red liquid in a toast, a wry smile on his face as he added, ‘And mistaken identity.’
It was the first time he had referred to her deception since his initial outburst, and Marigold’s cheeks were pink as she responded in like fashion, glad he seemed to be taking things so well.
He turned out to be a charming dinner companion; attentive, amusing, with a dry, slightly wicked sense of humour she wouldn’t have suspected at their initial meeting.
Bertha served a rich vegetable soup to start with, which was accompanied by delicious home-made crusty rolls, followed by honey and mustard lamb with celeriac stuffing, and for dessert a perfectly luxurious, smooth and velvety chocolate terrine topped with whipped cream and strawberries. Beans on toast couldn’t even begin to compete with Bertha’s cooking, Marigold thought dreamily as she licked the last of the chocolate off her spoon.
At the coffee stage her ankle was beginning to hurt again, and she didn’t demur when Flynn insisted on her taking another pill—a sleeping tablet this time, he informed her. She was soon more tired than she had ever felt in the whole of her life, the accumulation of the exhausting day, the week or so before when she had worked her socks off to get away a couple of days before Christmas Eve when the roads would be horrendous, and not least the emotional turmoil of the last few months catching up with her in a big way.
Whether it was Flynn’s professional eye or the fact that he had had enough of her company for one day, Marigold didn’t know, but as she finished the last of the dregs of her coffee-cup he said quietly, ‘You need to go straight to bed and sleep for at least nine hours, young lady. Bertha will show you to your room; it’s on the ground floor so you haven’t got any stairs to negotiate.’
He rose as he spoke and as though by magic Bertha appeared in the next instant. As Flynn helped her to her feet and positioned the crutches under her arms Marigold was terribly aware of his touch in a way that made her jittery and cross with herself. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake, she told herself irritably as she stitched a bright smile on her face and thanked him for the meal and his hospitality very politely.
‘You are welcome,’ he said drily, his face unreadable.
She stared at him for a moment, aware she had never really apologised for misleading him about who she was. And it must have made him feel a fool in front of Bertha’s husband. Although…somehow she couldn’t imagine Flynn Moreau ever feeling a fool. She spoke quickly before she lost her nerve, conscious of Bertha waiting to lead her to her room. ‘I…I’m sorry about earlier,’ she said quietly, feeling her cheeks beginning to burn. ‘I should have explained the situation properly rather than letting you assume I was Emma.’
He smiled the devastating smile she’d seen once before, stopping her breath, before saying lazily, ‘I should have known better.’
‘Better?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Than to let my brain tell my senses that what they were saying was untrue
.’
She still didn’t understand and her expression spoke for itself.
‘The Emma I’ve heard about is a pert, brash, modern miss with about as much soul as the average Barbie doll,’ Flynn said coolly. ‘The girl I met on the road didn’t tie up with that description at all.’
Marigold stared at him, utterly taken aback by the unexpected compliment. She tried to think of something to say but her brain had put itself on hold, and all she managed was a fairly breathless, ‘Thank you.’
‘Goodnight, Marigold.’ His eyes were unreadable and his voice wasn’t particularly warm, but she was conscious of tiny little flickers of sensation racing along every nerve and sinew in a way that was alarming.
‘Goodnight.’ She began to hobble to the door Bertha was now holding open for her, finding the crutches were a lot more difficult to manipulate than she’d imagined. She turned in the doorway, glancing back at Flynn, who was standing by the fireplace, looking at her. He appeared very dark and still in the dim light from the wall-lights and with the glow from the fire silhouetting his powerful frame. She swallowed hard, not understanding the racing of her pulse as she said, ‘I’m sure I’ll be all right to go to the cottage tomorrow if you wouldn’t mind Wilf driving me there? I don’t want to intrude, and you must have plans for Christmas.’
He shrugged easily. ‘A few house guests are arriving on Christmas Eve, but one more makes no difference,’ he assured her quietly. ‘We always bring in the tree and dress it in the afternoon and decorate the house; perhaps you’d like to join in if you’re still here then?’
He didn’t sound as if he was bothered either way and Marigold said again, her voice firmer, ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine to go tomorrow, but thank you anyway,’ before turning and following Bertha along the hall.
Marigold was conscious of a faint and inexplicable feeling of flatness as Bertha led her to the far end of the house. She would leave tomorrow no matter how her ankle was, she told herself fiercely. She just wanted to get to the cottage and be alone; to read, to rest, to eat and sleep and drink when she wanted to.