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Marigold stiffened, instantly furious. As an only child she had learnt at an early age to stand up for herself—there were no siblings to run to or to ask for help. Likewise she had realised that if she wanted friends for company after school and in the holidays she had to make them herself. She had never run away from a situation or a person, and had always taken the proverbial bull by the horns, and now this…this arrogant, self-opinionated, high-and-mighty stranger had had the cheek to think he could make a sweeping judgement like that!
‘Forgive me, Mr Moreau,’ she said icily, ‘but I thought your qualifications were in the realm of brain surgery, not psychology. That being the case, I’d keep the amateur psychoanalysis to yourself if I were you.’
He hadn’t liked the tone of her voice; it was there in the narrowing of his eyes and the hard line of his mouth, but his voice was soft when he said, ‘So you are not afraid of me?’
‘I’m not afraid of anyone!’
‘This is very good.’ There was the slightest of accents to his voice at times, or perhaps not even an accent but a certain way of putting things that made his mixed and somewhat volatile parentage very obvious. ‘Then perhaps you would like to have coffee with me?’ he suggested silkily. ‘Bertha always brings me a tray at about this time.’
She stared at him warily. She couldn’t think of anything she would like less but she couldn’t very well say so, and so she nodded stiffly, still very much on the defensive as he stood aside for her to enter the room.
It was clearly his study. Books lined two of the walls and a third was taken up by a huge full-length window, which opened out on to a rolling lawn. A fire was burning in a black marble fireplace, and in front of it—stretched out comfortably on a thick rug as though it was a place he was very familiar with—was the big tabby cat. Flynn gestured to a large, plump leather chair in front of the big mahogany desk strewn with papers. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
Comfortable was not an option around this man, Marigold thought ruefully as she duly seated herself, expecting Flynn to take the massive chair behind the desk, where he had clearly been working. Instead he stood looking down at her for a moment, his eyes wandering over the clear oval face and creamy skin and lingering on the delicate bone-structure, before he perched himself easily on the edge of the desk in front of her.
‘I would like you to spend Christmas here,’ he said coolly without any lead-up at all. ‘OK?’
Not OK. Definitely, definitely not OK. Rascal was now purring as he rolled on his back for a moment in the warmth from the fire, fanning the air with plump paws for a moment or two before he sank back into contented immobility.
Flynn probably viewed her like Emma’s grandmother’s waifs and strays, Marigold thought ignominiously, especially after she had revealed her reason for deciding to spend Christmas at the cottage all alone. Why, oh, why had she told him about Dean? Did he think she was playing for the sympathy vote? She steeled her humiliation not to come through in her voice as she said politely, ‘I really couldn’t do that. You’ve said you already have guests coming to stay.’
‘I also said that one more won’t make any difference,’ he reminded her smoothly.
‘Nevertheless…’
‘You’re not fit enough to be in that cottage alone and you know it,’ he challenged quietly.
She’d been right. He did view her as poor little orphan Annie. ‘I disagree.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I’ve food, warmth—and I intend to just veg out for a few days. Emma’s coming at some point anyway.’ She wished he’d move off the desk and into his chair; somehow he seemed twice as intimidating than usual in his present position, and she was uncomfortably aware of hard, powerful male thighs just a few inches away from her face.
‘So I can’t persuade you?’ the deep, dark voice asked silkily.
‘No, you can’t.’
It was so definite the dark brows rose slowly in disparaging amusement. ‘Pity.’
Bertha tapped on the door at that moment and then entered with a steaming tray holding a coffee-pot, cup and saucer and a plate of what looked like home-made shortcake. ‘Another cup and saucer, please, Bertha, and milk and sugar. You do take milk and sugar?’ he asked Marigold, who nodded quickly, and then felt herself deflate with relief when he slid off the desk and walked round to his chair as Bertha disappeared.
She searched her mind for something reasonably impersonal to say. ‘So you’ve lived here for a couple of years?’ she said carefully. ‘Isn’t it a little remote and far from London?’
He shrugged powerful shoulders and for a moment her senses went into hyperdrive before she got them under control again. ‘That’s what made it so attractive when Peter decided to sell. I had a place in London at the time and although it was very comfortable in its own grounds—’ she could imagine, Marigold thought waspishly ‘—I was always on top of the job, so to speak. I’d been looking for somewhere like this for some time but the right location hadn’t presented itself. Peter and I did the deal in weeks, which suited his circumstances, and after buying the flat in London I moved most of the furniture here. The only stipulation from Peter was that I’d keep an eye on Maggie for him; he was very fond of the old lady and within a few minutes of meeting her I could understand why.’
‘I’m sure Emma’s family didn’t mean to be neglectful—’ Marigold began, only to be interrupted by an abrupt wave of his hand.
‘Spare me any platitudes.’
She glared at him. He was the rudest man she had ever met by far! She had heard it said that medical consultants and such considered themselves one step down from the Almighty, and now she was beginning to believe it.
Bertha returned with the other cup and saucer before Marigold could think of an adequately scathing retort, and while they drank the coffee and ate the shortbread Flynn kept the conversation pleasant and easy. Marigold had briefly considered sulking, but in view of the fact that he had opened up his home to her she decided a few more minutes of tolerance weren’t completely beyond her.
As soon as she’d finished, however, she launched herself a little awkwardly to her feet. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ she said quietly as Flynn rose in his turn. ‘Thank you very much indeed for all you’ve done.’
‘Flynn.’
‘What?’ He’d said his name very softly.
‘The name is Flynn,’ he persisted irascibly. ‘You’ve avoided calling me anything at all rather than say my name, haven’t you?’
She’d call him lots of things if only he did but know it. ‘Not at all,’ she lied quickly, knowing he was absolutely right. Somehow calling him Flynn took this situation to another dimension, an
