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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 sensatio
n 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 feeling 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.
