Christmas at His Command

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.

‘There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Marigold,’ he answered evenly, but with the smoky inflexion in his voice which gave it a sensual kick that was pure dynamite. ‘Something I would be only too pleased to rectify, given half a chance.’

His eyes stroked her face for a moment before he looked down the drive again. ‘I enjoy playing the piano and I’m told I can make a half-reasonable noise on the trombone. I like parasailing and scuba-diving; I prefer American football to English football or rugby and I loathe golf. But of course there are other…activities which give me more pleasure than all the rest put together.’

She didn’t ask what they were, keeping her gaze on the car in front of them, from which the passenger was waving frantically, as she said, ‘Scuba-diving? I’ve done a little of that, enough to get my PADI open-water certification.’ She had tried to persuade Dean to do the course with her, thinking they could dive together in the warm waters of the Caribbean on their honeymoon, but he had only gone a couple of times before dropping out, claiming trouble with his inner ear. Privately she had thought he was scared. He had never coped well with a new challenge.

‘So you’re a water baby?’ The moonlight caught the shining jet of his hair and turned the grey eyes to mercury as he turned to look down at her. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. I had you down as gutsy as well as beautiful.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Marigold said as lightly as she could manage.

‘I wish.’ It was very dry. ‘And it is not flattery. I told you before, I only tell the truth.’

‘That would make you a man in a million,’ she said with a trace of bitterness she couldn’t quite disguise.

‘Just so.’ He smiled lazily. ‘It’s nice you’ve recognised the fact so quickly.’

And then he stiffened as he looked down the drive, his voice gritty as he said, ‘Who the hell is that, driving like a maniac? He’s just caused Charles to swerve and nearly go off the road. I don’t recognise the car.’

Marigold followed the direction of his gaze and then swallowed hard. She recognised the car and it didn’t belong to a him but a her.

Emma was driving the smart little sports coupé her doting father had bought her the year before, and she executed a flamboyant halt in front of the house which sent gravel scattering far and wide. ‘Goldie, darling!’ She was calling even as she unfurled herself from the leather interior. ‘I’ve had a nightmare of a journey.’

‘It’s Emma,’ Marigold murmured desperately. ‘She wasn’t supposed to arrive for another couple of days.’

‘Lucky you.’ It was caustic, antagonism bristling in every plane and line of his hard male face as narrowed eyes took in the tight leather trousers and three-inch stiletto heels, the dyed blonde hair and carefully made-up, lovely face.

‘I was waiting outside the cottage and one of the cars stopped and told me you were here,’ Emma continued as she walked towards them, speaking to Marigold but with her big green eyes fixed on Flynn. ‘Darling, I had to get away from London. Oliver and I have had the most awful row and I never want to see him again in all my life,’ she finished dramatically, before adding, as though she had suddenly realised her lack of manners, ‘Oh, I’m Emma Jones by the way,’ as she held out one pale beringed hand to Flynn.

He made no effort to reach out and take it, merely nodding as he said, ‘Maggie’s granddaughter. It figures.’

Emma stopped abruptly. She was used to men going down before her shapely figure and batting eyelashes like ninepins, not having them growl at her with a face like thunder. However, Emma was made of sterner stuff than she looked, and her voice didn’t falter as she said, ‘What exactly does that mean?’

‘I was a friend of your grandmother’s and cared about her; I think that says it all.’

‘Really.’ Emma lifted her small chin and slanted feline eyes, but it was obvious she knew exactly what Flynn meant when she said, ‘Daddy said there were some rather rude individuals in this neck of the woods.’

‘Daddy was right. And this particular rude individual is now asking you, politely, to get off his property,’ Flynn said evenly.

At some point during the discourse Marigold had disentangled her hand from Flynn’s arm and now she said hurriedly, ‘I’ll get my bag if you want to wait in the car for me, Emma.’

‘Sure.’ As Emma turned and began to saunter away Marigold fled into the house, grabbing her bag from where she’d left it in the drawing room and retracing her footsteps into the hall, where she found Flynn waiting for her.

‘You don’t have to go.’

‘I do.’ Marigold bit her lip. ‘You know I do.’

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ he said quietly.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘I disagree,’ he said, still very softly. ‘It’s an excellent idea.’