Christmas at His Command

She stared at him uncertainly. What exactly did all that mean? Did the dinner dates end up in bed? Was that part of the getting to know each other? ‘As…as friends?’ she asked shakily.

He looked down at her with a wry expression which made him appear twice as handsome. ‘Is that what you want?’

She nodded quickly. ‘I’m not ready for anything more.’

He was still holding her chin in his warm fingers and now his gaze intensified, pulling her into its mercurial depths until she felt he was drawing her soul out for inspection. And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled his devastating smile, drawing her against the hard wall of his chest so that his chin was resting on the top of her head. ‘Good friends,’ he qualified lazily.

The warmth of him, the smell and feel was sending her heady, and over all the surprise and shock and uncertainty was an exhilaration and excitement that he had sought her out, that he was here. And she was glad. Too glad. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’ She drew away slightly and after one moment of holding her close he let her go.

‘I could use some.’ He stretched powerful shoulders beneath the big overcoat he was wearing. ‘It’s been a hell of a day. A bad accident is never pretty but when the injured party is only eight years old it takes on a different picture.’

‘The emergency call?’ she asked quietly. His voice and face had changed as he’d spoken, and suddenly his exhaustion was very evident again.

‘Uh-huh.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘And it could have been prevented if the parents had checked the boy was strapped in. How can you expect an eight-year-old to remember seat belts when he’s taking his new remote-controlled car to show his grandparents?’

‘But he’s going to be all right?’

‘Two major operations in the space of thirty-six hours and two pints of blood later, yes, he’s going to be all right. But it was touch and go for a time and we came damn near to losing him more than once.’

‘You haven’t been working for thirty-six hours?’ she asked as the reason for his exhaustion really hit home.

‘More or less.’ He shrugged offhandedly. ‘It’s an all-or-nothing type job.’

He was an all-or-nothing type guy. ‘Have you eaten yet tonight?’ Marigold thought gratefully about the extensive spring clean of the last couple of days and the sparkling fridge newly stocked with food.

He shook his head. ‘I think I ate some time yesterday but it’s been coffee and biscuits in short bursts today. I was going to suggest I take you out for dinner if you’re free?’

She stared at him. He was dead on his feet. ‘Did you drive here?’ she asked quietly.

‘Taxi.’

‘In that case I’ll get you a glass of wine while you take off your coat and make yourself comfortable,’ she said briskly. ‘Lime and ginger pork with stir-fried vegetables OK?’ It gave her great satisfaction to see the way his eyes opened in surprise. She might not be a Bertha, but she could still rustle up a fairly edible meal when she wanted to.

‘That would be great,’ he said softly, the tone of his voice bringing a tingle to her skin. ‘If you’re sure?’

Sure? She hadn’t been sure of a thing since the first time she had laid eyes on Flynn Moreau! ‘Quite sure.’ She smiled in what she hoped was an efficient, I’m-totally-in-control type of way, walking across to the little living-flame gas fire and turning it on full blast as she said, ‘Sit down and get warm. Red or white wine?’

‘Red, please.’

He was shrugging off his overcoat as she turned, and the perfectly ordinary, non-sexual action sent nerves racing all over her body. It was worse when she returned from the kitchen with the wine. He had clearly taken her at her word regarding comfort. His suit jacket was off and he’d loosened his tie so that it hung to one side of his pale grey shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal the dark shadow of body hair on his upper chest as he stood inspecting a photograph of her parents.

For a moment Marigold forgot how to walk, and then she managed to totter over to him without spilling anything. ‘Your parents?’ he asked, inclining his head at the photograph.

Marigold nodded, handing him his glass of wine as she said, ‘It was taken last year.’

His eyes returned to the picture of the entwined couple; the man grey-haired and somewhat sombre as he stood with his arm tight round his laughing wife, who was petite and sparkling.

‘I like it because it sums them up very well,’ Marigold said softly with a great deal of love in her voice. ‘Dad is a solicitor and very correct and proper, and Mum—well, Mum’s not,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘But they think the world of each other.’

‘It shows. Are you close to them?’ he asked as he raised his eyes, watching her.

‘Yes, I think so. Perhaps not quite so much in the last little while since I moved out and got a place of my own, but that change was necessary as much for Mum as me,’ Marigold said quietly. ‘She always wanted lots of babies but there were complications after me. Consequently I became the focus of all her attention and because we’re very different that caused problems at times. But we’re fine now. She accepts I’m an independent adult with my own way of doing things…mostly,’ she added with a smile. ‘How about you? Do you see much of your parents?’

‘Not much.’ He turned back to look at the photograph as he said flatly, ‘They divorced when I was five, got back together when I was eight and divorced again when I was approaching my teens. They’ve had several marriages between them since then. My mother married Celine’s father when I was eighteen, which is when Celine and I met for the first time. It was her father’s third marriage.’

Marigold didn’t know what to say.

‘Our parents lasted three years but by the time they divorced Celine and I were close. We understood each other, I guess, having had the same sort of fragmented childhood.’