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‘As you have so succinctly pointed out, I’ve been around long enough to know what I want and from whom,’ Flynn said softly. ‘But I never asked any of the others to marry me.’
Except Celine. The thought hammered in her mind for a second before she pushed it resolutely away. She couldn’t begin to work this complex and highly intelligent individual out, but he was offering her more than she had ever dreamed he would. And she loved him. In fact she loved him so much she didn’t know how she would have managed to live without him. And now she didn’t have to.
‘So what’s your answer?’ he said very quietly. ‘Think carefully before you speak but one thing is for sure; I’m not letting you go out of my life and my patience is exhausted. I need to make a statement to any other young whippersnappers like your ex that might be sniffing about, too—a statement that you are mine.’
A statement to other men? Was he mad? Did he really imagine she had them queueing up in droves? ‘It doesn’t look as if I’ve any other option than to say yes, then,’ she said softly, her mouth tremulous. ‘But I don’t understand—’
He had cut her voice off with a long and passionate kiss, only lifting his mouth from hers when she was trembling against him, melting and soft. ‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Why you want me,’ she said with touching honesty.
He stroked the smooth silk of her cheek very gently. ‘Then I’ll have to make you understand,’ he said huskily, his eyes telling her of his desire more eloquently than any words could have done. ‘But now is not the time.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve got to go. I only intended to call by briefly to explain something, but there’s no time now. I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you, OK? In the morning before you leave for work. It’s important we talk.’
‘Yes, all right.’ She was bewildered, but he was already lifting her away from him and standing to his feet, clearly anxious to be off. ‘Are you going to the hospital now?’ she asked, already knowing the answer. She had noticed the expression which had come over his face before when he was heavily involved in a case—a kind of veiled urgency, as though part of him was already in the operating theatre.
‘Uh-huh.’ He kissed her again, long and hard. ‘But I’ll ring you in the morning,’ he reiterated.
That meant he was probably going to be in Theatre until the early hours; the case must be a serious one that couldn’t wait. No doubt even now the patient was going through the rigorous checks and procedures Flynn insisted on before he operated.
‘You go,’ Marigold said quickly, wanting to make it easy for him, and then, for the first time since they’d met, it was she who reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him.
Flynn swept her close again for one last scorching embrace before he left, buttoning his coat as he went.
For a full minute after Flynn had gone Marigold just leant against the front door, staring dazedly about her tiny hall. Of all the events of the day, Flynn’s proposal of marriage was the most amazing and she just couldn’t take it in. She ran their conversation through in her mind as though she was listening to a recording to convince herself it had actually happened.
Marigold Moreau… She blinked, putting her hand to her wildly beating heart. He had asked her to become his wife.
She tottered through to the kitchen and made herself a strong cup of coffee before taking it through to the sitting room. She couldn’t eat anything, not yet, she was too excited and worked up. Oh, Flynn, Flynn… The enormity of it began to sink in. Marriage. It had all seemed so simple when he was here and holding her tight, but now she found herself wondering why he had asked her to marry him this particular night. Had she forced him into the proposal by the stance she had taken tonight and the way she’d been over the last months? Refusing to sleep with him? If so, she didn’t want it to be like that. That would be like a form of sexual blackmail and never, not for a second, had she planned that. In fact it had never crossed her mind that Flynn would ever ask her to become his wife; there was Celine Jenet, after all.
Marigold brushed her hair away from her hot face, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment or two as she struggled with her turbulent thoughts, and the more she struggled the more the old doubts and fears raised their heads.
Had Flynn said he loved her? She thought back to the emotion-charged minutes they had shared, her racing mind desperately seeking reassurance. No, he had not. Not in so many words. But the way he’d looked at her had been a declaration in itself, hadn’t it?
Or—a little voice in the back of her mind asked probingly—was it that she wanted, needed to believe it had been a declaration?
Her head was whirling after a few minutes, and another cup of coffee—black this time and as strong as she could stand it—did nothing to clear her head.
She needed to switch off for a few minutes. Marigold reached for the TV remote, and as the little screen in front of her lit up she sank back against the soft cushions of the sofa, utterly spent.
She couldn’t remember a thing about the programme which was on—she must have sat in a kind of stupor through most of it—but her attention was caught by the short clip introducing the next feature, an awards ceremony of some kind. ‘Tonight promises to be a glittering occasion for those in the fashion world…’ It went on in the same vein for a moment or two, but then Marigold sat up straight as the announcer said, ‘And among those flying in this afternoon was Celine Jenet, who has only recently announced her retirement from the catwalk.’ There was the briefest of pictures of a smiling Celine exiting the airport terminal, but it was the tall, dark man who had his arm round her waist who caught Marigold’s eye.
Flynn. Marigold’s hands went to cover her mouth, and she pressed hard against her flesh as she stared uncomprehendingly at the screen before the picture changed, showing more celebrities and flashing cameras and crowds cheering outside some building or other.
This afternoon. That was what the announcer had said. Celine was here, in London. With Flynn.
‘No. Oh, no.’ It was a whimper and Marigold heard herself with a feeling of self-disgust, but she could do nothing about the pain and shock swamping her.
Was that where Flynn was tonight? With Celine at this gala occasion? She clicked off the TV, her head swimming. And she had actually encouraged him to leave her, thinking he was going to the hospital.
A tide of nausea rose up in Marigold’s throat and she found herself having to take deep breaths to control the sickness. How could he do this to her? Lie to her like this? How could he propose and then go straight to another woman, to Celine? He was as bad as Dean. A sob caught in her throat and she stood up, beginning to walk backwards and forwards as she tried to think what to do. History had repeated itself, it would seem. Was there something the matter with her? she asked herself wretchedly. There had to be. Something had to make these men think that she was stupid.
But…but what if by some hundred-to-one chance she had got it wrong? Maybe, just maybe he had met Celine at the airport for old times’ sake? It was possible.
She knew she was clutching at straws but she couldn’t help it. What if Flynn had been telling the truth and was at the hospital tonight? It didn’t have to follow that because he had been with Celine that afternoon he was with her at this function tonight. But how could she find out for sure?
Bertha might know. Marigold’s heart began to thump hard and she didn’t wait to consider further, reaching for the telephone and dialling the Shropshire number which was written in the little book at the side of it. It was only as the receiver was picked up at the other end she realised she could have called the hospital; Bertha might have been told to deny he was with Celine.
