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.