by Helen Brooks
Marigold didn’t know what to say but in the event it didn’t matter because Flynn obviously considered the conversation finished. He walked on, climbing into the vehicle without even a nod of his head or a wave of his hand.
Long after the lights of the 4x4 had disappeared Marigold continued to stand on the doorstep, only entering the house when she became aware she was chilled to the bone.
Celine Jenet. She sank down onto the rug in front of the glowing fire in the sitting room, removing the guard she had put in place before she left for the party and placing several small logs on the red embers, which leapt into immediate, crackling life. Celine Jenet. She was gorgeous. Six feet of sultry, large-eyed, tousled sex-kitten appeal, and she had been his fiancée. No wonder those women had said no one else could match up to Celine. Why had she left him? For another man? Because of her career maybe?
Marigold stared into the flames, her heart thudding. Whatever the reason, it had not caused Flynn to hate Celine, but did he still love her? He had said they were only friends but that didn’t mean he didn’t secretly wish for more, perhaps even hoped they might get back together some day.
She held out her cold hands to the fire but found the chill came from within rather than without. Flynn might not hate his ex-fiancée but it was a sure-fire bet he hated her, Marigold thought miserably. And now she thought about it, especially in view of his explanation about the Frenchwoman, she didn’t understand why she had behaved so badly. She didn’t normally jump to erroneous assumptions about people; in fact she was just the opposite. If she hadn’t given Dean the benefit of the doubt on various occasions she would have realised what he was up to long before she had. But with Flynn…
With Flynn it was different. For some reason this man affected her like no other human being she had ever met.
Marigold bit hard on her lip, hating the way she was feeling but unable to conquer the utter desolation that had swept over her. So much for a quiet, peaceful Christmas by herself to recharge her batteries and get strength to face the changes she intended to make in the future. She wished she’d never set eyes on this cottage, or Flynn, or—
The knock at the door startled her so much that for a second she was in very real danger of overbalancing into the fire. She put a hand to her thudding heart, rising quickly and limping across the room and into the hall. She went right up to the front door, her voice small and cautious as she said nervously, ‘Who is it?’
‘Father Christmas, who else?’ Flynn’s voice said sardonically.
Flynn! Marigold opened the door with a certain amount of embarrassment, her head whirling. She hadn’t expected to see him again and she’d been amazed how badly that had made her feel, but now he was here she was warning herself, This doesn’t mean anything, not a thing. After Celine Jenet, how could it?
As the door swung open Flynn just stood and looked at her steadily for a moment or two before saying, ‘Hello, Marigold. Can I come in?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She was so flustered she hardly knew what she was doing and was quite unaware she’d kept him standing on the doorstep.
Once they were standing in the sitting room she had the presence of mind to say quickly, ‘Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine, or coffee or hot chocolate?’
‘Coffee would be great.’
‘Right.’ She could feel her cheeks burning and desperately needed a few minutes to compose herself away from his searching gaze.
‘Can I help?’ he asked softly, for all the world as though the last caustic hour hadn’t happened.
‘No, you sit down,’ she said a little weakly. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
By the time she’d prepared a tray with the coffee-cups and a plate of biscuits, Marigold’s colour had subsided though the secret excitement and nervous agitation bubbling away in the depths of her hadn’t.
Flynn was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire when she walked back into the room with the tray, and he appeared perfectly relaxed, one knee crossed over the other and his arms stretched along the back of the cushions. It was a very male pose, but she had noticed that about him—every movement, every gesture was overwhelmingly masculine. If Flynn was a man who was in touch with his feminine side, he hid it very well.
‘I just want to say I really am very sorry for jumping to conclusions about…about what I heard,’ Marigold said before she lost her nerve, setting the tray down on the little table Flynn had obviously placed in front of the sofa before he sat down.
‘You believe me, then?’
‘Of course I do.’ He looked incredibly sexy sitting there, his eyes veiled and his countenance expressionless, and a shiver trickled hotly down Marigold’s spine, curling its way into the core of her.
‘There’s no “of course” about it,’ he said evenly. ‘But I realised once I’d left that I’d expected a hell of a lot. You were in a crowd of people, none of whom you knew, and you hear a little idle talk from people who should have known better. The thing is—’ he paused abruptly, his jaw clenching, before he continued ‘—my private life is just that—private—and I don’t appreciate it being under discussion. It’s of no interest to anyone but me surely?’
Now, that was expecting too much, especially of the female of the species, Marigold thought as she stared back into the handsome face. Looking as he did and with the air of remote detachment he had about him, let alone the sort of work he did, where his skill and expertise was the difference between life and death, gave him a fascinating power and magnetic appeal which was irresistible to any hot-blooded woman.
The thought sent a wave of unease trembling through her as it hammered home her own attraction to Flynn. She didn’t want to be attracted to him; she didn’t want to be attracted to anyone for years and years until she had worked through the Dean and Tamara thing in her mind. But Flynn, with his abundance of male aggression and sexual appeal—he was the last man on earth to get involved with, however fleetingly.
Marigold plunged in before she had time to weigh her words and chicken out of what she knew she had to make clear. It still seemed incredible that Flynn might be interested in her, albeit mildly, but just in case… ‘Flynn, what you said earlier, about me believing what I wanted to believe? Well, you were right in a way,’ she said feverishly, standing just in front of him with her hands clasped tightly together. ‘It’s just that after Dean I don’t feel I can cope with…with a new friendship,’ she finished weakly, aware the last few words sounded ridiculous.
‘I think we are both aware it wasn’t altogether friendship I had on my mind.’
His voice was quiet but carried the velvet, smoky undertones she’d heard before and brought the colour which had recently subsided back to her cheeks again.
He was offering her an affair, a brief relationship, and probably from his point of view that was perfectly OK—certainly from what she’d overheard in the cloakroom he’d gone the same route many times before since Celine. But how did a woman bounce back after Flynn Moreau? Marigold asked herself silently as she looked into the rueful eyes fixed on her face. The others must have managed somehow, but she wouldn’t. It would be a case of going from Dean’s frying-pan into Flynn’s fire, and she’d have no excuse with Flynn. She’d be walking into this relationship with her eyes wide open.
‘The thing is…’ She stopped, wondering how she could make him see. ‘The thing is…’
‘What is the thing?’
‘Those…those women said you’d had other relationships since Celine, all temporary,’ she managed at last. ‘And that’s fine,’ she added quickly, ‘if it’s what you and your girlfriends wanted. But I don’t think I’m like that, and it’s too soon after Dean to even start thinking about… And you’re wealthy and successful and always meeting new people and everything, and I’m—’
‘Delightful.’ He’d stood up, and as strong arms caught her against him she looked up into a hard male face that appeared mildly amused.
‘Flynn—’
He cut off her voi
ce by the simple expedient of taking her lips and as she stiffened, determined not to give in to the thrill of being in his arms again, the smell and feel of him surrounded her and she knew she was lost. The thing was, he kissed so well, she told herself helplessly. She had never met anyone who kissed like Flynn.
She sighed against his mouth and immediately, as he sensed her submission, the kiss deepened with masterful intent, his lips moving against hers and bringing forth a response she was unable to control.
She felt herself beginning to melt as before, and although his power over her senses was frightening it was so exhilarating she curved into him, hungrily searching for more. She had never considered herself a particularly cold person, but before Flynn lovemaking had been a mildly pleasurable experience at best, an irritation at worst when she hadn’t really been in the mood.
But this, this was like something you read about in novels—mind-blowing, dazzling, and in spite of herself Marigold admitted to a feeling of excitement and satisfaction that she could actually experience such passion. Being in Flynn’s arms like this made her feel desirable and wholly feminine, one half of a two-piece, flesh and blood jigsaw.
His mouth moved to the honey-tinted skin of her throat, nuzzling, caressing as she shivered with delight, her body arched backwards as he leant over her. He kissed her ears, her eyelids, tracing a scorching path back to her mouth, which opened obediently at his touch. His hands had moved under the lacy top, his fingers firm and warm as they stroked the silky skin of her narrow waist before moving upwards to run over the soft swell of the top of her breasts beneath her lacy white bra.
Her hands had splayed up into his thick black hair, her fingertips softly massaging his scalp in a sensual abandon which would have shocked her if she had been able to think coherently.
His mouth had parted her lips and he was tasting the inner sweetness with tiny darting movements, causing electric vibrations that had her trembling against him. Marigold was enchanted, enchanted and beguiled, avidly searching for something she had never had but which she now sensed was within her grasp.
Flynn’s breathing was heavy when he at last lifted his head, his lips releasing her mouth, but his arms still holding her close to him.
Marigold opened dazed eyes to find the silvery gaze fixed on her face, and for a moment she had the insane impulse to beg him to really make love to her; to follow her into the bedroom next door where they could lie on the big, soft bed with the glowing fire illuminating their naked bodies and all thoughts of the outside world banished.
It was enough to bring her out of the stupor and back down to earth with a bump. And he knew, instantly; the hungry, watchful expression on the hard male face changing to one of wry regret. ‘You’re doing it again,’ he murmured softly.
‘What?’
‘Thinking instead of feeling.’
She moved back a little in his arms, pushing at the broad, muscled chest and he let go of her immediately. ‘You don’t approve of rational thought?’ she asked in as light a voice as she could manage, considering she was feeling utterly bereft. ‘I would have thought it was a necessity in your line of work.’
‘There’s a time and place for everything.’ He smiled a slow, sexy smile and her heartbeat went haywire.
‘Flynn—’
‘I know, I know.’ He interrupted her softly, tilting her chin to look into the deep violet-blue of her eyes. ‘You aren’t ready for a relationship. It’s too soon. We’re miles apart in lifestyles. Right?’
Marigold nodded shakily. ‘Right.’ In the space of three days this man had turned her world upside-down. How had he done that? And in spite of all she had said if there hadn’t been the mental image of Celine in the background, she wasn’t at all sure that she wouldn’t have thrown caution to the wind and just gone with the flow.
‘Marigold, we both know that if I hadn’t stopped a minute ago we’d be making love on the rug in front of the fire right now,’ Flynn said in such a conversational tone of voice that for a moment she didn’t take it in.
She stiffened, angry with him for telling the truth. ‘If you believe that, why did you stop?’ she challenged tightly.
‘Because this is not the right time or the right place,’ he returned silkily, ‘and contrary to what you might think I consider that important. There’s something between us you can’t deny; it’s been there from the first moment we laid eyes on each other and there can only be one possible conclusion to such raw physical attraction. But you have to accept me into your life before you accept me into your body, I can understand that, otherwise, being the sort of woman you are, you’d tear yourself apart.’
She stared at him, utterly bemused by the straight talking and the fact that he clearly considered an affair between them was just a matter of time. ‘I can’t believe you’re saying this,’ she said weakly.
‘Why?’ he asked casually, turning away and pouring them both a cup of coffee, before he added, ‘Cream and sugar?’
Cream and sugar? Was he mad or was it her? He had just calmly stated that regardless of all she had said he intended to make sure he slept with her at some point in the immediate future, hadn’t he? ‘Flynn, you can’t ride roughshod over all I’ve said,’ she stated more firmly, ignoring the coffee tray.
‘I wasn’t aware I was,’ he said mildly. ‘I have taken into account all your objections but I have a predilection for the truth, Marigold, and it’s the truth that you’re really objecting to.’
Marigold looked at him in exasperation. He had an answer for everything! She opened her mouth to argue some more but then shut it abruptly. She’d never win in a war of words with Flynn, but then she didn’t have to, not really. He had said he’d wait until she had accepted him into her life before pressing his case—at least that was what she thought he had said—and so it was quite simple really. She would be on her guard for the next few days while she was here in Shropshire, and then when she left, that would be that. No contact, no telephone calls or anything else. She’d be ruthless; she would have to be because Flynn was right about one thing. This physical attraction between them was raw and powerful, and far too compelling to play about with. For her at least.
‘Cream and two sugars, please,’ she said sweetly.
‘What?’ Marigold had the satisfaction of seeing him blink before he said, ‘Oh, yeah, the coffee.’
And the coffee was all he was going to get, this night or any other, Marigold told herself firmly, even as a little voice in her mind reminded her nastily, until he chose to kiss her again…
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN Marigold awoke on Christmas Day it was to the realisation she had promised to have lunch and tea with Flynn and his friends, and she rolled over onto her stomach, pulling a pillow on top of her head as she groaned loudly. She was mad, quite mad!
Flynn had behaved perfectly for the rest of the time in the cottage the night before. He had drunk two cups of coffee, eaten most of the biscuits and made small talk, which had the advantage of being amusing and interesting. After inveigling her agreement regarding the next day he had given her a brief peck on her forehead and left immediately, leaving Marigold with the unwelcome—but faintly exciting—thought that Flynn was a man who would always get what he wanted.
After a long, hot soak in the bath Marigold inspected the meagre contents of her limited wardrobe. The black jeans would have to be utilised again, and a long, thick cream sweater with a large rolled neck would fit the bill for today. She felt a thrill of anticipation and elation shoot through her, and it was enough for her to spend the next hour or two warning herself she couldn’t afford to let her guard down for a moment.
Flynn was the type of man who would whisk her into his orbit and keep her there for as long as it took for the attraction between them to burn itself out. And then? Then she’d be left floating in the middle of nowhere. It had been stupid to agree to go the house today, but this would be the last time she would concur with what he demanded. And there was a houseful of guest
s around. It wasn’t as though they were there alone, she comforted herself briskly as she put the last touches to her make-up. It would be fine, just fine.
And it was. He came for her just after eleven o’clock and Marigold was ready and waiting, determined to give him no excuse to be alone with her in the cottage.
She hastily shut the front door as the big vehicle drew up outside the garden gate, her ankle allowing her to walk almost normally as she hurried down the snow-covered path.
Flynn had climbed out of the 4x4 and opened the passenger door as she reached him, her senses registering six foot plus of gorgeous manhood encased in black jeans and a black leather jacket. ‘Hi.’ His voice was soft and he grinned, dropping a quick kiss on her lips before he helped her up and closed the door behind her.
It took Marigold all of the drive to the house to get her racing heart under control, but his manner once they were there—warm and friendly and not at all threatening—relaxed her sufficiently to allow her to have a wonderful day.
Bertha, along with Wilf—whom the housekeeper had commandeered to help her—excelled herself with Christmas lunch, her pièce de résistance in the form of two enormous Christmas puddings, flaming with brandy and accompanied by lashings of whipped cream, bringing forth a round of applause from everyone at the dining table.
Replete, everyone played silly games all afternoon, although again Marigold noticed Flynn was more of a benevolent spectator than participator, and after a magnificent buffet tea they all gathered in the drawing room, where Flynn played the grand piano and everyone sang carols before the party broke up, and people began to leave for the drive home.
‘I didn’t know you could play the piano.’ Flynn had tucked Marigold’s hand in his arm, thereby conscripting her to stand with him on the doorstep, where he was watching his guests leave, and she spoke primly, trying to put things on a less intimate footing. With ninety-nine out of a hundred men, standing close like this would present no problems at all, but Flynn was the hundredth, as her racing pulse testified.
