adjusted the belt in her jeans, which had been sticking into her waist, when the door opened again.
The room was in semi-darkness, with just a large standard lamp in one corner competing with the glow from the huge fire, so when the main light was switched on Marigold blinked like a small, startled owl at Flynn and the other man. ‘You’ll be glad to know Myrtle is safe and snug and tucked up in one of the garages for the night,’ Flynn said evenly as the two men walked across to the sofa. ‘This is Wilf, by the way. Wilf, meet Miss Jones, Maggie’s granddaughter.’
‘But she isn’t.’ Bertha’s husband was a small man with a ruddy complexion and bright black robin eyes, and these same eyes were now staring at Marigold in evident confusion.
‘What?’
‘This isn’t the same woman who was in the pub that day; the one who was all over that yuppie type and then made such a song and dance about being charged too much when Arthur gave them the bill,’ Wilf said bewilderedly, totally unaware he was giving Marigold one of the worst moments of her entire life.
‘I can explain—’
Flynn cut across Marigold’s feverish voice, his own like ice as he said, ‘Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself, Miss…?’
Marigold took a hard pull of air, reflecting if she didn’t love her parents so much she would hate them for giving her a name which had always been an acute embarrassment to her. ‘My name’s Marigold,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘Marigold Flower.’
‘You’re joking.’
She wished she were. She wished she could have announced a name like Tamara Jaimeson. ‘No,’ she assured Flynn miserably as he looked down at her, his expression utterly cold. ‘My name really is Marigold Flower. My mother…well, she’s a little eccentric, I guess, and when she married a Flower and then had a little girl she thought it was too good a chance to miss. My father was just relieved I wasn’t a son. She was going to call a boy Gromwell. They’re lovely pure blue flowers that my mother had in her rock garden at the time…’
Marigold’s voice trailed away. She had been gabbling; Wilf’s slightly glassy-eyed stare told her so. Flynn’s eyes, on the other hand, were rapier-sharp and boring into her head like twin lasers.
‘I’m pleased to meet you and thank you for dealing with the car.’ She extended a hand to Wilf, who bent down and shook it before moving a step backwards as though he was frightened she would bite.
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to leave Miss…Flower and myself alone for a few minutes, Wilf, and inform Bertha we don’t want to be interrupted?’ Flynn said grimly, his gaze not leaving Marigold’s hot face.
Wilf needed no second bidding; he was out of the room like a shot and Marigold envied him with all her heart. She watched the door close and then looked up at Flynn, who was still standing quite still and looking at her steadily; the sort of look that made her feel she’d just crawled out from under a stone. ‘I did try to tell you,’ she muttered quickly before he said anything. ‘Several times.’
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