by Helen Brooks
Marigold viewed it all with a mixture of disquiet and pleasure, and when she poked her head out of the back door she saw there were enough logs and coal for two months, let alone two weeks. You couldn’t fault him on generosity. She bit on her lip hard as, the clock on the mantelpiece chiming eleven o’clock, she found her thoughts had returned to Flynn once more.
She had allowed herself one glass of the wonderful wine with her evening meal—a succulent steak grilled with mushrooms and tomatoes—and the taste of it was still on her tongue as she rose to prepare for bed. It was as different from the cheap wine she normally indulged in as chalk from cheese, and accentuated the difference in their ways of life more distinctly than anything else so far. He must have a cellar stocked with expensive wine, she thought dismally as she climbed into bed a few minutes later—a bed with crisp, scented sheets and the beautiful broderie-anglaise cover. From her brief glance in the bedroom the day before she remembered the bed had been piled with old, unattractive blankets and what had appeared to be a moth-eaten eiderdown in faded pink satin.
She had followed Flynn’s advice and banked down the fires as he’d instructed, and now the tiny blue and orange flames licking carefully round the base of the damp slack caused the shadows in the room to dance slightly, the odd crackle and spit from the fire immensely comforting. It was gorgeous having a real fire to look at whilst you were all cuddled up and snug in bed, Marigold thought sleepily. She could understand why Emma’s grandmother had fought to stay here for so long. With a certain amount of elbow grease to get things looking spick and span, a few tins of paint and a clearing out of some of the more dilapidated items of furniture, to give more space and to show off some of what Marigold recognised were really very nice pieces in the sitting room, the cottage could be transformed.
This bedroom was really very large, although packed as it was it didn’t seem so. With just the bed and perhaps a new, smaller wardrobe there would be heaps of room for a good working area by the window. She’d easily fit a chair and drawing board and everything else in…
Marigold stopped abruptly, sitting up in bed and flicking back her curtain of hair as she realised where her musing had led. Was she still seriously considering making an offer to Emma for her grandmother’s old home? What about all the inconveniences? What about the isolation? What about Flynn Moreau?
She sat for some minutes, staring into space, before sliding down into the warm cocoon again. No, it was an impossible idea. Even if she forgot about all the practical difficulties there was still Flynn. Her heart began to pound with reckless speed at the thought of Flynn as her nearest neighbour, and she spoke to it sternly, telling it to behave.
She wasn’t going to think about this any more tonight. She turned over onto her side, adjusting her legs so that her good foot protected her aching ankle, and shut her eyes determinedly. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, she was in a snug little cottage with snow all around her and masses of food and drink, and it was nice to be on her own for once. It was. She’d enjoy her Christmas—quietly perhaps, but she’d still enjoy it—and she wasn’t going to think about anything more challenging than when the next glass of wine or meal was due. She probably wouldn’t even see Flynn Moreau again anyway…
She was asleep within minutes, and it didn’t occur to her, as she drifted away into a deep, dreamless slumber, that she hadn’t given a single thought to Dean and Tamara for hours.
It was about ten o’clock the next morning when the sound of someone banging on the front door of the cottage brought Marigold jerking awake. For a moment or two she didn’t know where she was and then, as it all flooded back, she pushed the covers aside and reached for the new thick, fleecy white robe she had treated herself to as an early Christmas present. It was the sort of thing she’d seen some of the stars of the silver screen wear in fashionable magazines, and although it had cost an arm and a leg it made her feel wonderfully feminine and expensive. And since Tamara she’d needed to feel feminine.
She tested her weight gingerly on her poorly foot and when it felt bearable she limped carefully to the door without bothering to use the crutches, wondering if Wilf was outside with Myrtle. She brushed her cloud of hair from her eyes and opened the door.
‘Good morning.’
It was snowing again, she thought dazedly as she stared into a pair of crystal eyes above which jet-black hair was coated with a feathery covering of white, before forcing herself to answer, ‘Good morning.’
‘I got you out of bed.’ He didn’t sound at all sorry; in fact his eyes were inspecting her with a relish that made Marigold feel positively undressed rather than wrapped round in an armour of fluffy white towelling.
‘Yes,’ she agreed vaguely, wondering how any one man had the right to look so sexy when she hadn’t even brushed her teeth. ‘I didn’t bother to set my alarm.’
‘I’ve brought you something.’ He indicated with his hand at the side of him and she looked down to see a cute little Christmas tree sitting on the step. ‘We’ve just brought in the one for the house and this was close by and it seemed the right size for the cottage. Bertha’s sorted out a few decorations and what have you. It’s in a tub and you’ll need to keep it damp so it can go back outside after Christmas.’
‘Right.’ She knew she wasn’t sounding very grateful but she was acutely conscious of her tousled hair and make-up-free face.
‘How’s the foot?’
‘The foot?’ Marigold made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Oh, the foot. It seems a bit better, thank you,’ she managed fairly coherently.
‘Good.’ He paused, looking down at her with glittering eyes. ‘There’s not any coffee going, is there?’
Marigold flushed. After his open-handed generosity she could hardly refuse him a cup of coffee, but he looked so immaculately groomed, with every hair in place, and she… Well, she wasn’t, she reflected hotly. Although he had nicked himself shaving. Her eyes focused on a tiny cut on the square male chin and she found herself suddenly short of breath.
‘Marigold?’
‘What?’ She blinked, realising he had said something else and she hadn’t heard a word.
‘I said, if it’s too much trouble…’
Marigold’s flush deepened. ‘Of course not,’ she said crossly, and then moderated her tone as she added, ‘Please come in, and you can put the tree in the sitting room by the fireplace if you don’t mind. It…it’s very nice.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he agreed meekly, but she had glanced into the silver eyes again and they were laughing at her.
Once in the sitting room, Flynn looked somewhat accusingly at the faint glow from the embers of the fire. ‘It’s nearly out. You see to the coffee and I’ll see to the fire,’ he offered, shrugging off his leather jacket and slinging it onto the sofa as he spoke. ‘Have you come across the old bucket Maggie used for the hot ashes?’
‘It’s in the broom cupboard; I’ll get it,’ Marigold said hastily. She’d discovered the broom cupboard in an alcove in the kitchen the day before. ‘You wait here.’ The kitchen was old-fashioned and with barely enough room to swing a cat; the thought of herself and Flynn enclosed in such a small space was daunting to say the least.
She hobbled her way into the kitchen and opened the cupboard door, grabbing the bucket and swinging round, and then she gave a surprised squeak to find Flynn right behind her.
‘You shouldn’t be walking on that ankle yet; where are the crutches?’
He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a big Aran jumper which was clearly an old favourite today; he’d obviously dressed down for the expedition in the snow to bring in the Christmas trees. The clothes were clean but faintly shabby if anything, and didn’t have the designer cut and flair of the others she had seen him in. So why, Marigold asked herself weakly, did they enhance his dark masculinity even more than the others had done?
She forced herself to concentrate on what she was saying as she replied, ‘The crutches are by the bed, I suppose, bu
t I’d rather manage without them if I can. The narrow doorways here are not conducive to an extra pair of legs.’
‘Nor anyone above the height of five feet six,’ Flynn agreed easily. ‘It took me a few visits to see Maggie before I learnt to duck.’
Marigold swallowed and tried a smile. His body was so close it was forcing her to acknowledge her awareness of his male warmth, and the faint scent emanating from the tanned skin—a subtle, spicy fragrance—was causing a reaction in her lower stomach she could well have done without. The trouble was, Flynn was such a disturbing man that just being around him was enough to make her all fingers and thumbs, Marigold admitted to herself crossly. Even when he was just being friendly and helpful, like now.
She held up the bucket, unconsciously using it as a defence against his nearness. ‘I’ll…I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘There’s only instant coffee, I’m afraid; Maggie clearly didn’t run to a coffee maker.’
‘No, Maggie was the proverbial cup of tea and hot buttered scones type.’ A black eyebrow quirked. ‘There are some croissants in the bread bin, though, along with one of Bertha’s home-made loaves, if you’re offering?’
She hadn’t been aware she was. She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Breakfast seems like years ago when you’ve been working in the fresh air for a while,’ he murmured with blatant scheming.
‘Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you’d brought in a couple of Christmas trees,’ Marigold said severely, ‘not a whole forest.’
He grinned at her, utterly unrepentant at his persistence, and Marigold floundered. ‘Croissants it is, then,’ she agreed quickly, just wishing he would move and put a little more space between them. ‘And I suppose you know where the preserves are, too?’
‘Left-hand cupboard above the sink,’ Flynn answered meekly. ‘And I prefer blackcurrant.’
‘You’ll get what you’re given.’
‘Promises, promises…’
But he had taken the bucket and was walking out of the kitchen and she could breathe again.
‘And don’t try to carry a tray or anything,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll come and see to it once the fire’s blazing.’
By half-past ten Marigold was seated in front of a roaring fire which contrasted beautifully with the swirling snowflakes outside the sitting-room window, eating croissants warmed in the kitchen’s big old oven. Flynn demolished five to her two—his liberally covered with blackcurrant preserve—after which he said pensively, ‘Ever tried toast made over an open fire?’
‘You can’t still be hungry!’
‘I burn off a lot of energy.’ He eyed her over his coffee mug and she didn’t ask how.
They found a toasting fork among the instruments hanging on a black iron stand on the hearth, and once Flynn had cut the bread and begun toasting it over the fire the smell was so wonderful that Marigold found herself eating a piece dripping with melting butter even though she was full up.
This was too cosy by half. She slanted a glance at Flynn under her eyelashes. He was busy toasting his second doorstep, crouched down in front of the fire in a manner which stretched the denim tight over lean, strong hips and muscled thighs. He had a magnificent body… The thought came from nowhere and shocked her into choking on an errant crumb.
How on earth had she come to be sitting here in her dressing gown, sharing breakfast with a man she had only known for a couple of days? Marigold asked herself faintly. But she knew the answer—because the man in question went by the name of Flynn Moreau. He was like a human bulldozer, she thought with a touch of desperate bewilderment—riding roughshod over any objections or difficulties in his path to get what he wanted.
Did he want her? She risked another glance and then stiffened as she met his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked softly.
‘The matter?’
‘You were frowning.’
‘Was I?’ she prevaricated feebly. She managed to divert him by making some excuse about twinges in her foot, before she quickly moved on to the fact she needed a hot bath and to get dressed.
‘Go ahead,’ he offered blandly. ‘I’ll wash up and then set up the Christmas tree.’
‘No, it’s all right really.’ The thought of Flynn in the cottage while she lay naked in the bath was unthinkable. ‘You must have lots to do back at the house, and didn’t you say you had guests arriving today?’
‘Later,’ he agreed smoothly.
‘Well, I’d like to have a really long, hot soak,’ she persisted firmly, ‘and I shan’t feel comfortable doing that if I know I’m keeping you waiting. It…it’ll be good for my ankle,’ she added.
He stared at her but the doctor in him won. ‘OK.’ He stood up in one lithe, graceful male movement and she blinked. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any good my offering to wash your back?’ he suggested softly.
‘No good at all.’
‘Shame.’
Yes, it was rather. Marigold smiled brightly. ‘Thank you very much for the Christmas tree, and thank Bertha for the decorations for me, would you?’ she said evenly.
‘You can thank her yourself later,’ Flynn returned just as evenly as he walked to the door.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, didn’t I mention it?’ He opened the sitting-room door, passing through to the hall, and she heard his voice in the moments before he shut the door after him say coolly, ‘I’m picking you up at six tonight for the party at my house.’
Marigold wouldn’t have believed she could move so quickly but she was at the front door within moments, yanking it open and calling to the dark figure making his way to the 4x4 parked at the end of the garden. ‘Flynn? Flynn!’
‘You bellowed, ma’am?’ He turned, shrugging on the leather jacket as he did so, and she tried to ignore how good he looked as she said, ‘I can’t possibly come to your party; you know I can’t.’
‘I know nothing of the sort,’ he returned mildly.
‘I can hardly walk, for one thing.’
‘You said your ankle was a little better.’
‘Not better enough for a party,’ Marigold objected.
‘You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to.’
They were having dancing. Dancing meant dance dresses. ‘I can’t possibly come,’ she said again, her voice even firmer. ‘I’ve absolutely nothing to wear. I came here just to crash out for a few days if you remember, and anyway, I was looking forward to a quiet Christmas Eve at the cottage in front of the fire.’
He tilted his head. ‘You’re twenty-five, right?’
Marigold nodded warily, big, fat, starry flakes of snow drifting idly onto the hall mat.
‘Beautiful twenty-five-year-olds don’t look forward to sitting all alone in front of a fire like old women on Christmas Eve,’ Flynn stated silkily, but she’d caught the metallic chink of steel under the velvety softness of his tone.
She felt the ‘beautiful’ melting her resistance and fought the weakness with all her might. ‘This one does,’ she said flatly.
‘You’re coming, Marigold. As to the clothes, you needn’t worry. The bunch who are coming tonight could be dressed in anything from jeans to Dior.’ He had walked back to the cottage door as he’d been speaking and now he reached out for her, his firm, slightly stern and very sensuous mouth smiling.
What were the odds on it being the Dior, Marigold asked herself wryly, but with his fingertips against her lower ribs, and the warmth of his palms cupping her sides sending pulsing sensation through her body, it was hard to concentrate on anything but his closeness.
Nevertheless, she opened her mouth to object but before she could say a word his lips had snatched it away, plunging swiftly into the undefended territory as he took full advantage of her momentary uncertainty. This time there was no gentle persuasion; the kiss was hot and potent and dangerous, feeding a heady rush of wild sensation that had her gasping against his mouth. He pulled her hard into him until she felt she was branded against his maleness; the sensatio
n more intimate than all the caresses she had shared with Dean.
This was what it should be like, she thought headily as her senses swam. This need, this desire, this overwhelming, driving urge to get closer and closer. For the first time in her life she was revelling in the knowledge that she was a woman, one half of a perfect whole.
She could feel his heart pounding like a sledgehammer against the solid wall of his chest, and then, as his hands moved beneath the thick towelling and found the warm, soft silk of her nightie, the flesh beneath firm and taut, she trembled helplessly.
She felt this man was an alien being, a dark, powerful stranger who could sweep her into another world without even trying, and yet at the same time she felt she had known him since the world began, that he had always been part of her. She shivered, the extent of her need frightening, and immediately she felt him move away. ‘You’re cold.’ His voice was rueful, and she hated him that he could even formulate words when she was feeling so utterly devastated. ‘Go and have that hot bath and I’ll see you tonight.’
She didn’t say anything for the simple reason she couldn’t, but after he had left, in a swirl of snow as he drove the big vehicle hard towards the house on the other side of the valley, she berated herself a hundred times as she lay soaking in the warm, bubbly water.
She must be mad, stark, staring mad, to agree to go to this party tonight! Not that she had actually agreed, she comforted herself vainly, not in so many words. But he’d come for her at six and he wouldn’t take no for an answer, she argued dismally. She’d committed herself to an evening with a host of strangers, all of whom would know each other and be decked up to the nines, and there she’d be—the proverbial Cinderella!
