Christmas at His Command

by Helen Brooks

  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.’

  Marigold wanted to ask him more about Celine; when they’d realised they’d fallen in love; when they’d got engaged; what had caused the break-up. But she realised the brief glimpse into his past was over when he raised his glass, his voice changing as he said, ‘To Maggie.’

  ‘To Maggie?’ She stared at him in surprise as she raised her own glass.

  ‘Of course. Without the cottage being left to Emma we wouldn’t have met, so we have Maggie to thank for it.’

  ‘If Emma hadn’t suggested I use it for Christmas we wouldn’t have met,’ she corrected factually.

  ‘If you think I’m toasting Emma, think again.’ He grinned with a sexy quirk of his sternly sensual mouth and she acknowledged defeat.

  ‘To Maggie,’ she agreed quickly, taking a great gulp of wine for much-needed support before she backed away from him, saying, ‘Sit down and relax while I see to dinner. The remote for the TV is on the coffee-table,’ before she turned tail and fled into the fragile safety of her small kitchen.

  Once the oven was on and she had placed the pork loin steaks in the roasting tin, Marigold quickly made the glaze, mixing together lime rind and juice, soy sauce, honey, garlic, ginger and the other ingredients before she poured the mixture over the chops. She popped the tin into the oven and finished her glass of wine, pouring herself another before taking the bottle and walking into the sitting room to see if Flynn wanted a refill.

  He was half lying in a somewhat awkward position on the sofa, as though the onslaught of sleep had caught him unawares—wh
ich it probably had, Marigold thought dazedly through the frantic beating of her heart. One hand was thrown back over his head and the other was still round his empty glass, and she was breathlessly aware she was seeing him vulnerable and defenceless for the first time.

  He looked different in sleep; younger, more boyish, the deep lines round his eyes and mouth less pronounced, and his thick dark eyelashes adding to the illusion of youth. Not so his body; the broad, muscled torso and powerful thighs spoke of a man in his prime, and even sleep couldn’t negate the flagrant maleness that was an essential part of his appeal.

  Marigold moved forward, she couldn’t help it, even though part of her was objecting that if their positions had been reversed and she had been asleep she would have hated Flynn being able to examine her at leisure.

  His suit was beautiful and clearly wildly expensive, as was the silk shirt and tie, but he had looked just as good in the old jeans and sweater he’d worn to bring in the Christmas trees, she thought faintly.

  She looked at his mouth, relaxed now but still so sexy it made her want to put her own lips against it, and at the hard, square male chin where black stubble was clearly visible.

  What would it be like to be made love to by this man? Even the thought of it made her weak at the knees. The firm power of his naked flesh, the warmth of his body heat, the delicious and unique smell of him encompassing her in wave after wave of exquisite pleasure…

  She knelt down by the sofa, telling herself she only wanted to remove the glass from his nerveless fingers and put it safely on the coffee-table, where she could fill it with wine ready for when he awoke.

  This close, his aura of masculinity was disturbingly sensual, the combination of brooding toughness and little-boy susceptibility almost painful. She took the glass very slowly, easing it out of his fingers and placing it on the floor by the side of the sofa without turning to the coffee-table. She found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sleeping face. His childhood, the break with Celine, the things he saw every day in his work must have all contributed to the cool, distant, cynical expression which veiled his countenance when he was awake, but like this she could almost imagine those things had never happened.

  She touched the rough male chin very lightly with her lips, she couldn’t help herself, and when there was no response, no stirring, she dared to move upwards to the firm mouth. She had never found over-full lips attractive on a man and Flynn’s were just right; cleanly sculpted and warm. She shut her eyes for just a moment, knowing she had to move away and return to the kitchen, and when she opened them again silver orbs were staring straight into shocked violet.

  She seemed to be incapable of doing anything but look back into his gaze, shock freezing her reactions, but then his arms came round her and she found herself drawn upwards and onto him so that she was lying half across the big, powerful frame. ‘Nice…’ It was a contented male murmur and he was holding her so closely, so securely, there was no point in struggling. She didn’t want to anyhow.

  His mouth teased at hers as he stroked over her compliant, soft body, exploring her curves and valleys with a leisurely enjoyment that sent tiny thrills cascading down her nerves and sinews. Languorously her head fell back to expose the curve of her throat as his mouth searched lower, and then it returned to her lips, the kiss more urgent as he made a low, deep sound of satisfaction in his throat.

  It was as he moved her hips, drawing her against him in a manner that guaranteed she couldn’t fail to become aware of his body’s arousal, that she became aware of what she was allowing. She stiffened, but immediately he sensed her withdrawal, his voice soft and husky as he said, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’m not an immature boy who is going to insist on more than you want to give. Relax…’

  ‘I…I have to see to the dinner.’ She sat up, her voice breathless, and he made no effort to hold on to her by force.

  ‘Damn the dinner.’ But his voice was lazy rather than annoyed.

  ‘I brought you some more wine.’ She stood up quickly, her cheeks flushed as she endeavoured to straighten her clothes and brush back her tousled hair.

  He sat up straighter himself. ‘That’s very kind.’ It was mildly amused, and made Marigold feel about sixteen years old.

  ‘The glass is by your feet.’ She stepped back a pace as she spoke. ‘Help yourself to the wine. I’ll just go and see to the vegetables or the pork will spoil.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  She gave a weak smile and scurried into the kitchen, furious with herself. How could she have kissed him like that? she asked herself angrily as she took out her aggression on a hapless onion, slicing it with savage intent. After all she had said about being friends she practically had to go and eat the man! Talk about sending mixed signals. And she just hated women who did that.

  Did he call all his women sweetheart?

  The thought came from nowhere and stopped her dead, and she stood for a full thirty seconds, staring at the carrots waiting nervously for her ministrations after they had seen her behaviour with the onion.

  And then she shook herself irritably. It didn’t matter if he did or not, she told herself firmly. By his own lips he was just going to ask her out on the occasional date when he was in town in order that they could get to know each other a little better. She thought of the hard, hot arousal she had felt against the soft flesh of her belly before she had sat up, and her cheeks burnt with brilliant colour.

  Their getting to know each other had taken a giant step forward all of a sudden, but that had been her fault, not his, she reminded herself honestly. The poor man had been utterly exhausted and fast asleep and she’d leapt on him like a raving nymphomaniac!

  She groaned faintly before taking a long, hard gulp of the wine, just as the poor man spoke from the kitchen doorway, his voice somnolent. ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ She slung the onion into the oil heating in her large frying-pan and went to work on the carrots without turning round. ‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ she added quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was only going to pour you a glass of wine…’ Her voice trailed off. Buy that, buy anything.

  ‘I’m glad you did—wake me, that is.’

  She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck and she just knew the wretched man was grinning, although she didn’t dare turn round. ‘As you’re awake now, could you perhaps set the table in the sitting room?’ she asked primly. Her little pine table was tucked away in a small alcove and she rarely used it except when she had a guest, but it was just the right size for two. ‘You’ll find mats and glasses and everything in that cupboard.’ She turned and pointed to the wall cupboard by the kitchen door as she spoke, studiously avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Which was probably exactly what he thought she was tonight after the little scenario in the sitting room, Marigold thought tightly.

  However, once she had served up the pork and vegetables ten minutes later, garnishing the aromatic food with fresh slices of lime, she had calmed down sufficiently to face him with a bright smile as she walked into the sitting room, carrying the two plates.

  ‘Wow!’

  She had cooked plenty—he’d had the look of a hungry, as well as exhausted, man—and her reward was in seeing his face light up at the sight of his loaded plate. ‘Hazelnut pie and ice cream for dessert—shop-bought, I’m afraid,’ she said lightly. ‘Or there’s some cream rice pudding I made yesterday if you prefer?’

  ‘Got any strawberry jam to go with the rice pudding?’ he asked hopefully, totally unsettling her again as he pulled out her chair for her to be seated before sitting down himself.

  None of her other boyfriends, Dean included, had treated her with such old-fashioned courtesy, and it was very nice—too nice. She didn’t dare get used to it. Not that Flynn was a boyfriend, of course, she clarified silently. ‘Strawberry jam? I think so.’

  ‘Great.’ He grinned at her and she wondered how many of his female patients f
ell in love with him at first sight, or whether there were any who took a little longer.

  Whether it was because Flynn put himself out to relax her or the two glasses of red wine she had consumed on an empty stomach Marigold didn’t know, but she found she thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the evening.

  The meal was leisurely, finishing with coffee and brandy after dessert, and Flynn was nothing more threatening than an amusing, agreeable companion who regaled her with fascinating and often hilarious stories about his life and work. She had the sense to realise he was giving her the success stories and upbeat moments, and that there was a darker side to his work, but she just went with the flow, enjoying every second. Much of his humour was self-deprecating and it was a surprise to find he could poke fun at himself, mocking his position and status and the esteem in which he was held. It was also very endearing, and more than once Marigold had to take a hold of her susceptible heart.

  When he made noises about leaving round eleven o’clock Marigold braced herself for a passionate goodnight kiss, or even maybe the veiled suggestion that he could be persuaded to stay given half a chance. Instead Flynn rang for a taxi and put on his jacket and coat, kissing her once—but very thoroughly—before walking to the front door.

  ‘Will you let me buy you dinner tomorrow as a thank-you for tonight?’ he asked softly as they stood on the threshold.

  Marigold nodded; the kiss had left her breathless.

  ‘Eight-ish?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’

  And he was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THAT night was the first of many spent in Flynn’s company. He wined and dined her, taking her to the theatre, to various nightclubs, to parties and for meals out with his friends.

  If he was in London at the weekends they would browse in art galleries and book shops, go for long walks along the Thames or spend the day at the private gym and leisure centre of which Flynn was a member. Lunch at charming, out-of-the-way places; tea at the Ritz; dinner at the Savoy—they did it all, and not once in the weeks leading up to the beginning of March did Flynn act as anything other than attentive escort and charming friend.