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Marigold nodded. It hurt more than she would have thought possible to hear the other woman’s name on his lips, which was a warning in itself.
‘I was brought up in an atmosphere of too much money and too little purpose.’ He was speaking more to himself now than her. ‘I needed to break the cycle before it broke me, hence the medical profession. I could put something back there, you see, do something lasting. The idealism of youth.’ He glanced at her, a cool smile twisting his mouth. ‘And it turned out that by some fluke I found my niche. I was a good student, and neurology had always fascinated me. The rest, as they say, is history.’
Marigold wanted to ask him more about Celine; when they’d realised they’d fallen in love; when they’d got engaged; what had caused the break-up. But she realised the brief glimpse into his past was over when he raised his glass, his voice changing as he said, ‘To Maggie.’
‘To Maggie?’ She stared at him in surprise as she raised her own glass.
‘Of course. Without the cottage being left to Emma we wouldn’t have met, so we have Maggie to thank for it.’
‘If Emma hadn’t suggested I use it for Christmas we wouldn’t have met,’ she corrected factually.
‘If you think I’m toasting Emma, think again.’ He grinned with a sexy quirk of his sternly sensual mouth and she acknowledged defeat.
‘To Maggie,’ she agreed quickly, taking a great gulp of wine for much-needed support before she backed away from him, saying, ‘Sit down and relax while I see to dinner. The remote for the TV is on the coffee-table,’ before she turned tail and fled into the fragile safety of her small kitchen.
Once the oven was on and she had placed the pork loin steaks in the roasting tin, Marigold quickly made the glaze, mixing together lime rind and juice, soy sauce, honey, garlic, ginger and the other ingredients before she poured the mixture over the chops. She popped the tin into the oven and finished her glass of wine, pouring herself another before taking the bottle and walking into the sitting room to see if Flynn wanted a refill.
He was half lying in a somewhat awkward position on the sofa, as though the onslaught of sleep had caught him unawares—wh
ich it probably had, Marigold thought dazedly through the frantic beating of her heart. One hand was thrown back over his head and the other was still round his empty glass, and she was breathlessly aware she was seeing him vulnerable and defenceless for the first time.
He looked different in sleep; younger, more boyish, the deep lines round his eyes and mouth less pronounced, and his thick dark eyelashes adding to the illusion of youth. Not so his body; the broad, muscled torso and powerful thighs spoke of a man in his prime, and even sleep couldn’t negate the flagrant maleness that was an essential part of his appeal.
Marigold moved forward, she couldn’t help it, even though part of her was objecting that if their positions had been reversed and she had been asleep she would have hated Flynn being able to examine her at leisure.
His suit was beautiful and clearly wildly expensive, as was the silk shirt and tie, but he had looked just as good in the old jeans and sweater he’d worn to bring in the Christmas trees, she thought faintly.
She looked at his mouth, relaxed now but still so sexy it made her want to put her own lips against it, and at the hard, square male chin where black stubble was clearly visible.
What would it be like to be made love to by this man? Even the thought of it made her weak at the knees. The firm power of his naked flesh, the warmth of his body heat, the delicious and unique smell of him encompassing her in wave after wave of exquisite pleasure…
She knelt down by the sofa, telling herself she only wanted to remove the glass from his nerveless fingers and put it safely on the coffee-table, where she could fill it with wine ready for when he awoke.
This close, his aura of masculinity was disturbingly sensual, the combination of brooding toughness and little-boy susceptibility almost painful. She took the glass very slowly, easing it out of his fingers and placing it on the floor by the side of the sofa without turning to the coffee-table. She found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sleeping face. His childhood, the break with Celine, the things he saw every day in his work must have all contributed to the cool, distant, cynical expression which veiled his countenance when he was awake, but like this she could almost imagine those things had never happened.
She touched the rough male chin very lightly with her lips, she couldn’t help herself, and when there was no response, no stirring, she dared to move upwards to the firm mouth. She had never found over-full lips attractive on a man and Flynn’s were just right; cleanly sculpted and warm. She shut her eyes for just a moment, knowing she had to move away and return to the kitchen, and when she opened them again silver orbs were staring straight into shocked violet.
She seemed to be incapable of doing anything but look back into his gaze, shock freezing her reactions, but then his arms came round her and she found herself drawn upwards and onto him so that she was lying half across the big, powerful frame. ‘Nice…’ It was a contented male murmur and he was holding her so closely, so securely, there was no point in struggling. She didn’t want to anyhow.
His mouth teased at hers as he stroked over her compliant, soft body, exploring her curves and valleys with a leisurely enjoyment that sent tiny thrills cascading down her nerves and sinews. Languorously her head fell back to expose the curve of her throat as his mouth searched lower, and then it returned to her lips, the kiss more urgent as he made a low, deep sound of satisfaction in his throat.
It was as he moved her hips, drawing her against him in a manner that guaranteed she couldn’t fail to become aware of his body’s arousal, that she became aware of what she was allowing. She stiffened, but immediately he sensed her withdrawal, his voice soft and husky as he said, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’m not an immature boy who is going to insist on more than you want to give. Relax…’
‘I…I have to see to the dinner.’ She sat up, her voice breathless, and he made no effort to hold on to her by force.
‘Damn the dinner.’ But his voice was lazy rather than annoyed.
‘I brought you some more wine.’ She stood up quickly, her cheeks flushed as she endeavoured to straighten her clothes and brush back her tousled hair.
He sat up straighter himself. ‘That’s very kind.’ It was mildly amused, and made Marigold feel about sixteen years old.
‘The glass is by your feet.’ She stepped back a pace as she spoke. ‘Help yourself to the wine. I’ll just go and see to the vegetables or the pork will spoil.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
She gave a weak smile and scurried into the kitchen, furious with herself. How could she have kissed him like that? she asked herself angrily as she took out her aggression on a hapless onion, slicing it with savage intent. After all she had said about being friends she practically had to go and eat the man! Talk about sending mixed signals. And she just hated women who did that.
Did he call all his women sweetheart?
