Christmas at His Command

Marigold honked Myrtle’s horn long and hard at a smart Mercedes that cut her up from an approach road and felt a little better for letting off some steam.

If her buying the cottage worked out—great. If it didn’t, so be it. Either way she’d still put her plans for the future into operation and go self-employed. One stage of her life was finishing, another was just beginning, and it was up to her what she made of things.

She was not going to think of Flynn Moreau any more. He was a brief interlude, a little bit of Christmas magic maybe, but Christmas was over, as was her flirtation with Flynn. She nodded resolutely to the thought and then, as she caught the eye of the passenger in the car alongside, pretended to be nodding along to a song. Look at her, she told herself crossly once the car had changed lanes and disappeared, she was going barmy here! Enough was enough. Decision made. Autonomy for the immediate future and definitely, definitely no men in her life.

Marigold spent the next two days of the holiday cleaning her small flat in Kensington from top to bottom, and catching up with several domestic jobs she had been putting off for ages. She didn’t allow herself to think, keeping the radio or TV on at all times and ruthlessly curtailing any stray thought which crept into her consciousness and might lead down a path to Flynn.

She returned to work on Wednesday morning with her notice already typed and in her bag. Patricia and Jeff were sorry to accept her notice but promised her work on a freelance basis, and after she’d agreed to stay until the end of March all parties were happy. Emma was on holiday until the new year and Marigold wasn’t sorry, despite her desire to set the ball rolling with regard to her purchase of the cottage. The other girl’s callous attitude about her grandmother had bothered Marigold more than she would have liked.

The first day back at work was quiet, what with quite a few firms having taken an extended break until after the new year, so for once Marigold left the office on time and was back home before six o’clock. The phone was ringing as she walked into the flat; it was her mother, insisting she join the rest of the family and friends for a New Year’s Eve bash at her parents’ home.

After promising her mother she would think about it—an answer Sandra Flower was not particularly happy with—Marigold managed to put down the phone some twenty minutes later; her mother having bent her ear about everything from her cleaner’s bad leg to the state of the nation.

Marigold hadn’t taken one step towards the kitchen for the reviving cup of coffee she’d been literally tasting for the last few minutes, when the front doorbell rang followed by an imperious knock a second later.

‘Give me a chance…’ Marigold grumbled to herself as she went to the door, pushing back her shining veil of hair with a weary hand. The hard physical work in the flat over the last two days, added to the twinges her ankle still gave which kept waking her up in the night, had caught up with her after a day at work and she was looking forward to a long, hot soak in the bath with a glass of wine, followed by an early night.

‘Hello, Marigold Flower.’

It was Flynn. Bigger, more handsome and twice as lethal as she remembered, his dark hair tousled by the strong north wind which had been blowing all day and his grey eyes narrowed and faintly wary. He looked tired, she noticed with a detachment borne of shock. Exhausted even.

Marigold said faintly, ‘How did you know where I lived? Emma didn’t…?’

‘No, Emma didn’t,’ he assured her drily. ‘Let’s just say Emma took great pleasure in slamming the door in my face and leave it at that.’

‘You were awful to her,’ Marigold said weakly, still trying to take in the fact he was right here on her doorstep.

‘She got off damn lightly and she knows it.’ Flynn was dismissive.

‘So how did you find me?’

‘Process of elimination. There aren’t too many M. Flowers in London, and your number was about the fifth my secretary tried. Your answer machine provided the name Marigold…’ Dark eyebrows rose above brilliant eyes. ‘Do I get invited in?’ he asked softly.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She was so flustered she nearly fell over her own feet as she quickly stepped to the side and ushered him through.

‘I’ve been in London for the last thirty-six hours,’ he continued quietly. ‘Emergency call from the hospital.’ And then he stopped in the doorway of her small sitting room, glancing round appreciatively as he said, ‘This is charming.’

‘Thank you.’ Marigold had spent every night for a month painting and papering her tiny home in the immediate aftermath of the break with Dean, needin

g the hard work as therapy to keep her from caving in to the pain and rage and bitterness. She had gone for bright, bold colours to offset her internal bleakness, and the sitting room with its radiant yellow walls reminiscent of sunflowers and pinky terracotta sofa and curtains on a pale wood floor was daring and adventurous. ‘I like it.’

He turned to her, his grey eyes smiling. ‘It suits you.’

Oh, wow, he was something else. Impossible, dangerous and more attractive than any man had the right to be. Marigold sternly took hold of her wildly beating heart and said evenly, ‘Why are you here, Flynn?’

‘To see you.’ He stated the obvious with a wry smile. ‘You never said goodbye, remember?’

‘You came here to say goodbye?’

‘Not exactly.’ he pulled her against him, bending quickly and kissing her with hard, hungry kisses that brought an immediate response deep inside her. He kissed her until she was limp and breathless against him and then raised his head, his voice slightly mocking as he said, ‘No, not exactly, but then you knew that, didn’t you? Just as you knew I’d follow you.’

‘I didn’t!’ she said indignantly, her voice carrying the unmistakable ring of truth.

He frowned, tilting her face upwards with a firm hand. ‘Then you should have,’ he said softly, without smiling.

Probably, but then she wasn’t versed in all the intricate games of love like his more experienced women friends. She was just herself; a not very tall, rather ordinary, hard-working girl with the unfortunate name of Marigold Flower. And she dared not let herself think this could mean anything.

‘I came to ask if we could try getting to know each other for a while,’ he said smoothly, reading the confusion and withdrawal in her face with deadly accuracy. ‘OK? No heavy stuff, just the odd date now and again when I’m in town. Dinner sometimes, a little sightseeing, visits to the theatre, that sort of thing. Just being together with no strings attached.’