by Helen Brooks
She stayed in the water until it was almost cold and she was beginning to resemble a shrivelled white prune, and then towelled herself dry too vigorously. Her ankle was turning all sorts of interesting shades, she noted with a detachment borne of thoughts of the evening, but at least it wasn’t hurting so much and the swelling was beginning to slowly subside. She’d have to wear the bandage tonight, of course, but she just might be able to force a shoe on her foot.
She blow-dried her hair to the accompaniment of ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’, courtesy of the radio, and then creamed herself all over to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’. She had expected to feel abjectly miserable on this special day, or at least heartily melancholy, but with mouth-drying apprehension and quivering excitement vying for first place in her breast there was no room for anything else.
Creamed and dry, and still in her bathrobe, Marigold inspected the contents of the wardrobe and groaned weakly. She had packed with a view to a week or so in a remote cottage where warmth and comfort might be at a premium if there were power cuts or any other winter problems; not a top-drawer party!
She had brought her expensive tight black jeans—just in case everything else had got soaked through some catastrophe, not because she had thought she would actually wear them—but the only way they would look right for a party was teamed with a flamboyant top of some kind. And that she definitely did not have.
She frowned to herself, wondering if the cottage boasted a brown paper bag which would fit over her head and at least hide her mortification!
And then her eyes fell on the grubby lace curtain at the bedroom window. It might be dusty, she acknowledged as a dart of excitement shot into her mind, but if she wasn’t mistaken it was the most beautiful antique lace in a soft cream. Dared she take it down and use it for tonight? She’d inherited her mother’s flair with a needle and she always brought an emergency kit of needle and thread away with her; she could do this. She would buy the most fabulous replacement in the world after Christmas—not that Emma would probably even notice she had used the curtain in the first place. She had been talking about paying someone to come and clear the house—furniture, carpets, curtains and all—the last time they’d met when Emma had given her the key.
Marigold limped over to the window, reaching out a tentative hand and touching the lovely old material reverently. Funnily enough it wasn’t Emma’s reaction to her using the curtain which bothered Marigold, but her grandmother’s. Her eyes moved to the faded wallpaper above the fireplace where a wedding photograph of a young couple was hung. Emma’s grandparents, she’d be bound. She hobbled over to the fire, gazing long and hard at the young, smiling girl resplendent in the old-fashioned dress and veil, and deep, dark eyes set in a lovely, sweet face stared back at her.
Take it, they were saying. Use it, enjoy it. Hold your head high and let everyone know you are as good as them. You’re your own woman, aren’t you? You would have fought to stay where you wanted to be, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?
‘I would.’ Marigold breathed the words out loud.
So we are sisters, separated only by time. Take the lace and make it into something beautiful…
Marigold had the most absorbing Christmas Eve afternoon.
After gently removing the curtain from its hooks, she washed it tenderly. It dried within minutes by the fire, and then, very carefully, she cut the lace to a pattern she’d drawn out on an old newspaper, humming along to a Christmas carol concert as she worked.
Several hundred tiny, neat stitches later the top was ready, and even to Marigold’s critical eyes it looked like a million dollars. She pulled it over her head for the final fit and then sat, flushed with success, as she looked at her reflection in the ancient mirror on the back of one of the wardrobe doors. It could be a Dior, she told herself firmly. Or an Armani or a Versace. It had a real touch of class. And the simple black pumps she had stuffed into her case at the last minute wouldn’t look amiss either. Of course, black strappy sandals would have looked better, but no one would have expected that with her ankle the way it was.
It was getting dark outside by the time she dressed the little tree Flynn had brought, but once festooned in the tinsel and glittering baubles Bertha had sent it looked delightful.
Marigold was so pleased with the top and the tree she had a glass of Flynn’s wicked red wine with a calorie-loaded pizza at five o’clock, but, owing to the fact that she had resisted taking any of the painkillers with the party in mind that day, she felt she could indulge.
Once she’d eaten, she concentrated on her make-up and her hair. After two attempts to put her hair up she stopped fighting and allowed it its freedom. It fell, shining, swinging and glossy, to her shoulders, its subtle shades complimenting her creamy skin and deep blue eyes, although Marigold herself was oblivious to its beauty. She stared anxiously into the mirror, wishing she could twirl and pin it high on her head to give the illusion of an extra inch or two to her height, but it was so fine and silky it defied pins and restraints.
After applying the lightest of foundations to her clear, smooth skin, Marigold brushed a little indigo-blue shadow on her eyelids and a couple of coatings of mascara on her lashes. A touch of creamy plum lipstick and she was nearly ready. She bit fretfully on her full lower lip as she surveyed her reflection, and then clicked her tongue in annoyance as lipstick coated her two front teeth.
After a tissue had removed the offending colour Marigold tried again, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bird. The top looked great, but what she would give for another five or six inches on her height was nobody’s business!
Calm, girl, calm. She fixed tiny silver studs in her ears—the only earrings she had brought with her—as she wondered what on earth she was doing. This was as far removed from the cosy, quiet Christmas Eve she’d had in mind a few days ago as a trip to the moon! But it was happening… She breathed deeply and prayed for serenity. It was happening and all she could do was to get through the next few hours with as much poise and dignity as she could muster.
Why had Flynn asked her to the party? Was he really interested in her or was she just a novelty; worse, did he feel sorry for her? But those kisses hadn’t been borne of pity, had they? No, they hadn’t, she reassured herself feverishly. She might not be as experienced and worldly wise as Flynn Moreau, but even she knew the difference between sympathy and a far stronger emotion—that of desire.
But she didn’t want him to desire her! The girl looking back at her from out of the mirror’s misty depths challenged that thought with her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and now Marigold’s face showed a touch of panic. She had to get a grip on herself, for goodness’ sake. A man like Flynn could have any woman he wanted with a click of his fingers; he wasn’t about to lose any sleep over her one way or the other. All she had to do was to make it clear she wasn’t on for a little Christmas hanky-panky and she wouldn’t see him for dust. Simple really.
The firm, loud knock on the front door of the cottage interrupted this rational line of thought and brought Marigold’s eyes snapping open to their fullest extent. He was here! She cast one last, frantic glance at the mirror and then shut her eyes tightly for a moment, before opening them and bringing back her shoulders in a stance which would have been more appropriate for going to war than to a Christmas Eve party.
She had rested her ankle all day and she felt the benefit of this as she walked to meet Flynn, although it had still been a slight struggle to force her shoe over her swollen foot.
‘Hi.’ His voice was lazy as she opened the door; his eyes were anything but.
Marigold flushed slightly at the male appreciation the grey gaze was making no effort to conceal, and knew every second of the hours it had taken to make the lacy top was worthwhile. ‘Hello.’ She was pleased how composed her voice sounded.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said very softly, his height and breadth accentuated by the dusky-grey silk shirt and black trousers he was wearing.
Marigold
was overwhelmingly relieved he wasn’t in a dinner jacket. Her top with the expensive black jeans came nicely within smart-casual category. Nevertheless, his clothes screamed an exclusive designer label. For a moment she had the slightly hysterical thought—borne of nerves—as to what he would say if he knew she was wearing an old curtain, but then she thrust it to one side and answered politely, ‘Thank you.’
‘Here.’ He had been holding one hand behind his back and now he brought out a small box in which reposed the most exquisite corsage of two pale cream orchids. ‘I must have sixth sense or something; it’s just the right colour.’
‘Oh, how lovely.’ She was entranced at the delicate beauty of the flowers, the pink in her cheeks deepening at the unexpected gift. ‘But you really shouldn’t have.’
He smiled slowly, extracting the corsage from its snug box and bending forward to fix it on her top as he said quietly, his eyes on the flowers, ‘Wilf’s prepared one for each of the female guests tonight, courtesy of his greenhouse.’
His fingers were warm against her skin as he fixed the orchids in place and Marigold was glad he was concentrating on the corsage for two reasons. One, his touch was doing the strangest things to her insides, and two, ridiculously the fact that every woman at the party was receiving the same gift had hurt for a moment.
‘But I chose this one myself.’ His voice smoky warm, he added, ‘There was something about the delicate beauty on the outside of the flower married to the fierce, passionate colour within which reminded me of you.’
That suggestion again that she was passionate, fiery… Marigold wrenched her eyes from his as she looked down at the orchids, their scent heady and the rich, vibrant scarlet inside the graceful blooms a magnificent contrast to the cool loveliness of the exterior.
‘That’s very flattering,’ she managed fairly lightly, ‘especially for someone called Marigold Flower. I’ve never imagined myself being likened to an orchid.’
‘Oh, I’m not underestimating the beauty of the marigold, I assure you.’
He was still very close, too close, and she didn’t like how her nerves tingled but found her body’s response was quite outside of her control.
‘I think they’re exquisite flowers, as it happens,’ he continued silkily, his eyes intent on her flushed face. ‘The French marigold with its yellow and chestnut-red flowers and the full, delicate African variety are just as lovely as the dwarf with its small single orange flowers, and they are all fighters, did you know that? Hardy and determined to survive as well as beautiful. Of course, they prefer sunny, tranquil places and a trouble-free existence, but when adversity and storms arrive they find they can grow almost anywhere.’
Marigold was quite aware Flynn was talking about more than garden plants. She stared at him, wondering how it was that the veiled compliments should give her such enormous pleasure when she had only known him for forty-eight hours or so. And then she took hold of the feeling of excitement and gratification as a little warning voice deep in her mind spoke cold reason. As a chat-up line it was pretty good and he had obviously done his homework on marigolds, she thought wryly, but all this didn’t mean anything beyond a brief flirtation.
‘You certainly know your flowers,’ she said as offhandedly as she could manage.
‘No, just marigolds.’ He was watching her closely, seriously, and a little trickle of something she couldn’t name shivered down her spine. And then the firm, stern mouth relaxed, a smile twisting along his lips. ‘Come on, everyone will be wondering where we’ve got to,’ he said evenly. ‘Have you got a wrap or coat or something?’
She had only brought her fleece and cagoule with her and neither was remotely suitable for this evening, Marigold thought distractedly as she hurried back to the bedroom. But other than freeze she had no choice but the fleece; she hadn’t even brought a cardigan with her—just several chunky jumpers.
She reached for her black purse, which she’d emptied of money a few minutes earlier and replaced with a lipstick and comb, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so. The tight black jeans, waist-length lacy top and black pumps did look good.
She glanced at her faithful old fleece, which had seen better days, and decided to freeze.
Flynn was using the snowboard that had been propped against the wall of the cottage to clear the path when she locked the front door and popped the key into her purse, so the walk to the big 4x4 parked just outside the garden gate was problem-free.
Marigold paused before climbing into the vehicle, glancing up at the sky, which was now clear of snow clouds. A host of twinkling diamonds set in black velvet stretched endlessly in the heavens, timeless and enchanting, and below the frost had already formed crystals on the surface of the snow like a carpet of diamond dust. It was a beautiful, beautiful Christmas Eve, Marigold thought wonderingly. And she was going to spend it in the company of this commanding, enigmatic man, Flynn Moreau.
And the strange thing, the really fanciful thing was that she’d been fighting a feeling all day that somehow this was meant to be. Fighting it because she knew, in the heart of her, that a man like Flynn would be treating this as a pleasant interlude, no more. And because every instinct she possessed was screaming the warning that he was a dark threat to her peace of mind, her well-being, and if she let just the tiniest chink in her armour fail she would regret it for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS halfway through the evening—when Marigold admitted to herself that she was having the time of her life—that she found she could actually smile at her ridiculous notions concerning Flynn. Of course, by then she had downed several glasses of the champagne that seemed to be flowing as freely as water, but that had only relaxed her a little, she told herself firmly. Flynn’s friends were a great bunch and they had welcomed her as if they had known her all their lives, and Flynn himself was a charming host.
The house was a Christmas dream, decorated with traditional holly and ivy and deep-red velvet ribbons, and the enormous Christmas tree standing in the hall was a vision of red and gold, tiny flickering candles and shimmering baubles vying with streams of glittering tinsel and fairy lights.
Marigold found she was never alone, even though she had refused several offers to dance because of her ankle. Somehow she’d been drawn quite naturally into a group of Flynn’s colleagues who were about her age or a little older. As the evening progressed she found they were wonderful company, funny and often outrageous, teasing each other with a naturalness that declared they all knew each other very well.
Flynn seemed to be near by even when he wasn’t actually with her most of the night, but his attentiveness—if that was what it was—was merely the kind that a good host would display to a guest who didn’t really know anyone else, Marigold reminded herself umpteen times during the evening.
At midnight there were howls of excited laughter and little shrieks when Father Christmas, complete in red suit and white beard, appeared, delving into his enormous sack for presents for everyone. All the women had items of jewellery and the men gold cuff-links, and as Marigold unwrapped her gift—a pair of tiny gold hoops with a single red stone enclosed in a teardrop hanging from them—she happened to glance at Flynn, intending to mouth ‘thank you’ across the heads between them.
He was leaning back against the wall close to where she was sitting, arms crossed over his chest and a faintly brooding expression on his dark face, and for a disquieting moment she got the impression he was viewing them all from a distance, like a scientist forced to inspect some rather uninteresting bugs under his microscope.
Marigold felt the impact of the thought like a shower of cold water and lowered her eyes quickly, making an excuse about visiting the cloakroom in the next moment and escaping from the noisy throng.
Once in the cloakroom, which had been designated for use by the ladies only, the gentlemen having to use one on the floor above, Marigold went into one of the two cubicles and closed the door, needing some privacy to marsha
ll her whirling thoughts. Flynn’s whole charming, amenable-host act had been nothing more than that—an act, she told herself flatly. None of them had seen what the real man was thinking or feeling tonight. That look on his face; it had been unnerving, disturbing.
Marigold glanced down at her ankle, which was beginning to remind her it was still around, and breathed deeply several times to control her racing heartbeat. It was what she had sensed in him all along, this autonomy. The women had been flocking around him tonight and even the men searched out his company, obviously enjoying his companionship, but all along he had been… What? she asked herself. And the answer came, absent from them. Flynn was here in the physical but mentally a million miles away.
She sat in the cubicle for a few moments more, angry with herself that the revelation had bothered her so much. All this would seem like a dream when she got back to the reality of her life in London; none of it mattered, not really.
And then, as though to call her bluff, she heard the door to the cloakroom open and the sound of voices.
‘But who is she? Surely someone knows?’
‘Darling, you know as much as me. According to Flynn she’s a friend, that’s all. She’s staying in that dear little cottage we pass to get to the house apparently.’
Marigold had intended to rise and leave her hidey-hole but had frozen at the first words, knowing they were talking about her.
‘Friend? Well, there are friends and friends!’ The other woman giggled, not nastily but in a way that brought a pink tinge to Marigold’s cheeks.
‘Janet! You’re terrible. You don’t know anything’s going on, now then. Anyway, don’t forget there’s always Celine in the background,’ the other woman warned in a much more sober fashion. ‘Whoever this girl is and whatever the relationship between her and Flynn, she’ll go the same way as the rest.’
‘He’s such a dreamboat, though, isn’t he?’ Janet sighed, long and lustily. ‘One night with Flynn and I bet you’d be ruined for any other man.’