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‘You certainly know your flowers,’ she said as offhandedly as she could manage.
‘No, just marigolds.’ He was watching her closely, seriously, and a little trickle of something she couldn’t name shivered down her spine. And then the firm, stern mouth relaxed, a smile twisting along his lips. ‘Come on, everyone will be wondering where we’ve got to,’ he said evenly. ‘Have you got a wrap or coat or something?’
She had only brought her fleece and cagoule with her and neither was remotely suitable for this evening, Marigold thought distractedly as she hurried back to the bedroom. But other than freeze she had no choice but the fleece; she hadn’t even brought a cardigan with her—just several chunky jumpers.
She reached for her black purse, which she’d emptied of money a few minutes earlier and replaced with a lipstick and comb, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did so. The tight black jeans, waist-length lacy top and black pumps did look good.
She glanced at her faithful old fleece, which had seen better days, and decided to freeze.
Flynn was using the snowboard that had been propped against the wall of the cottage to clear the path when she locked the front door and popped the key into her purse, so the walk to the big 4x4 parked just outside the garden gate was problem-free.
Marigold paused before climbing into the vehicle, glancing up at the sky, which was now clear of snow clouds. A host of twinkling diamonds set in black velvet stretched endlessly in the heavens, timeless and enchanting, and below the frost had already formed crystals on the surface of the snow like a carpet of diamond dust. It was a beautiful, beautiful Christmas Eve, Marigold thought wonderingly. And she was going to spend it in the company of this commanding, enigmatic man, Flynn Moreau.
And the strange thing, the really fanciful thing was that she’d been fighting a feeling all day that somehow this was meant to be. Fighting it because she knew, in the heart of her, that a man like Flynn would be treating this as a pleasant interlude, no more. And because every instinct she possessed was screaming the warning that he was a dark threat to her peace of mind, her well-being, and if she let just the tiniest chink in her armour fail she would regret it for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS halfway through the evening—when Marigold admitted to herself that she was having the time of her life—that she found she could actually smile at her ridiculous notions concerning Flynn. Of course, by then she had downed several glasses of the champagne that seemed to be flowing as freely as water, but that had only relaxed her a little, she told herself firmly. Flynn’s friends were a great bunch and they had welcomed her as if they had known her all their lives, and Flynn himself was a charming host.
The house was a Christmas dream, decorated with traditional holly and ivy and deep-red velvet ribbons, and the enormous Christmas tree standing in the hall was a vision of red and gold, tiny flickering candles and shimmering baubles vying with streams of glittering tinsel and fairy lights.
Marigold found she was never alone, even though she had refused several offers to dance because of her ankle. Somehow she’d been drawn quite naturally into a group of Flynn’s colleagues who were about her age or a little older. As the evening progressed she found they were wonderful company, funny and often outrageous, teasing each other with a naturalness that declared they all knew each other very well.
Flynn seemed to be near by even when he wasn’t actually with her most of the night, but his attentiveness—if that was what it was—was merely the kind that a good host would display to a guest who didn’t really know anyone else, Marigold reminded herself umpteen times during the evening.
At midnight there were howls of excited laughter and little shrieks when Father Christmas, complete in red suit and white beard, appeared, delving into his enormous sack for presents for everyone. All the women had items of jewellery and the men gold cuff-links, and as Marigold unwrapped her gift—a pair of tiny gold hoops with a single red stone enclosed in a teardrop hanging from them—she happened to glance at Flynn, intending to mouth ‘thank you’ across the heads between them.
He was leaning back against the wall close to where she was sitting, arms crossed over his chest and a faintly brooding expression on his dark face, and for a disquieting moment she got the impression he was viewing them all from a distance, like a scientist forced to inspect some rather uninteresting bugs under his microscope.
Marigold felt the impact of the thought like a shower of cold water and lowered her eyes quickly, making an excuse about visiting the cloakroom in the next moment and escaping from the noisy throng.
Once in the cloakroom, which had been designated for use by the ladies only, the gentlemen having to use one on the floor above, Marigold went into one of the two cubicles and closed the door, needing some privacy to marsha
ll her whirling thoughts. Flynn’s whole charming, amenable-host act had been nothing more than that—an act, she told herself flatly. None of them had seen what the real man was thinking or feeling tonight. That look on his face; it had been unnerving, disturbing.
Marigold glanced down at her ankle, which was beginning to remind her it was still around, and breathed deeply several times to control her racing heartbeat. It was what she had sensed in him all along, this autonomy. The women had been flocking around him tonight and even the men searched out his company, obviously enjoying his companionship, but all along he had been… What? she asked herself. And the answer came, absent from them. Flynn was here in the physical but mentally a million miles away.
She sat in the cubicle for a few moments more, angry with herself that the revelation had bothered her so much. All this would seem like a dream when she got back to the reality of her life in London; none of it mattered, not really.
And then, as though to call her bluff, she heard the door to the cloakroom open and the sound of voices.
‘But who is she? Surely someone knows?’
‘Darling, you know as much as me. According to Flynn she’s a friend, that’s all. She’s staying in that dear little cottage we pass to get to the house apparently.’
Marigold had intended to rise and leave her hidey-hole but had frozen at the first words, knowing they were talking about her.
‘Friend? Well, there are friends and friends!’ The other woman giggled, not nastily but in a way that brought a pink tinge to Marigold’s cheeks.
‘Janet! You’re terrible. You don’t know anything’s going on, now then. Anyway, don’t forget there’s always Celine in the background,’ the other woman warned in a much more sober fashion. ‘Whoever this girl is and whatever the relationship between her and Flynn, she’ll go the same way as the rest.’
‘He’s such a dreamboat, though, isn’t he?’ Janet sighed, long and lustily. ‘One night with Flynn and I bet you’d be ruined for any other man.’
‘Janet!’ Now Marigold could tell the other woman was definitely shocked although she was half laughing when she said, ‘You’ve only been married six months; you should still be in the first throes of married bliss and thinking only of Henry! Right, that’s my face repaired; are you coming?’
‘Yes, all right. Let me just put on a bit more lipstick…’
There was a brief pause before the sound of the door opening and closing again, and then silence.
