by Helen Brooks
‘So.’ He had on his big charcoal overcoat, undone, over an expensive grey suit and cream shirt, and looked every inch the powerful, dynamic and brilliant surgeon. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall just inside the door as he surveyed her unblinkingly. ‘Let’s have it.’
Please let me get through this without bursting into tears or disgracing myself in any other way, Marigold prayed desperately. I can’t be with him on his terms, and any other way is out of the question. ‘I think we ought to have a break from seeing each other,’ she said stiffly, rising from where she’d been kneeling in front of the fire and seating herself on the sofa.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Well, of course he would ask that, she told herself crossly as she heard her voice echo his. She just didn’t have a reasonable answer, that was the thing. ‘Because I’m not ready for a relationship so soon after my engagement finishing,’ she attempted quickly.
‘Don’t buy it,’ he said coolly. ‘What’s the real reason?’
She didn’t answer immediately and his eyes narrowed. ‘The truth, Marigold, and I shall know if you’re lying,’ he said softly.
‘I…I’m not like your other women.’
He gave her a hard look. ‘Flattering though some men might find it to be compared to a sultan in a harem, I’m not one of them. I wasn’t aware I had “women” plural.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, Marigold, I do not know what you mean. If you’re insinuating I conduct my love life like a bull let loose in a field of cows—’
‘Flynn!’ She was truly shocked.
‘The truth, please.’
‘You…you’re thirty-eight years old and used to full intimacy in your relationships.’ She couldn’t believe how priggish she sounded. Neither, apparently, could Flynn.
‘Marigold, you haven’t the faintest idea what I’m used to within a relationship,’ he said coldly. ‘Now, if this is your way of asking me if I’ve slept with women in the past then yes, I have. Hell, as you’ve just pointed out so baldly, I am a mature man, not some boy, wet behind the ears. However, I have never indulged in a promiscuous lifestyle, neither have I taken a woman to my bed who was not willing.’
She could certainly believe that. She stared at him miserably. No doubt they had been queueing up since Celine was crazy enough to let him go. ‘The thing is…’
‘Oh, not the thing again, please.’
The mocking note in his voice was the last straw, but it had the welcome advantage of putting iron in her backbone and fire in her eyes. All right, he wanted the truth, did he? He was darn well going to get it! ‘I don’t want to be someone who drifts in and out of your life,’ she said tightly, ‘that’s all. That kind of lifestyle might suit some women just fine, but it wouldn’t do for me. It might be old-fashioned but I would want to know that there at least is a chance of something permanent in the future if things worked out right. You…you’re a closed and shut book.’
‘I think the expression is an open and shut case.’
She glared at him. He knew exactly what she was getting at. She would not be a passing obsession, someone he wanted for a short time until the next challenge caught his fancy. And that was all she was, a challenge. If she’d gone to bed with him when he’d first wanted her to she might well be out of his life by now. And she couldn’t cope with it. She loved him, and if she let him into her body as well as her heart she would never survive him leaving her.
It was when she’d met Flynn that she’d understood Dean had been all wrong for her, even if she hadn’t admitted it for ages. From that first day Dean had ceased to matter. It was as simple, and as frightening, as that. She suddenly had the overwhelming desire to wail her head off, but controlled it rigidly.
‘Marigold, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it you who insisted we keep each other at arm’s length? Friends and no more? Don’t tell me I’m now getting flak because I concurred with your desires?’
The word shivered over her and, although she was sure she hadn’t betrayed herself, she was aware of the silvery eyes honing in on her. ‘Come here,’ he said softly.
‘No, I need to make you understand we can’t carry on like this. We live different lives; we’re different. There’s no meeting point. It’s better to finish now…’
He moved, reaching her in a couple of strides and pulling her up from the sofa and into his arms. It was no gentle kiss; there was a well of frustration and pent-up passion that he hadn’t let her see before, and Marigold was instantly aroused in spite of herself.
She found herself clutching him closer, accepting his kiss with a hunger which matched Flynn’s, her mouth greedy for his. In seconds they were utterly lost to anything but each other, Marigold’s arms tight round his shoulders as Flynn arched her backwards, his lips burning her throat before they moved back to take her mouth.
Somehow Marigold found that her coat was on the floor and then Flynn was nuzzling at the soft swell of her breasts above her low-cut lacy bra, her blouse open, although she had no recollection of Flynn undoing the tiny square pearl buttons. She was aware of the harsher material of his overcoat against her as he continued to ravish her flesh, the scent of him, the overall power and bigness of him, but only on the perimeter of her mind. The feverish need which had taken hold of her within seconds of his mouth taking hers had blurred everything but the desire to get closer and closer.
The soft pads of his fingertips had found her taut nipples under their flimsy covering and he was rubbing them gently, causing her to moan in her throat at the pleasure the small action produced. His body was imprinted against hers, his hard thighs and strong legs feeding the heady rush of sensation which had taken her over. She could feel his heart slamming against his rib-cage and the tiny tremors shivering beneath her hands on his muscled shoulders, and knew he wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
He crushed her closer to him, lifting her right off her feet as he sank down on the sofa with her in his arms, settling her on his lap, his mouth never leaving hers. ‘So soft, so warm, so perfect…’ His voice was a thick, low murmur against her lips and she revelled in her power over this alien individual who had exploded into her life. ‘You’re sending me crazy, do you know that?’
For her answer she pressed herself against the solid wall of his chest, seeking his mouth with an urgency that was mindless.
‘I want you, Marigold, but not like this. I want us to be able to take our time, can you understand that? I want to possess you so completely there’ll be no room for anything but me in your head and your body. I want to marry you…’
The words hung on the air, shivering like tiny, crystallised raindrops caught in the delicate strands of a spider’s web.
‘What?’ She drew back a little, staring at him dazedly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I want you to be my wife.’ His hard looks had softened into such tenderness her breath caught in her throat. ‘I agree with you, we can’t carry on like this, not without me losing my sanity,’ he added ruefully. ‘You say we lead different lives so let’s remedy that and lead one life together. You can still have your work, you can have the cottage as your studio if you like, somewhere where you can work peacefully and without interruption when I’m in London. When I’m home we can spend as much time together as we can.’
He had got it all worked out, she thought wonderingly. He must have been thinking about this for some time. ‘But…but you never said anything before,’ she murmured weakly.
‘You made it clear I had to try the softly, softly approach,’ Flynn said drily, ‘and I can understand that after what you’ve been through. But you were right in one thing, Marigold—I am thirty-eight years old and frankly my time of stealing the odd kiss behind the bike sheds is long since past. I would have taken you to bed within days of us meeting if you had been willing, I admit it, but you weren’t ready—in here.’ He touched her forehead lightly with the tip of a finger.
‘Flynn…’ H
er voice trailed away as she looked into his eyes, which were lit from within by a light which had turned them the hue of mother-of-pearl. ‘Are…are you sure?’
‘As you have so succinctly pointed out, I’ve been around long enough to know what I want and from whom,’ Flynn said softly. ‘But I never asked any of the others to marry me.’
Except Celine. The thought hammered in her mind for a second before she pushed it resolutely away. She couldn’t begin to work this complex and highly intelligent individual out, but he was offering her more than she had ever dreamed he would. And she loved him. In fact she loved him so much she didn’t know how she would have managed to live without him. And now she didn’t have to.
‘So what’s your answer?’ he said very quietly. ‘Think carefully before you speak but one thing is for sure; I’m not letting you go out of my life and my patience is exhausted. I need to make a statement to any other young whippersnappers like your ex that might be sniffing about, too—a statement that you are mine.’
A statement to other men? Was he mad? Did he really imagine she had them queueing up in droves? ‘It doesn’t look as if I’ve any other option than to say yes, then,’ she said softly, her mouth tremulous. ‘But I don’t understand—’
He had cut her voice off with a long and passionate kiss, only lifting his mouth from hers when she was trembling against him, melting and soft. ‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Why you want me,’ she said with touching honesty.
He stroked the smooth silk of her cheek very gently. ‘Then I’ll have to make you understand,’ he said huskily, his eyes telling her of his desire more eloquently than any words could have done. ‘But now is not the time.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to go. I only intended to call by briefly to explain something, but there’s no time now. I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you, OK? In the morning before you leave for work. It’s important we talk.’
‘Yes, all right.’ She was bewildered, but he was already lifting her away from him and standing to his feet, clearly anxious to be off. ‘Are you going to the hospital now?’ she asked, already knowing the answer. She had noticed the expression which had come over his face before when he was heavily involved in a case—a kind of veiled urgency, as though part of him was already in the operating theatre.
‘Uh-huh.’ He kissed her again, long and hard. ‘But I’ll ring you in the morning,’ he reiterated.
That meant he was probably going to be in Theatre until the early hours; the case must be a serious one that couldn’t wait. No doubt even now the patient was going through the rigorous checks and procedures Flynn insisted on before he operated.
‘You go,’ Marigold said quickly, wanting to make it easy for him, and then, for the first time since they’d met, it was she who reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him.
Flynn swept her close again for one last scorching embrace before he left, buttoning his coat as he went.
For a full minute after Flynn had gone Marigold just leant against the front door, staring dazedly about her tiny hall. Of all the events of the day, Flynn’s proposal of marriage was the most amazing and she just couldn’t take it in. She ran their conversation through in her mind as though she was listening to a recording to convince herself it had actually happened.
Marigold Moreau… She blinked, putting her hand to her wildly beating heart. He had asked her to become his wife.
She tottered through to the kitchen and made herself a strong cup of coffee before taking it through to the sitting room. She couldn’t eat anything, not yet, she was too excited and worked up. Oh, Flynn, Flynn… The enormity of it began to sink in. Marriage. It had all seemed so simple when he was here and holding her tight, but now she found herself wondering why he had asked her to marry him this particular night. Had she forced him into the proposal by the stance she had taken tonight and the way she’d been over the last months? Refusing to sleep with him? If so, she didn’t want it to be like that. That would be like a form of sexual blackmail and never, not for a second, had she planned that. In fact it had never crossed her mind that Flynn would ever ask her to become his wife; there was Celine Jenet, after all.
Marigold brushed her hair away from her hot face, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment or two as she struggled with her turbulent thoughts, and the more she struggled the more the old doubts and fears raised their heads.
Had Flynn said he loved her? She thought back to the emotion-charged minutes they had shared, her racing mind desperately seeking reassurance. No, he had not. Not in so many words. But the way he’d looked at her had been a declaration in itself, hadn’t it?
Or—a little voice in the back of her mind asked probingly—was it that she wanted, needed to believe it had been a declaration?
Her head was whirling after a few minutes, and another cup of coffee—black this time and as strong as she could stand it—did nothing to clear her head.
She needed to switch off for a few minutes. Marigold reached for the TV remote, and as the little screen in front of her lit up she sank back against the soft cushions of the sofa, utterly spent.
She couldn’t remember a thing about the programme which was on—she must have sat in a kind of stupor through most of it—but her attention was caught by the short clip introducing the next feature, an awards ceremony of some kind. ‘Tonight promises to be a glittering occasion for those in the fashion world…’ It went on in the same vein for a moment or two, but then Marigold sat up straight as the announcer said, ‘And among those flying in this afternoon was Celine Jenet, who has only recently announced her retirement from the catwalk.’ There was the briefest of pictures of a smiling Celine exiting the airport terminal, but it was the tall, dark man who had his arm round her waist who caught Marigold’s eye.
Flynn. Marigold’s hands went to cover her mouth, and she pressed hard against her flesh as she stared uncomprehendingly at the screen before the picture changed, showing more celebrities and flashing cameras and crowds cheering outside some building or other.
This afternoon. That was what the announcer had said. Celine was here, in London. With Flynn.
‘No. Oh, no.’ It was a whimper and Marigold heard herself with a feeling of self-disgust, but she could do nothing about the pain and shock swamping her.
Was that where Flynn was tonight? With Celine at this gala occasion? She clicked off the TV, her head swimming. And she had actually encouraged him to leave her, thinking he was going to the hospital.
A tide of nausea rose up in Marigold’s throat and she found herself having to take deep breaths to control the sickness. How could he do this to her? Lie to her like this? How could he propose and then go straight to another woman, to Celine? He was as bad as Dean. A sob caught in her throat and she stood up, beginning to walk backwards and forwards as she tried to think what to do. History had repeated itself, it would seem. Was there something the matter with her? she asked herself wretchedly. There had to be. Something had to make these men think that she was stupid.
But…but what if by some hundred-to-one chance she had got it wrong? Maybe, just maybe he had met Celine at the airport for old times’ sake? It was possible.
She knew she was clutching at straws but she couldn’t help it. What if Flynn had been telling the truth and was at the hospital tonight? It didn’t have to follow that because he had been with Celine that afternoon he was with her at this function tonight. But how could she find out for sure?
Bertha might know. Marigold’s heart began to thump hard and she didn’t wait to consider further, reaching for the telephone and dialling the Shropshire number which was written in the little book at the side of it. It was only as the receiver was picked up at the other end she realised she could have called the hospital; Bertha might have been told to deny he was with Celine.
Marigold thought quickly, and then said, ‘Bertha? It’s Marigold. I was calling to speak to Flynn but I’ve just remembered, he’s with Celine, isn’t he? I’d forgot
ten. It’s been a hectic day with one thing and another and I’m not thinking straight.’
‘That’s all right, dear.’
She hadn’t denied it. She hadn’t denied it. ‘I’ll call him on his mobile later,’ Marigold said hurriedly before Bertha could start chatting. ‘I’m in a mad rush. Goodbye for now.’
She put down the phone without waiting for Bertha’s reply and then sat staring at the receiver blankly. She hated him. She really, really hated him.
She looked up the number of his London flat and dialled slowly. It was the answer machine on the other end of the line but she had expected that. She spoke clearly and concisely when the bleeps stopped. ‘Flynn? It’s Marigold. I hope you had a nice evening, you and Celine. Oh, just one more thing. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. OK? And for the record I never did trust you, so don’t think you fooled me for a minute. I don’t want to hear from you or see you again. Goodbye.’
She put down the phone, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and burst into tears.
CHAPTER NINE
MARIGOLD didn’t know at what point she eventually fell asleep, but she had cried herself dry by the time she fell into bed at gone midnight and was exhausted in mind, body and spirit. Nevertheless, she tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before drifting off into a troubled slumber.
When the telephone began to jar her back to consciousness it took some time for the insistent tone to register. She finally surfaced, pulling herself up in bed and reaching for the receiver as she tried to focus blurry eyes on her alarm clock. Five o’clock in the morning?
And then, as a furious male voice bit out her name, it all came flooding back and she remembered. Flynn and Celine!
‘What the hell is that message supposed to mean?’ Flynn sounded more angry than she had ever heard him.
Marigold desperately tried to gather thoughts that were still buried in layers of cotton wool. ‘I would have thought it was pretty obvious,’ she managed fairly smartly, considering her heart had just jumped up into her throat at the sound of his voice.