Christmas at His Command (9 page)

‘No good at all.'

‘Shame.'

Yes, it was rather. Marigold smiled brightly. ‘Thank you very much for the Christmas tree, and thank Bertha for the decorations for me, would you?' she said evenly.

‘You can thank her yourself later,' Flynn returned just as evenly as he walked to the door.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Oh, didn't I mention it?' He opened the sitting-room door, passing through to the hall, and she heard his voice in the moments before he shut the door after him say coolly, ‘I'm picking you up at six tonight for the party at my house.'

Marigold wouldn't have believed she could move so quickly but she was at the front door within moments, yanking it open and calling to the dark figure making
his way to the 4x4 parked at the end of the garden. ‘Flynn?
Flynn!
'

‘You bellowed, ma'am?' He turned, shrugging on the leather jacket as he did so, and she tried to ignore how good he looked as she said, ‘I can't possibly come to your party; you know I can't.'

‘I know nothing of the sort,' he returned mildly.

‘I can hardly walk, for one thing.'

‘You said your ankle was a little better.'

‘Not better enough for a party,' Marigold objected.

‘You don't have to dance if you don't want to.'

They were having dancing. Dancing meant dance dresses. ‘I can't possibly come,' she said again, her voice even firmer. ‘I've absolutely nothing to wear. I came here just to crash out for a few days if you remember, and anyway, I was looking forward to a quiet Christmas Eve at the cottage in front of the fire.'

He tilted his head. ‘You're twenty-five, right?'

Marigold nodded warily, big, fat, starry flakes of snow drifting idly onto the hall mat.

‘Beautiful twenty-five-year-olds don't look forward to sitting all alone in front of a fire like old women on Christmas Eve,' Flynn stated silkily, but she'd caught the metallic chink of steel under the velvety softness of his tone.

She felt the ‘beautiful' melting her resistance and fought the weakness with all her might. ‘This one does,' she said flatly.

‘You're coming, Marigold. As to the clothes, you needn't worry. The bunch who are coming tonight could be dressed in anything from jeans to Dior.' He had walked back to the cottage door as he'd been speaking and now he reached out for her, his firm, slightly stern and very sensuous mouth smiling.

What were the odds on it being the Dior, Marigold asked herself wryly, but with his fingertips against her lower ribs, and the warmth of his palms cupping her sides sending pulsing sensation through her body, it was hard to concentrate on anything but his closeness.

Nevertheless, she opened her mouth to object but before she could say a word his lips had snatched it away, plunging swiftly into the undefended territory as he took full advantage of her momentary uncertainty. This time there was no gentle persuasion; the kiss was hot and potent and dangerous, feeding a heady rush of wild sensation that had her gasping against his mouth. He pulled her hard into him until she felt she was branded against his maleness; the sensation more intimate than all the caresses she had shared with Dean.

This was what it should be like, she thought headily as her senses swam. This need, this desire, this overwhelming, driving urge to get closer and closer. For the first time in her life she was revelling in the knowledge that she was a woman, one half of a perfect whole.

She could feel his heart pounding like a sledgehammer against the solid wall of his chest, and then, as his hands moved beneath the thick towelling and found the warm, soft silk of her nightie, the flesh beneath firm and taut, she trembled helplessly.

She felt this man was an alien being, a dark, powerful stranger who could sweep her into another world without even trying, and yet at the same time she felt she had known him since the world began, that he had always been part of her. She shivered, the extent of her need frightening, and immediately she felt him move away. ‘You're cold.' His voice was rueful, and she hated him that he could even formulate words when she was feel
ing so utterly devastated. ‘Go and have that hot bath and I'll see you tonight.'

She didn't say anything for the simple reason she couldn't, but after he had left, in a swirl of snow as he drove the big vehicle hard towards the house on the other side of the valley, she berated herself a hundred times as she lay soaking in the warm, bubbly water.

She must be mad, stark, staring mad, to agree to go to this party tonight! Not that she had actually agreed, she comforted herself vainly, not in so many words. But he'd come for her at six and he wouldn't take no for an answer, she argued dismally. She'd committed herself to an evening with a host of strangers, all of whom would know each other and be decked up to the nines, and there she'd be—the proverbial Cinderella!

She stayed in the water until it was almost cold and she was beginning to resemble a shrivelled white prune, and then towelled herself dry too vigorously. Her ankle was turning all sorts of interesting shades, she noted with a detachment borne of thoughts of the evening, but at least it wasn't hurting so much and the swelling was beginning to slowly subside. She'd have to wear the bandage tonight, of course, but she just might be able to force a shoe on her foot.

She blow-dried her hair to the accompaniment of ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing', courtesy of the radio, and then creamed herself all over to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. She had expected to feel abjectly miserable on this special day, or at least heartily melancholy, but with mouth-drying apprehension and quivering excitement vying for first place in her breast there was no room for anything else.

Creamed and dry, and still in her bathrobe, Marigold inspected the contents of the wardrobe and groaned
weakly. She had packed with a view to a week or so in a remote cottage where warmth and comfort might be at a premium if there were power cuts or any other winter problems; not a top-drawer party!

She had brought her expensive tight black jeans—just in case everything else had got soaked through some catastrophe, not because she had thought she would actually wear them—but the only way they would look right for a party was teamed with a flamboyant top of some kind. And that she definitely did not have.

She frowned to herself, wondering if the cottage boasted a brown paper bag which would fit over her head and at least hide her mortification!

And then her eyes fell on the grubby lace curtain at the bedroom window. It might be dusty, she acknowledged as a dart of excitement shot into her mind, but if she wasn't mistaken it was the most beautiful antique lace in a soft cream. Dared she take it down and use it for tonight? She'd inherited her mother's flair with a needle and she always brought an emergency kit of needle and thread away with her; she could do this. She would buy the most fabulous replacement in the world after Christmas—not that Emma would probably even notice she had used the curtain in the first place. She had been talking about paying someone to come and clear the house—furniture, carpets, curtains and all—the last time they'd met when Emma had given her the key.

Marigold limped over to the window, reaching out a tentative hand and touching the lovely old material reverently. Funnily enough it wasn't Emma's reaction to her using the curtain which bothered Marigold, but her grandmother's. Her eyes moved to the faded wallpaper above the fireplace where a wedding photograph of a young couple was hung. Emma's grandparents, she'd be
bound. She hobbled over to the fire, gazing long and hard at the young, smiling girl resplendent in the old-fashioned dress and veil, and deep, dark eyes set in a lovely, sweet face stared back at her.

Take it, they were saying. Use it, enjoy it. Hold your head high and let everyone know you are as good as them. You're your own woman, aren't you? You would have fought to stay where you wanted to be, wouldn't you?
Wouldn't you?

‘I would.' Marigold breathed the words out loud.

So we are sisters, separated only by time. Take the lace and make it into something beautiful…

Marigold had the most absorbing Christmas Eve afternoon.

After gently removing the curtain from its hooks, she washed it tenderly. It dried within minutes by the fire, and then, very carefully, she cut the lace to a pattern she'd drawn out on an old newspaper, humming along to a Christmas carol concert as she worked.

Several hundred tiny, neat stitches later the top was ready, and even to Marigold's critical eyes it looked like a million dollars. She pulled it over her head for the final fit and then sat, flushed with success, as she looked at her reflection in the ancient mirror on the back of one of the wardrobe doors. It could be a Dior, she told herself firmly. Or an Armani or a Versace. It had a real touch of class. And the simple black pumps she had stuffed into her case at the last minute wouldn't look amiss either. Of course, black strappy sandals would have looked better, but no one would have expected that with her ankle the way it was.

It was getting dark outside by the time she dressed the little tree Flynn had brought, but once festooned in
the tinsel and glittering baubles Bertha had sent it looked delightful.

Marigold was so pleased with the top and the tree she had a glass of Flynn's wicked red wine with a calorie-loaded pizza at five o'clock, but, owing to the fact that she had resisted taking any of the painkillers with the party in mind that day, she felt she could indulge.

Once she'd eaten, she concentrated on her make-up and her hair. After two attempts to put her hair up she stopped fighting and allowed it its freedom. It fell, shining, swinging and glossy, to her shoulders, its subtle shades complimenting her creamy skin and deep blue eyes, although Marigold herself was oblivious to its beauty. She stared anxiously into the mirror, wishing she could twirl and pin it high on her head to give the illusion of an extra inch or two to her height, but it was so fine and silky it defied pins and restraints.

After applying the lightest of foundations to her clear, smooth skin, Marigold brushed a little indigo-blue shadow on her eyelids and a couple of coatings of mascara on her lashes. A touch of creamy plum lipstick and she was nearly ready. She bit fretfully on her full lower lip as she surveyed her reflection, and then clicked her tongue in annoyance as lipstick coated her two front teeth.

After a tissue had removed the offending colour Marigold tried again, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bird. The top looked great, but what she would give for another five or six inches on her height was nobody's business!

Calm, girl, calm. She fixed tiny silver studs in her ears—the only earrings she had brought with her—as she wondered what on earth she was doing. This was as far removed from the cosy, quiet Christmas Eve she'd had
in mind a few days ago as a trip to the moon! But it was happening… She breathed deeply and prayed for serenity. It was happening and all she could do was to get through the next few hours with as much poise and dignity as she could muster.

Why had Flynn asked her to the party? Was he really interested in her or was she just a novelty; worse, did he feel sorry for her? But those kisses hadn't been borne of pity, had they? No, they hadn't, she reassured herself feverishly. She might not be as experienced and worldly wise as Flynn Moreau, but even she knew the difference between sympathy and a far stronger emotion—that of desire.

But she didn't
want
him to desire her! The girl looking back at her from out of the mirror's misty depths challenged that thought with her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and now Marigold's face showed a touch of panic. She had to get a grip on herself, for goodness' sake. A man like Flynn could have any woman he wanted with a click of his fingers; he wasn't about to lose any sleep over her one way or the other. All she had to do was to make it clear she wasn't on for a little Christmas hanky-panky and she wouldn't see him for dust. Simple really.

The firm, loud knock on the front door of the cottage interrupted this rational line of thought and brought Marigold's eyes snapping open to their fullest extent. He was here! She cast one last, frantic glance at the mirror and then shut her eyes tightly for a moment, before opening them and bringing back her shoulders in a stance which would have been more appropriate for going to war than to a Christmas Eve party.

She had rested her ankle all day and she felt the benefit of this as she walked to meet Flynn, although it had
still been a slight struggle to force her shoe over her swollen foot.

‘Hi.' His voice was lazy as she opened the door; his eyes were anything but.

Marigold flushed slightly at the male appreciation the grey gaze was making no effort to conceal, and knew every second of the hours it had taken to make the lacy top was worthwhile. ‘Hello.' She was pleased how composed her voice sounded.

‘You look beautiful,' he said very softly, his height and breadth accentuated by the dusky-grey silk shirt and black trousers he was wearing.

Marigold was overwhelmingly relieved he wasn't in a dinner jacket. Her top with the expensive black jeans came nicely within smart-casual category. Nevertheless, his clothes screamed an exclusive designer label. For a moment she had the slightly hysterical thought—borne of nerves—as to what he would say if he knew she was wearing an old curtain, but then she thrust it to one side and answered politely, ‘Thank you.'

‘Here.' He had been holding one hand behind his back and now he brought out a small box in which reposed the most exquisite corsage of two pale cream orchids. ‘I must have sixth sense or something; it's just the right colour.'

‘Oh, how lovely.' She was entranced at the delicate beauty of the flowers, the pink in her cheeks deepening at the unexpected gift. ‘But you really shouldn't have.'

He smiled slowly, extracting the corsage from its snug box and bending forward to fix it on her top as he said quietly, his eyes on the flowers, ‘Wilf's prepared one for each of the female guests tonight, courtesy of his greenhouse.'