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She sat for some minutes, staring into space, before sliding down into the warm cocoon again. No, it was an impossible idea. Even if she forgot about all the practical difficulties there was still Flynn. Her heart began to pound with reckless speed at the thought of Flynn as her nearest neighbour, and she spoke to it sternly, telling it to behave.
She wasn’t going to think about this any more tonight. She turned over onto her side, adjusting her legs so that her good foot protected her aching ankle, and shut her eyes determinedly. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, she was in a snug little cottage with snow all around her and masses of food and drink, and it was nice to be on her own for once. It was. She’d enjoy her Christmas—quietly perhaps, but she’d still enjoy it—and she wasn’t going to think about anything more challenging than when the next glass of wine or meal was due. She probably wouldn’t even see Flynn Moreau again anyway…
She was asleep within minutes, and it didn’t occur to her, as she drifted away into a deep, dreamless slumber, that she hadn’t given a single thought to Dean and Tamara for hours.
It was about ten o’clock the next morning when the sound of someone banging on the front door of the cottage brought Marigold jerking awake. For a moment or two she didn’t know where she was and then, as it all flooded back, she pushed the covers aside and reached for the new thick, fleecy white robe she had treated herself to as an early Christmas present. It was the sort of thing she’d seen some of the stars of the silver screen wear in fashionable magazines, and although it had cost an arm and a leg it made her feel wonderfully feminine and expensive. And since Tamara she’d needed to feel feminine.
She tested her weight gingerly on her poorly foot and when it felt bearable she limped carefully to the door without bothering to use the crutches, wondering if Wilf was outside with Myrtle. She brushed her cloud of hair from her eyes and opened the door.
‘Good morning.’
It was snowing again, she thought dazedly as she stared into a pair of crystal eyes above which jet-black hair was coated with a feathery covering of white, before forcing herself to answer, ‘Good morning.’
‘I got you out of bed.’ He didn’t sound at all sorry; in fact his eyes were inspecting her with a relish that made Marigold feel positively undressed rather than wrapped round in an armour of fluffy white towelling.
‘Yes,’ she agreed vaguely, wondering how any one man had the right to look so sexy when she hadn’t even brushed her teeth. ‘I didn’t bother to set my alarm.’
‘I’ve brought you something.’ He indicated with his hand at the side of him and she looked down to see a cute little Christmas tree sitting on the step. ‘We’ve just brought in the one for the house and this was close by and it seemed the right size for the cottage. Bertha’s sorted out a few decorations and what have you. It’s in a tub and you’ll need to keep it damp so it can go back outside after Christmas.’
‘Right.’ She knew she wasn’t sounding very grateful but she was acutely conscious of her tousled hair and make-up-free face.
‘How’s the foot?’
‘The foot?’ Marigold made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Oh, the foot. It seems a bit better, thank you,’ she managed fairly coherently.
‘Good.’ He paused, looking down at her with glittering eyes. ‘There’s not any coffee going, is there?’
Marigold flushed. After his open-handed generosity she could hardly refuse him a cup of coffee, but he looked so immaculately groomed, with every hair in place, and she… Well, she wasn’t, she reflected hotly. Although he had nicked himself shaving. Her eyes focused on a tiny cut on the square male chin and she found herself suddenly short of breath.
‘Marigold?’
‘What?’ She blinked, realising he had said something else and she hadn’t heard a word.
‘I said, if it’s too much trouble…’
Marigold’s flush deepened. ‘Of course not,’ she said crossly, and then moderated her tone as she added, ‘Please come in, and you can put the tree in the sitting room by the fireplace if you don’t mind. It…it’s very nice.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he agreed meekly, but she had glanced into the silver eyes again and they were laughing at her.
Once in the sitting room, Flynn looked somewhat accusingly at the faint glow from the embers of the fire. ‘It’s nearly out. You see to the coffee and I’ll see to the fire,’ he offered, shrugging off his leather jacket and slinging it onto the sofa as he spoke. ‘Have you come across the old bucket Maggie used for the hot ashes?’
‘It’s in the broom cupboard; I’ll get it,’ Marigold said hastily. She’d discovered the broom cupboard in an alcove in the kitchen the day before. ‘You wait here.’ The kitchen was old-fashioned and with barely enough room to swing a cat; the thought of herself and Flynn enclosed in such a small space was daunting to say the least.
She hobbled her way into the kitchen and opened the cupboard door, grabbing the bucket and swinging round, and then she gave a surprised squeak to find Flynn right behind her.
‘You shouldn’t be walking on that ankle yet; where are the crutches?’
He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a big Aran jumper which was clearly an old favourite today; he’d obviously dressed down for the expedition in the snow to bring in the Christmas trees. The clothes were clean but faintly shabby if anything, and didn’t have the designer cut and flair of the others she had seen him in. So why, Marigold asked herself weakly, did they enhance his dark masculinity even more than the others had done?
She forced herself to concentrate on what she was saying as she replied, ‘The crutches are by the bed, I suppose, bu
t I’d rather manage without them if I can. The narrow doorways here are not conducive to an extra pair of legs.’
‘Nor anyone above the height of five feet six,’ Flynn agreed easily. ‘It took me a few visits to see Maggie before I learnt to duck.’
Marigold swallowed and tried a smile. His body was so close it was forcing her to acknowledge her awareness of his male warmth, and the faint scent emanating from the tanned skin—a subtle, spicy fragrance—was causing a reaction in her lower stomach she could well have done without. The trouble was, Flynn was such a disturbing man that just being around him was enough to make her all fingers and thumbs, Marigold admitted to herself crossly. Even when he was just being friendly and helpful, like now.
She held up the bucket, unconsciously using it as a defence against his nearness. ‘I’ll…I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘There’s only instant coffee, I’m afraid; Maggie clearly didn’t run to a coffee maker.’
