Christmas at His Command

‘A bitter lemon would be fine, thank you.’ Marigold hoped the shaking in her stomach hadn’t communicated itself in her voice, and whilst he was seeing to her drink she glanced round the room again. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, and everything in it just shouted wealth and influence and prestige. The ankle-deep cream carpet; the beautiful sofas and chairs in the palest of lavender mint, the colour reflected in a deeper shade in the long drapes at the windows; the rich dark wood of the bookcase and cocktail cabinet and occasional tables… Everything was beautiful.

‘Here.’ As Flynn handed her the drink she could read nothing in his expressionless face, and after he had seated himself in an easy chair a few feet away he took a long swallow of the brandy before crossing one knee over the other and leaning back in his seat. ‘I take it you do have permission to use the cottage?’ he asked evenly.

‘Of course,’ she said indignantly, appalled he could think otherwise. ‘I work with Emma.’

He nodded slowly, settling further back in the chair and continuing to look at her, obviously waiting for her to explain herself.

Marigold stared at him, wishing he wasn’t so big, so male, so irritatingly sure of himself. But she did owe him an explanation, she admitted to herself silently. He had rescued her when all was said and done, and then brought her here, to his home. She took a deep breath and said steadily, ‘I work with Emma, as I said, and she—’

‘Doing what?’ Flynn interrupted coolly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said you worked with her,’ he said impatiently. ‘In what capacity?’

‘I’m a designer.’ Marigold hesitated and then said quietly, ‘Emma’s the company’s secretary. It’s a small firm, just eight of us altogether, counting Patricia and Jeff, the two partners.’

‘You enjoy your work?’

‘Yes; yes, I do.’

At some point when she had been asleep Flynn had exchanged his thick sweater for a casual silk shirt in midnight-blue. It was buttoned to just below his collarbone, and in spite of herself Marigold’s eyes were drawn to the smidgen of dark curling body hair just visible above the soft material. That, along with the very masculine way he was sitting, made his aura of virile masculinity impossible to ignore.

Marigold gulped twice and went on, ‘Anyway, Emma offered me the cottage over Christmas a few days ago and I accepted. It…it was all decided in a bit of a hurry, I suppose.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ She stared at him. ‘Why what?’

‘Why is someone as attractive as you spending Christmas all alone? You can’t tell me you didn’t have plenty of offers to the contrary,’ he said expressionlessly.

It was a compliment of sorts, she supposed, although his voice and his face were so cool and remote it didn’t feel like one. She didn’t know quite how to answer for a moment, and then she said carefully, ‘Personal reasons.’ She was grateful to him, she was really, but there was no way she was going to give this arrogant, authoritative stranger her life history.

‘Ah…’ He inclined his head and took a pull at the brandy. The one word was incredibly irritating.

‘Ah?’ Marigold challenged immediately. ‘What does “ah” mean?’

He uncoiled his body, stretching lazily and finishing the brandy in one gulp before saying, “‘Ah” means you are running away from a man.’

She had been having some trouble preventing her eyes from following the line of his tight black jeans, but the cynical and—more to the point—totally inaccurate statement was like a dose of icy water on her overwrought nerves. ‘I am not,’ she declared angrily. How dared he make such an assumption?

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But a man is at the bottom of this seclusion somewhere.’

It was so arrogantly smooth she could have hit him, as much for being right as anything else. She could feel the hot colour in her cheeks, which had nothing to do with the roaring fire in the grate and everything to do with Flynn Moreau, and now her back was ramrod-straight as she glared at him, her mind frantically searching for an adequate put-down.

‘You have a very expressive face.’ Flynn stood up, not at all concerned about her fury. ‘I should have known back there on the road you couldn’t possibly be old Maggie’s granddaughter.’

She didn’t want to give Flynn the satisfaction of her asking the obvious but she found she couldn’t help it. ‘Why couldn’t I be?’ she asked tightly.

‘Because from what Peter told me Maggie’s family are a cold lot,’ Flynn stated impassively, ‘whereas you’re all fire and passion.’

The last word hung in the air although he seemed unaware of it as he walked across and casually refilled his glass, returning a few moments later and settling himself in the chair again, in the same disturbing male pose.

It wasn’t ethical for a venerable brain surgeon to be so sexy, surely? Marigold asked herself waspishly. Weren’t men in Flynn’s position supposed to be past middle age, preferably balding, married, with children and grandchildren? Reassuring father or grandfather figures who were slightly portly and about as sexually attractive as a block of wood. She could just imagine the furore he created when he walked on to a ward, especially with the cool, remote and somewhat cynical air he had about him. An air that said he’d seen and done everything and nothing could surprise him. Although she had!