Cash didn’t give her time to figure it out.
“Abby, answer me,” he clipped.
“No,” she started and when his eyes narrowed dangerously, she hurried on, “I mean, yes, of course it did. But it’s illegal to talk on your mobile in the car.”
“Next time you’re going to be an hour late, darling, rest assured in the knowledge that I’ll pay the fucking fine if you get pulled over for talking on your goddamned phone,” he returned and Abby thought it was safe to say that Cash Fraser, International Hot Guy Extraordinaire, was pissed off.
“Cash –” she began again.
And again he cut her off by demanding, “Get over here.”
She gave a start. “What?”
“I said, get… over… here.”
This, Abby decided, was not going well.
She briefly considered running for her life.
She then figured Cash would catch her. His legs were longer and even though he was standing behind the counter and she couldn’t see it was unlikely he was wearing high heels.
So, with no other option open to her, she moved toward him and as she did so he leaned forward and set down his tumbler with an angry clunk.
When she got within arm’s reach, he snatched her purse from her and tossed it unceremoniously on the counter even though it was Coach and no one should treat Coach like that but she wasn’t going to share that morsel of knowledge with Cash at that moment.
When he was done with that, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, he gave it a sharp tug and she fell into him. Her hand came up to cushion her fall and it landed on his chest. He dropped her wrist; she tilted her head back and opened her mouth to say something to diffuse his anger when she saw his head descending.
Then he was kissing her, hard, hot, open-mouthed and hungry, his arms wrapping around her, crushing her to his solid body.
Her hand not trapped between them went to his shoulder, not in a loving embrace but to hold herself up as her knees had turned to mush.
She felt his kiss burn from her mouth, through to her breasts, down passed her belly, straight between her legs and when he lifted his head, she was nigh on panting and her body was on fire.
“I don’t like waiting,” he growled low.
“So noted,” she breathed.
“You’re going to be late, I don’t give a fuck if it’s five minutes, you call,” he demanded.
She nodded. He glared at her.
She stood still and took it silently, not wanting to throw any fuel on the already scorching fire.
After awhile of standing in the kitchen crushed to Cash, his arms still holding her tight, she braved the wild beast.
“Do you want me to make dinner?”
“No, I don’t want you to make fucking dinner,” he shot back.
Obviously, she’d spoke too soon.
“We’re going out,” he announced.
“But, Aileen went out and bought –” she started.
His arms got tighter, interrupting her word flow by squeezing the breath out of her. “We’re going, fucking, out.”
“Okay,” she wheezed.
His arms loosened and he let her go, reached out, grabbed his whisky and threw it back in one gulp. Then down the glass went with another angry clunk, he seized her purse, tossed it to her and took her hand, dragging her to the chair where his suit jacket was. He snatched it from the chair then hauled her upstairs, hand still in hers.
They were at the front door, he’d put on his suit jacket and was shrugging on his overcoat and Abby was watching him.
His silence was flipping her out. So she broke it.
“You say ‘fuck’ a lot when you’re angry,” she informed him for lack of anything else to say.
His eyes sliced to her. “Abby, I’m not in the mood for you being cute.”
At his words, she felt the room pitch crazily.
“You think I’m cute?” she whispered.
His eyes skewered her to the spot and she decided not to speak again.
Then he opened the door, took her hand and marched her through.
* * * * *
Abby stood at Cash’s bathroom sink, hands curled around the edge of the basin, deep breathing to stop herself from hyperventilating.
It was time for bed. This was going to happen now.
She’d agreed to it. She was going to have to go through with it.
She wasn’t only near to hyperventilating because she was terrified.
She was also near-to hyperventilating because she was terrified about what it said about her because she, deep down, wanted it.
That night, after dinner, after walking the romantic streets of Bath with Cash, after they came back to his house and ate the leftover pears with cream and chocolate sauce, she’d rinsed and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
While she was doing this she realised if this was real, if he had asked her out and this was their third date, even though (before Ben, obviously) she had a strict six-dates-before-sex rule, she would be doing something just like this with Cash.
And looking forward to it.
She might have even done it on the second date.
Earlier that evening Cash had nursed his anger on the short walk into town (he lived in a townhouse just off the Circus). He’d nursed it through the maitre d’ of the impossibly busy, posh restaurant scurrying to find the Fabulously Rich and Famous Cash Fraser a table (a prime-spot two-top at the window out of which the Maitre d’ rushed a couple enjoying the final sips of their coffee). He’d nursed it through a glass of neat whisky that he drank while they contemplated the menu and ordered. And he’d nursed it through their starters.
Abby learned two things the hard way. The first being that Cash Fraser did, indeed, not like to be kept waiting. The second being that Cash Fraser was formidable when he was angry and thus, one should do all in their power not to let that happen.
Once he’d thawed (somewhere in the middle of them consuming their mains), he was replenishing Abby’s wine, when she quietly said, “I’m sorry I was late, Cash.”
His eyes went from her wine glass to her. He finished his task, put the bottle on the table and Abby held her breath as he got out of his chair, throwing his cloth napkin on the table by his plate.
She had no idea what he was going to do and she watched him round the table and stop beside her.
At his height, her head was tilted back at an impossible angle to look up at him and not a single thought entered her paralysed mind.
Then he leaned down, wrapped his hand around the back of her head and touched his lips briefly to hers.
When he was finished, he said against her mouth softly, “Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise,” she whispered back.
He lifted up, kissed her forehead and then walked back around the table, sat down, shook his napkin out and laid it in his lap.
He calmly resumed eating.
After the shock of this tender act had worn off, Abby became aware that people were watching.
Some of them were trying to hide the fact that they were watching the fascinating show of an internationally famous man eating dinner with his partner.
Some of them weren’t trying to hide anything, they were watching openly.
Abby felt a sense of desolation that there was a possibility that Cash’s action was a performance for their benefit, not a demonstration of affectionate forgiveness.
But she’d never know because she could never ask.
She’d hidden her disappointment and drawn him out by asking about his music (he very much liked old jazz, not just Nina Simone but also Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Duke Ellington and the like). She’d asked him about his work (he couldn’t tell her much, it was confidential, but he’d gotten into the business while he was attending Oxford, working at a summer internship and he discovered the possibility someone was stealing and selling company secrets and instead of whistle-blowing, he’d quietly investigated, found it to be
true, presented his evidence and it all started from there).
They passed the rest of dinner in companionable conversation and decided against dessert in favour of the pears at the townhouse.
However, when they left the restaurant, instead of turning toward his home, Cash turned her toward Bath.
It was cold. She thought at first too cold for a stroll through an ancient city.
She’d decided (luckily, considering they ended up in a posh restaurant, unfortunately, considering they took a walk after) to wear a slim, black pencil-skirt with a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, black, high-heeled boots and finishing the outfit with her hip-length, black wool coat that closed only by a tie-belt (her makeup that evening was her “Sophisticated Casual” look).
At first, he held her hand then, noticing she was cold, he held her. His arm going around her shoulders, he tucked her into his side as they strolled.
They didn’t talk. They just walked, letting the beauty of Bath tell its tale as they did so.
Then something strange happened.
A flash of light which could only come from a photographer caught them, jarring them out of their silent, comfortable cocoon and back into the real world.
Considering this was what Cash wanted, what Cash was paying for, his reaction to the photographer was bizarre.
He looked, at a glance from Abby, for all the world angry at the intrusion. He immediately turned them toward his home and he seemed to be shielding her with his tall frame as they went.
When they arrived at the short flight of stairs in front of his house, he even tucked her in front of him, his arm around her waist, his other hand opening the door as he sheltered her with his shoulder from the lens of the cameraman. Cash pressed her inside and blocked the view as he shut the door.
Without a word, and Abby decided not to ask, they’d gone downstairs.
Abby fixed the pears and made decaf coffee which, she told him, even though he could probably care less, she had to drink as she never drank caffeinated beverages after noon or she’d never get to sleep.
They ate and drank while Abby sat on the counter and Cash stood close, his hips resting against a corner in the counter, one of them also resting against her knee.
When they were done, she’d rinsed and put the dishes away and was standing at the sink, turning off the faucet, thinking crazy thoughts, when she felt him behind her back.
His hand came to her hip, his mouth to her neck, and he murmured, “Time for bed.”
At his words her stomach did a queer little dip that wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest.
Now there she was, wishing for the first time since Ben (and drowning with guilt about it) that she was experiencing the scary but thrilling anticipation of connecting with someone whom she found handsome and compelling.
Not about to perform the services for which she was being very generously paid.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered to her reflection and walked out of the bathroom.
The lights again were dim, only the lamps on either side of the bed were lit.
Cash was lying on top of the covers slightly to the middle of his side, wearing his pyjama bottoms. His back was to the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.
He held a sheaf of papers in his hand and there were several small piles of papers fanned out on Abby’s side of the bed.
Abby stopped at the sight of him.
“Was I in the bathroom a year?” she asked, referring to his swiftly taking over the bed with paperwork.
His head lifted from his study of the papers in his hand and she noticed immediately that he was wearing a pair of attractive, silver-framed reading glasses.
She also noticed that he looked really good wearing his attractive, silver-framed reading glasses.
“You wear glasses,” she told him unnecessarily.
“Yes,” he replied.
“They look good on you,” she blurted, feeling like a fool.
Slowly, he smiled. Abby’s stomach did that queer thrilling dip again.
In his throaty brogue, he ordered, “Come here.”
Her stomach did the dip yet again. She ignored the dip and headed to her side of the bed.
Cash stopped her by saying, “No, Abby, this side.”
She did a stutter-step, confused. Her eyes went to him and saw he was watching her. While she stood frozen and undecided, he patted the area on the bed beside him.
She changed directions and went to his side of the bed. He put the papers in his lap, leaned up and his fingers curled around her wrist. He pulled her down to seated on the bed then settled her at his side, her body resting the length of his, her head on his chest, his arm around her, her hand on his bare midriff.
“I have to go through this before the morning,” he muttered, his fingers curving around her shoulder. “It won’t take long.”
She was a little surprised, a little disappointed and a lot relieved.
“Okay,” she replied quietly.
It felt weird, lying beside him while he read in bed. Weird and wonderful and warm and sweet and comfortable and a lot of other things it shouldn’t feel.
Moments ticked passed as he read and she lay there.
For a bit, she tried to read the papers. Then she realised what little she read made no sense to her.
He shifted papers around, dropped some, picked up others, somehow never disturbing her.
More moments passed and he started stroking her shoulder.
This made her realise she was tense and her body, of its own volition, began to relax.
More moments passed and the tips of his fingers slid up her shoulder, up her neck and his fingers started to play absent-mindedly with her hair.
She’d always liked it when anyone played with her hair.
Lying in Cash’s bed, his warm, strong body against hers, made it all the better.
In fact, she thought dreamily, it was the best.
More moments passed and she fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
Cash’s Reason
Somewhere in a dream, Abby heard, “Abby, I have to get ready for work.”
To this, her response was to curl her limbs more tightly around the dream Cash Fraser’s body. This had the added benefit of the front of her dream body pressing deeper into the front of Cash’s.
“Darling,” his low, deep brogue was husky and sounded, weirdly to Abby considering it was a dream, vaguely disappointed.
Then her body, not of its own volition, moved and the heat of Cash was gone.
Abby curled into his pillow and fell back to sleep.
* * * * *
Abby felt her hair slide off her neck and then the words, “Abby, I’m leaving,” semi-penetrated her unconsciousness.
Her eyes fluttered open and focused on Cash who in the dark she could see (just barely) was sitting, fully dressed, in the crook of her lap.
“What?” she asked sleepily.
“I’m going to work,” he replied softly.
“Oh.”
“I’ll be at your house just before seven,” he told her.
“Okay,” she said, settling deeper into his pillow then mumbled, “Will you call me today?”
“I’ll call,” he answered.
She snuggled into the pillow and whispered, “Good,” but before he could move she kept talking, “Last night, I thought we were going to begin.”
“Begin what?”
She let out a soft sigh and said, “You know, begin.”
His voice held a smile when he replied, “We did, Abby. Couldn’t you tell?”
She pulled his pillow to her chest and whispered, “Not really.”
“Then you weren’t paying much attention,” he muttered.
She was still not paying much attention. She’d started to drift back to sleep when she felt the covers pulled up over her shoulder and, after that, fingers trailed softly down her jaw.
Then out of nowhere something hit her and panic seized her c
hest in an angry claw.
As Cash’s hand moved away, her own shot out and caught his wrist in a vice-like grip.
She quickly got up on an elbow and her eyes flew to his shadowed form.
“Abby –” Cash started, sounding surprised and pulling at his wrist but before her mind kicked into gear and she could think what she was saying (or doing, or feeling), she interrupted him.
“You be careful in that car of yours,” she demanded, her voice hoarse with sleep and emotion.
She couldn’t see it but she felt Cash’s body go completely still.
She knew his eyes were on her but since she was having trouble breathing (oxygen, she felt, took priority), she didn’t care.
His other hand came up and he pried her fingers loose from his wrist. After he succeeded in his task, he took her hand in his, palm cupped to palm, and brought the backs of her fingers to his lips.
She felt him kiss her lightly there before he murmured, “Abby, nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Just promise you’ll be careful,” she whispered.
“Darling, I promise,” he replied, his voice lower, deeper, throatier and she felt it glide through her system, calming her bizarre panic before he went on. “Go back to sleep.”
She nodded and settled back into the pillows as he kissed her hand again and let it go.
Then he was gone.
And Abby lay in his bed and wondered what just happened, why it happened, how she let it happen and what he thought about it.
Even though she considered all of this for a very long time, she never came up with any answers.
* * * * *
Cash Fraser was in a good mood.
This wasn’t entirely unusual but it wasn’t commonplace either.
One of the reasons for his good mood was that he had a call from his uncle that afternoon.
Normally a call from his uncle would have the opposite effect on Cash’s mood.
But the call meant that Alistair Beaumaris had seen the most recent picture of Abby and himself in the papers. The picture of Abby and Cash walking the dim, street-lit pavements of Bath, his arm around her, her body folded neatly into his side.
Since the idiot who leaked the story about Cash being the man behind the movie, Cash had many pictures of himself with women printed in various publications.