Christmas at His Command (16 page)

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 be
cause 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.

Marigold thought quickly, and then said, ‘Bertha? It's Marigold. I was calling to speak to Flynn but I've just remembered, he's with Celine, isn't he? I'd forgotten. It's been a hectic day with one thing and another and I'm not thinking straight.'

‘That's all right, dear.'

She hadn't denied it.
She hadn't denied it.
‘I'll call him on his mobile later,' Marigold said hurriedly before Bertha could start chatting. ‘I'm in a mad rush. Goodbye for now.'

She put down the phone without waiting for Bertha's reply and then sat staring at the receiver blankly. She hated him. She really, really hated him.

She looked up the number of his London flat and dialled slowly. It was the answer machine on the other end of the line but she had expected that. She spoke clearly and concisely when the bleeps stopped. ‘Flynn? It's Marigold. I hope you had a nice evening, you and Celine. Oh, just one more thing. I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth. OK? And for the record I never did trust you, so don't think you fooled me for a minute. I don't want to hear from you or see you again. Goodbye.'

She put down the phone, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and burst into tears.

M
ARIGOLD
didn't know at what point she eventually fell asleep, but she had cried herself dry by the time she fell into bed at gone midnight and was exhausted in mind, body and spirit. Nevertheless, she tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before drifting off into a troubled slumber.

When the telephone began to jar her back to consciousness it took some time for the insistent tone to register. She finally surfaced, pulling herself up in bed and reaching for the receiver as she tried to focus blurry eyes on her alarm clock. Five o'clock in the morning?

And then, as a furious male voice bit out her name, it all came flooding back and she remembered. Flynn and Celine!

‘What the hell is that message supposed to mean?'
Flynn sounded more angry than she had ever heard him.

Marigold desperately tried to gather thoughts that were still buried in layers of cotton wool. ‘I would have thought it was pretty obvious,' she managed fairly smartly, considering her heart had just jumped up into her throat at the sound of his voice.

‘You know about Celine?'

Marigold blinked, unable to believe her ears for a moment. He wasn't even going to
try
to deny it? Perversely that made her madder than ever. ‘Again, I would have thought that was obvious,' she said icily.

‘Then what was with the crack about a nice evening?' he snarled savagely. ‘And me fooling you?'

She had never heard him like this, not even when he had thought she was Emma. He obviously didn't take kindly to being caught out. ‘I said you
didn't
fool me,' she reminded him cuttingly.

‘You also said you didn't want to see or hear from me again a few hours after promising to become my wife,' he grated, ‘so what the hell is this about? And don't say you think it's obvious because it damn well isn't, not to me. I've been up for twenty-four hours and I'm not in the mood to play games, Marigold.'

Games! He thought this was a game, did he? And he had obviously only just got in. ‘You told me you were at the hospital last night,' Marigold said, refusing to let her voice quiver. ‘So?'

‘So I saw a clip on TV of Celine arriving in London,' Marigold said tightly. ‘You were with her. And Bertha said you were with her last night.' Well, she had in a way.

‘Wait a minute, let's get this straight. You said you knew about Celine?'

‘I do. There was a programme about the fashion awards, all very glitzy and glamorous,' Marigold said scathingly.

‘And you think Celine was there last night?' There was the briefest of pauses. And then his voice had changed to a soft, icy tone when he said, ‘And you phoned Bertha to see if I was with Celine at this do? Is that right?'

‘Yes.' There was something wrong here. Her stomach curdled with horrible premonition.

‘You could have called me on my mobile, or phoned the hospital if you wanted to talk to me direct, Marigold.'

‘You…you weren't at the hospital.'

‘Did you check? Before you talked to Bertha?' he asked, still in the quiet, deadly tone which was sending chills of foreboding all over her body.

‘No.'

‘I wasn't worth one phone call.'

‘It wasn't like that,' she protested faintly.

‘The hell it wasn't.'

‘I thought—'

‘I know what you thought, Marigold. You were sure I was fooling around with Celine last night so you called Bertha to check up on me. Damn it, I've been such a fool. I thought I could make you love me the way I love you, but you never gave me a chance, not really, did you? Apart from the physical attraction between us I don't think you even like me.'

‘Flynn, that's not true.'

Her genuine distress didn't impress him at all. ‘You believed I would ask you to marry me and then go out and spend the night with another woman.'

The contempt in his voice cut Marigold to the quick, the more so because it was the truth. What could she say, what could she do to make this right? Whatever had occurred during the day she believed Flynn had been at the hospital last night. He hadn't been with Celine.

And then he proved her wrong when he said bitterly, ‘I
was
with Celine last night, Marigold. I left her at four this morning. She's in Intensive Care after having a tumour the size of a golf ball removed from her head. When she comes round—
if
she comes round—she'll probably have to learn to walk and talk again; she might be blind or worse. She should have been operated on weeks ago but some charlatan of a doctor she visited missed all the
signs of a tumour and told her she was having migraines due to stress.'

Marigold was frozen with horror.

‘She came to see me yesterday for a second opinion; she was never intending to go to any function. I knew I had to operate immediately from the tests I did in the afternoon but until we opened up the skull no one realised how bad it was.'

‘Flynn, I'm so sorry.' Remorse and shame were strangling her voice. ‘I don't know what to say.'

‘There's nothing left to say.' It was terribly final. ‘I was fooling myself all along there was anything real between us.'

‘No, please! Listen to me. I didn't understand—'

‘No, you didn't, but then I wasn't important enough to you for you to make the effort, was I?' he said bitterly. ‘If you thought I was capable of behaving like that then there is no hope. I've tried to show you myself over the last months, Marigold. The inner man if you like.' It was said with cutting self-derision. ‘I've never pretended to be perfect, but neither am I the slimeball you've got me down for.'

‘I haven't. Flynn, I haven't.' She was crying now but it seemed to have no effect on him at all.

‘You are going to have to trust someone some time, Marigold,' he said flatly, ‘but it won't be me.'

He meant it, she thought sickly. She'd lost him.

‘Goodbye, Marigold.' And the phone was put down very quietly.

 

The next few days were the worst of Marigold's life. She got through the working hours by functioning on automatic pilot, but once she was home, in the endless
loneliness of her little flat, there was no opiate to the pain of bitter self-reproach and guilt.

She picked up the telephone to call Flynn a hundred times a night, but always put it down again without making the call. What could she say after all? She'd let him down in the worst manner possible and there was no way back. She hadn't even given him the opportunity to defend himself before she had sailed in, all guns firing. He must have got home from the hospital, exhausted and mentally and emotionally drained, and then had the welcome of her telephone message.

If she said she loved him now he would never believe her—she certainly hadn't acted like a woman in love, she flailed herself wretchedly. Love believed the best of the beloved; it was generous and understanding and tender.

She deserved his hatred and contempt. She deserved all the pain and regret.

This orgy of self-recrimination continued until the weekend, and then two things happened which jolted Marigold out of her hopelessness, the first event instigating the second.

At half-past nine in the morning on a cold but bright Saturday Marigold answered a knock at the door to find Dean on her doorstep, an enormous bunch of flowers in his hand. He spoke quickly before she could say a word. ‘I've come to ask if we can still be friends, just friends,' he said quietly, not sounding like himself at all. ‘It was the truth when I said I missed you, Dee, and I don't want it to end like this. I know you're involved with someone else and I don't blame you, but I'd like to think we can still ring each other now and again, meet for coffee, things like that. What do you think?'

She stared at him in astonishment, seeing the genuine
desire for reconciliation, and then surprised them both by bursting into tears.

Two cups of coffee and a couple of rounds of toast later Marigold found herself in the extraordinary position of—having cried on Dean's shoulder—being encouraged by her ex-fiancé to chase after another man. ‘If I thought there was the inkling of a chance of us getting back together I wouldn't be saying this,' Dean admitted wryly, ‘but there isn't, is there?'

Marigold shook her head, her mouth being full of toast and Marmite.

‘And I feel a bit responsible you didn't trust Flynn as you would have done if I hadn't played fast and loose,' Dean said in such a way Marigold suspected he expected her to deny he was to blame.

‘Good, you should,' she responded firmly after swallowing the toast.

‘Yeah, right.' He drained his coffee-cup, aware the time of Marigold seeing him through rose-coloured spectacles was well and truly over. ‘So, go and see him. Talk to him face to face. Tell it how it is. Grovel if you have to. If you don't you'll spend the rest of your life wondering if things might have been OK if you'd just tried.'

Marigold stared at him. Comfort came in the oddest ways and from sources you least expected.

Once Dean had left she ran herself a hot bath and lay soaking in strawberry bubbles as she considered all they had said. If someone like Dean, essentially pretty shallow and selfish, could make the grand gesture he had made this morning, it surely wasn't beyond her to do something similar for Flynn, was it? OK, so Flynn might cut her dead or reduce her to nothing with that cynical tongue of his, but what did that matter? If that happened she deserved it, and she had no pride left after the misery
of the last few days. She would do anything,
anything
to show him how sorry she was.

He had said he loved her, in that last terrible phone call, and she believed he had. Perhaps he still did? Perhaps she hadn't destroyed everything? And even if Celine
was
his first love she didn't care any more. It was
her
he had proposed to a few nights ago,
their
future he had been thinking about.

Marigold had rung the hospital a few times, enquiring after Celine, but each time she had got a standard formal reply. ‘Miss Jenet is as well as can be expected.' The last two days she hadn't rung at all, but once out of the bath she picked up the phone and dialled the number of Flynn's home in Shropshire.

‘Bertha?' She took a deep breath after hearing Flynn's housekeeper's voice. ‘It's Marigold. I'm ringing to ask how Celine is.'

‘Oh, hello, dear.' From the tone of Bertha's voice she knew nothing about their break-up, and this seemed to be borne out when Bertha said, her voice a little puzzled, ‘Why don't you ask Mr Moreau, dear?'

‘He's so busy.'

‘Oh, you don't have to tell me! He'll be ill if he carries on, but hopefully now Celine is on the mend he can relax a bit more. She's still progressing little by little, dear, but she was awake more yesterday and her speech is all but back. It's a blessing her eyesight hasn't been affected, isn't it? I think that's what was worrying Mr Moreau the most.'

By the time Marigold put down the phone a few minutes later she was trembling with reaction. Celine was all right; she was going to get better. According to Bertha, Flynn was confident he had removed all of the tumour and the prognosis for the future was good.

She was going to go round to his flat as soon as she was dressed. She had to see him now, today. She needed to make him understand she loved him, really loved him, and then the rest was up to him. If he couldn't forgive her… She dared not let herself think about that. If she did she would revert to the soggy mess of the last few days, and right now she had to be strong.

After blow-drying her hair into a shining, sleek shoulder-length style, she stood for some time surveying the contents of her wardrobe. She needed to look smart but not too smart; feminine and appealing but not too obvious.

Eventually she chose a pair of new smart brown trousers with her brown boots, teaming them with a white cashmere jumper which had been wickedly expensive but always made her feel good. She made up her face with just a smidgen of foundation to hide the paleness of nerves, and stroked a couple of coats of mascara on her eyelashes.

She couldn't compete with Celine in the beauty stakes, she thought soberly, and she wasn't going to try. This was her; five feet four, brown hair, blue eyes, and capable of the utmost stupidity as her behaviour a few days ago had proved. Would he talk to her? She shut her eyes tightly and prayed for strength. She'd make him!

 

As the taxi pulled into the beautifully kept grounds of the private hospital Marigold did a few deep-breathing exercises to try and combat her wildly beating heart.

She had gone to Flynn's London flat first but when there had been no answer had assumed he was at the hospital. Of course, he might not be, she reminded herself nervously, but he was bound to turn up here sooner
or later. Considering the taxi had run up a bill equal to a small mortgage, she wasn't budging further anyway!

After paying the taxi driver, she squared her shoulders under her brown leather jacket and marched purposefully to the reception doors, which glided open at her approach. She waded through ankle-deep carpet to where an exquisitely coiffured receptionist was waiting with a charming smile. ‘Can I help you?' she purred sweetly.

‘I would like to speak to Mr Moreau. Mr Flynn Moreau,' Marigold said firmly.

‘Do you have an appointment?'

‘No, I don't have an appointment.'

‘Then I'm really very sorry but—'

‘I'm not a patient of Mr Moreau's,' Marigold said quickly. ‘I'm a friend. I'm sure he will want to see me when he knows I'm here.' She was getting better at lying, Marigold thought a trifle hysterically. That one had come out as smooth as cream.

A couple of men walked down some stairs at the far end of the reception area, obviously from the Middle East as their flowing robes proclaimed. They looked as though they owned a couple of countries apiece at least.