Christmas at His Command

The thought came from nowhere and stopped her dead, and she stood for a full thirty seconds, staring at the carrots waiting nervously for her ministrations after they had seen her behaviour with the onion.

And then she shook herself irritably. It didn’t matter if he did or not, she told herself firmly. By his own lips he was just going to ask her out on the occasional date when he was in town in order that they could get to know each other a little better. She thought of the hard, hot arousal she had felt against the soft flesh of her belly before she had sat up, and her cheeks burnt with brilliant colour.

Their getting to know each other had taken a giant step forward all of a sudden, but that had been her fault, not his, she reminded herself honestly. The poor man had been utterly exhausted and fast asleep and she’d leapt on him like a raving nymphomaniac!

She groaned faintly before taking a long, hard gulp of the wine, just as the poor man spoke from the kitchen doorway, his voice somnolent. ‘Need any help?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ She slung the onion into the oil heating in her large frying-pan and went to work on the carrots without turning round. ‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ she added quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was only going to pour you a glass of wine…’ Her voice trailed off. Buy that, buy anything.

‘I’m glad you did—wake me, that is.’

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck and she just knew the wretched man was grinning, although she didn’t dare turn round. ‘As you’re awake now, could you perhaps set the table in the sitting room?’ she asked primly. Her little pine table was tucked away in a small alcove and she rarely used it except when she had a guest, but it was just the right size for two. ‘You’ll find mats and glasses and everything in that cupboard.’ She turned and pointed to the wall cupboard by the kitchen door as she spoke, studiously avoiding his eyes.

‘Sure thing.’

Which was probably exactly what he thought she was tonight after the little scenario in the sitting room, Marigold thought tightly.

However, once she had served up the pork and vegetables ten minutes later, garnishing the aromatic food with fresh slices of lime, she had calmed down sufficiently to face him with a bright smile as she walked into the sitting room, carrying the two plates.

‘Wow!’

She had cooked plenty—he’d had the look of a hungry, as well as exhausted, man—and her reward was in seeing his face light up at the sight of his loaded plate. ‘Hazelnut pie and ice cream for dessert—shop-bought, I’m afraid,’ she said lightly. ‘Or there’s some cream rice pudding I made yesterday if you prefer?’

‘Got any strawberry jam to go with the rice pudding?’ he asked hopefully, totally unsettling her again as he pulled out her chair for her to be seated before sitting down himself.

None of her other boyfriends, Dean included, had treated her with such old-fashioned courtesy, and it was very nice—too nice. She didn’t dare get used to it. Not that Flynn was a boyfriend, of course, she clarified silently. ‘Strawberry jam? I think so.’

‘Great.’ He grinned at her and she wondered how many of his female patients f

ell in love with him at first sight, or whether there were any who took a little longer.

Whether it was because Flynn put himself out to relax her or the two glasses of red wine she had consumed on an empty stomach Marigold didn’t know, but she found she thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the evening.

The meal was leisurely, finishing with coffee and brandy after dessert, and Flynn was nothing more threatening than an amusing, agreeable companion who regaled her with fascinating and often hilarious stories about his life and work. She had the sense to realise he was giving her the success stories and upbeat moments, and that there was a darker side to his work, but she just went with the flow, enjoying every second. Much of his humour was self-deprecating and it was a surprise to find he could poke fun at himself, mocking his position and status and the esteem in which he was held. It was also very endearing, and more than once Marigold had to take a hold of her susceptible heart.

When he made noises about leaving round eleven o’clock Marigold braced herself for a passionate goodnight kiss, or even maybe the veiled suggestion that he could be persuaded to stay given half a chance. Instead Flynn rang for a taxi and put on his jacket and coat, kissing her once—but very thoroughly—before walking to the front door.

‘Will you let me buy you dinner tomorrow as a thank-you for tonight?’ he asked softly as they stood on the threshold.

Marigold nodded; the kiss had left her breathless.

‘Eight-ish?’

She nodded again.

‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’

And he was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THAT night was the first of many spent in Flynn’s company. He wined and dined her, taking her to the theatre, to various nightclubs, to parties and for meals out with his friends.

If he was in London at the weekends they would browse in art galleries and book shops, go for long walks along the Thames or spend the day at the private gym and leisure centre of which Flynn was a member. Lunch at charming, out-of-the-way places; tea at the Ritz; dinner at the Savoy—they did it all, and not once in the weeks leading up to the beginning of March did Flynn act as anything other than attentive escort and charming friend.

It was driving Marigold mad.

It was useless to tell herself that he was acting this way because she had insisted upon it, that she’d laid down very definite rules and boundaries because of her conflicting emotions where Flynn was concerned, and that this was the best, the very best way to proceed.