Page 20 of Christmas at His Command

‘No, Maggie was the proverbial cup of tea and hot buttered scones type.’ A black eyebrow quirked. ‘There are some croissants in the bread bin, though, along with one of Bertha’s home-made loaves, if you’re offering?’

She hadn’t been aware she was. She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Breakfast seems like years ago when you’ve been working in the fresh air for a while,’ he murmured with blatant scheming.

‘Oh, I’m sorry; I thought you’d brought in a couple of Christmas trees,’ Marigold said severely, ‘not a whole forest.’

He grinned at her, utterly unrepentant at his persistence, and Marigold floundered. ‘Croissants it is, then,’ she agreed quickly, just wishing he would move and put a little more space between them. ‘And I suppose you know where the preserves are, too?’

‘Left-hand cupboard above the sink,’ Flynn answered meekly. ‘And I prefer blackcurrant.’

‘You’ll get what you’re given.’

‘Promises, promises…’

But he had taken the bucket and was walking out of the kitchen and she could breathe again.

‘And don’t try to carry a tray or anything,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll come and see to it once the fire’s blazing.’

By half-past ten Marigold was seated in front of a roaring fire which contrasted beautifully with the swirling snowflakes outside the sitting-room window, eating croissants warmed in the kitchen’s big old oven. Flynn demolished five to her two—his liberally covered with blackcurrant preserve—after which he said pensively, ‘Ever tried toast made over an open fire?’

‘You can’t still be hungry!’

‘I burn off a lot of energy.’ He eyed her over his coffee mug and she didn’t ask how.

They found a toasting fork among the instruments hanging on a black iron stand on the hearth, and once Flynn had cut the bread and begun toasting it over the fire the smell was so wonderful that Marigold found herself eating a piece dripping with melting butter even though she was full up.

This was too cosy by half. She slanted a glance at Flynn under her eyelashes. He was busy toasting his second doorstep, crouched down in front of the fire in a manner which stretched the denim tight over lean, strong hips and muscled thighs. He had a magnificent body… The thought came from nowhere and shocked her into choking on an errant crumb.

How on earth had she come to be sitting here in her dressing gown, sharing breakfast with a man she had only known for a couple of days? Marigold asked herself faintly. But she knew the answer—because the man in question went by the name of Flynn Moreau. He was like a human bulldozer, she thought with a touch of desperate bewilderment—riding roughshod over any objections or difficulties in his path to get what he wanted.

Did he want her? She risked another glance and then stiffened as she met his eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked softly.

‘The matter?’

‘You were frowning.’

‘Was I?’ she prevaricated feebly. She managed to divert him by making some excuse about twinges in her foot, before she quickly moved on to the fact she needed a hot bath and to get dressed.

‘Go ahead,’ he offered blandly. ‘I’ll wash up and then set up the Christmas tree.’

‘No, it’s all right really.’ The thought of Flynn in the cottage while she lay naked in the bath was unthinkable. ‘You must have lots to do back at the house, and didn’t you say you had guests arriving today?’

‘Later,’ he agreed smoothly.

‘Well, I’d like to have a really long, hot soak,’ she persisted firmly, ‘and I shan’t feel comfortable doing that if I know I’m keeping you waiting. It…it’ll be good for my ankle,’ she added.

He stared at her but the doctor in him won. ‘OK.’ He stood up in one lithe, graceful male movement and she blinked. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any good my offering to wash your back?’ he suggested softly.

‘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.’

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