Not in one of them was he taking a romantic moonlit stroll.
Alistair, not being one for common niceties, hadn’t led into it or danced around it. He simply proclaimed to Cash that he was aware there was a woman in his life and, as the head of the family, he wanted to meet her.
Alistair invited them for dinner next week.
Normally a decree like this from his uncle would lead to Cash attempting to find a diplomatic way to tell Alistair to go fuck himself.
This time, Cash accepted.
He liked the idea of Alistair Beaumaris, his oddly sweet wife and her remarkably tedious daughters sitting down to dinner with Abby.
And he didn’t care which Abby was in attendance, the cool, sophisticated Abby or the delightful, hilarious Abby.
Either Abby would be perfect.
Cash saw this as an advantageous turn of events.
In their minds it would solidify Abby’s place in his life even before he and Abby arrived at Penmort Castle for the anniversary celebrations.
It might even have the added bonus that he would stop getting e-mails, texts and drop-in visits from his annoying step-cousins.
Or, to be precise, it might stop the aggressive, relentless pursuit of one of his infinitely more tiresome step-cousins (for the other two were simply just tedious and tended to leave him alone, when he wasn’t at the castle that was).
Further, Cash very much liked the idea that he’d get the opportunity to rub his revolting uncle’s nose in his frustration.
Just over a year ago, Alistair Beaumaris approached Cash Fraser in an attempt, Alistair said at the time, to heal “the family breach”.
Cash had never had any relationship with his father’s family. Except, of course, when Cash was in his teens and Alistair’s wife, Nicola, asked Cash to stay at Penmort a couple of times; and when she’d sent him birthday and Christmas cards, all of them he received when he was younger and far less affluent, all of them containing monetary presents, however, Cash suspected, Alistair knew nothing of the latter.
Further, Cash had never wanted any relationship with his father’s family.
Even further, Cash had no desire to heal the breach.
Until he discovered the true reasons behind his uncle’s advances.
And after that, he discovered other things about his uncle.
And after that, Cash formed a plan.
Cash had now spent months stringing his uncle along with the ambiguous possibility that he, as a Beaumaris by blood, if not in name, might help his uncle save Penmort from the creditors to whom Alistair had foolishly fallen into debt.
Cash had also spent months being purposefully vague about the idea of marriage to one of Alistair’s stepdaughters. A marriage Alistair wanted because it came with Cash’s money. However, mostly, it was a marriage that came with the undeniable fact that any offspring (offspring that would inherit Penmort Castle) would be a true Beaumaris.
And that was most important of all to Alistair Charles Beaumaris.
However, Cash had no intention of doing either of those.
Instead, he intended to walk away from Penmort after the silver wedding anniversary of his aunt and uncle telling them, and their daughters, that they had exactly one month to remove their personal belongings.
Cash would be moving in.
He already owned it or he owned the notes against it.
In three weeks, he was going to foreclose.
Abby was just a distraction.
The addition of stunning, sultry, stylish, sophisticated, smart Abby was callous and even cruel, but Cash didn’t care.
Alistair Beaumaris had made his mother suffer. And the bastard had murdered his father.
And he was going to pay.
The other reason Cash Fraser was in a good mood was Abby.
If he’d been a mad scientist and could build from scratch a woman to be on his arm when he walked into Penmort Castle for the first time as its true owner, both as a privilege of his birth (which had always been the case) and legally, he couldn’t have done better than Abby.
And Abby, Cash decided the minute he heard the door open upstairs heralding her safe arrival last night, had ended her career as a paid escort.
He would be the first client she sold her body to and her last client, period.
He would make it worth her while to retire and they would remain as they were for as long as that lasted. When he moved on (some time from then, Cash imagined), he would leave her in circumstances where she could live in comfort and the style which she obviously enjoyed without her going back to her now-former occupation.
The only thing which could darken Cash Fraser’s mood that day was Abby’s behaviour that morning.
Not when, in semi-sleep, she’d trapped his body with her long limbs so he couldn’t get out of bed without carefully extricating himself from her.
Not when she’d engaged him in drowsy conversation which included making sure he’d phone.
No, it was when she’d panicked about him driving his car.
One second she was adorably somnolent, the next her fear hit the room like a thunderclap.
It didn’t take a clairvoyant to read a car accident was how she lost her husband.
On the one hand it had been a very long time since Cash had anyone who gave a damn if he arrived where he was going safely. Her demanding he be careful made him feel something he’d not felt since his grandfather had been alive. It was a time before Cash fully understood his mother was ill, for Hamish Fraser, his mother’s father, had shielded him from it. But when his grandfather had died when Cash was nine, Cash learned swiftly his new role was a caregiver, not one to be cared for.
Abby’s anxious demand had brought those long-dead feelings of safety and nurture back and they were far from unpleasant.
On the other hand, there were three things he did not like.
At all.
First, he didn’t like the feeling behind her outburst. It was embedded in pain and Cash didn’t like the thought of Abby experiencing pain.
Second, he didn’t like what her pain meant. It meant she’d once had a man in her life that she deeply cared for and Cash found he disliked that idea intensely. Further to this second point, Cash found the concept of being jealous of a dead man both ridiculous and abhorrent. Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny he was.
Third, he didn’t want her to form an attachment to him.
What they had, even though they hadn’t known each other long, Cash knew was good. And if the kisses they’d shared were anything to go by, it was going to get better, much better.
But it wasn’t going to last.
He liked coming home to her. He liked being home knowing she was going to come to him (although he did not like waiting for her).
He liked her energy. He liked her company. He liked all that she embodied.
Abby was the kind of woman that Cash Fraser, forgotten and denied bastard son of an aristocrat, lived his life knowing he was neither entitled to nor could he expect to be by his side.
Like everything else in Cash’s life, he’d had to earn such an opportunity.
After Alistair Beaumaris had won his court battles, regained the family fortune Anthony Beaumaris bequeathed on Myra Fraser and, in so doing, bankrupted Cash’s mentally unstable mother, Alistair had left Cash and Myra with very little. When Cash’s grandfather died, there was even less. When Myra slit her wrists, there was even less.
Cash had fought his way out of poverty and into Oxford and spent many years shaping himself into a man on whose arm a woman like Abby belonged.
Even if he had to pay for her.
Perhaps especially since he had to pay for her, considering the astronomical amount he’d paid.
But he wasn’t going to get used to Abby being in his life and he certainly couldn’t allow her to do it.
He liked her company but he’d been alone a long time. He preferred to be alone and there wasn’t a woman in the world, not even Abby with all of her beauty and
humour and contradictions, who could change that.
On that thought, Cash turned into Abby’s street and saw her lights on.
He was half an hour early but he wanted time with her before going to dinner at her neighbour’s. With his work and her being late the night before, they hadn’t had a lot of time to get to know one another and Cash intended to rectify that.
As Cash parked in the drive behind her BMW he decided he’d take her away somewhere after he’d claimed Penmort. Somewhere they could be alone, no curious neighbours, no traffic delays and no work. Somewhere warm, where all she needed was a bathing suit.
He was considering his options (and leaning toward an island in Greece) when he turned the bell on her door.
It clanked discordantly.
He looked at it and noted it had to be as old as the house and, by the sound of it, desperately in need of servicing.
He waited impatiently for her to open the door. She had to be home, her car was in the drive and the lights were on in the front room and upstairs.
He turned the bell again.
He waited again.
When he was about to knock or more to the point, hammer on her door, he saw the light in the vestibule switch on and the door opened.
Abby stood there wearing an old, faded-blue, flannel man’s dressing gown that was far too big on her. Her hair was held back in a wide, pale pink band, her feet were bare and her eyes were surprised.
He watched as the surprise disappeared and the shutters came down.
“You’re early,” she told him, not moving from the door.
At her non-greeting Cash’s good mood disappeared instantly. Firstly, because she appeared to be barring him from the house. Secondly, because she didn’t seem happy to see him. And lastly, and most importantly, because she was wearing another man’s clothes.
“I finished early,” he replied.
“You work until the wee hours, how did you finish early tonight?”
Having lost his patience, with artificial politeness Cash enquired, “Are we going to hold this conversation on the doorstep?”
She gave a start then her eyes darted away and she seemed to hesitate. For a moment Cash thought she wasn’t going to let him inside. Then she stepped back, opening the door.
“I’m sorry. Come in,” she murmured.
He stepped in and was immediately surprised.
It was as if stepping over her threshold took him a step back one hundred and fifty years in time.
The vestibule was large, in fact it was huge. It, and the hall leading off of it, had black and white tiled floors that seemed to stretch on forever. Both rooms were cavernous with tall ceilings. Heavy pieces of antique furniture, all of which were well-kept and high-quality, were positioned here and there in the vestibule and hall. The furniture indicated either Abby’s grandmother had good taste or Abby had given him a significant discount on the first quote for her fees.
“I’ll take your coat,” he heard her say.
He shrugged it off and ignored her outstretched hands, hanging it on the mirrored coat stand in the vestibule himself.
She watched him do this then her eyes moved to him before saying, “Come into the living room. I’m not ready yet. I’ll get you a drink and then I’ll finish upstairs.”
He followed her into the front room that was the same as the hall, enormous and well-furnished in quality antiques.
A tassel-bottomed, inviting, maroon velvet couch faced a large stone-mantel fireplace, two matching armchairs at its sides. There were handsome tables placed strategically around the seating area for comfort of use and aesthetic purposes.
The heavy, maroon velvet draperies were pulled back with silk, cord tassels. The windows were dark, exposed to the night.
The couch sat in the centre, leaving a wide expanse of floor space available to the room. Most of it was empty except for a delicate writing desk, angled in the corner, facing the room.
The desk was not for show, it was obviously in use, the brown leather desk accessories filled with pens, upended notepads and bits of paper. The desktop held a tidy stash of stationery under a tasteful, round glass paperweight in which there was a swirl of colour. Also on top was an antique brass desk lamp, now lit, the lamp’s shade a pink glass globe. The desk had a delicate chair upholstered in plum velvet.
There were several bookshelves standing around the room filled with books and displaying objects d’art, all of the pieces interesting, some of them, Cash noted, highly valuable.
Cash couldn’t help but think that this was not where he saw Abby living. Although it was refined, yet warm and inviting, with silver-framed photos on the mantel, on the desk and dotting the shelves and tables, Cash felt it somehow didn’t suit her.
He didn’t know what would but this was just not it. It was too vast, too old and it didn’t have even a hint of her playful personality or her cosmopolitan flair.
“Whisky?” she asked when he’d stopped behind the couch and his eyes moved to her.
She’d barely entered the doorway. She was standing too far away and she looked preoccupied.
“Abby, come here,” he demanded and her body went still for a moment before she seemed to force herself to move toward him. When she arrived within reach, he lifted his hand to curl his fingers around her neck. “You haven’t even said hello,” he told her, trying not to let her see that her behaviour was displeasing him.
She blinked, looking confused, then asked, “I haven’t?”
Cash shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and she sounded like she was.
This went a long way towards dispelling Cash’s irritation.
“Is there something on your mind?” he queried softly.
“I…” she started, then stopped, took a deep breath and continued, “you just surprised me, being early,” her hands came out at her sides, “I’m not ready yet.”
The tension left Cash’s body.
Women, it was his experience, liked to make an entrance. Even when Abby left his bathroom, her face cleaned of makeup, she still managed to make an entrance (mainly because she looked damned sexy in her clinging blue nightgown).
He bent his head to touch his lips to hers as he gave her neck an affectionate squeeze.
“Tell me where to find the whisky. I’ll get it while you finish getting dressed,” he told her.
She nodded while saying, “In the kitchen, I’ll show you.”
“I can find my way.”
She seemed to be considering this, her eyes darting anywhere but him. Then she swallowed, her gaze came to his and she nodded again. “The cupboard, by the –”
He brushed her lips with his again to interrupt her. “I’ll find it. Go.”
Her white teeth appeared as she bit the side of her lip but she gave another short nod, disengaged from his hand and walked from the room, saying, “I won’t be long.”
Cash watched her go or more to the point, Cash watched her ass sway as she walked away.
He found his way to the kitchen, even more ancient-looking (and warm and welcoming) than what he’d already seen of her house. He located the whisky, a heavy, cut-crystal tumbler, poured himself a drink and walked back to the living room.
Upon entry to the room, Cash saw a black cat with yellow eyes and long, silky fur sitting on the back of the couch, its tail swaying. Instead of the pert nose of a domestic feline, it had the nose of lion. This feature significantly increased the usual catlike disdain. It regarded Cash, blinked, jumped off the couch and trotted smartly from the room.
Cash ignored the cat and looked around.
There was an empty Denby mug on a coaster on the table in front of the couch, the stringed label of the wet tea bag still in it indicating it was a cup of some complicated herbal tea. Next to that was a cookbook with an excess of multi-coloured post-it tags sticking out the sides, a plastic row of the post-its sitting on top of the book, a Waterman pen resting at the book’s side.
Cash went to t
he mantel and looked at the photos. Most of the pictures were older and in black and white. All of them were candid and in every one the subjects were smiling.
When Cash turned away from the mantel, his eyes caught on a large, silver-framed photo sitting ensconced on a bookshelf and he froze.
It was Abby’s wedding photo.
He stared at it from his place several feet away and it felt like the image depicted was burning itself in his brain.
In slow motion, his body came unstuck and he walked to the photo, his fingers curling around it, he brought it to him for closer inspection.
She’d been a young bride and a beautiful one. Her beauty hadn’t matured to her current magnificence but her obvious happiness made up for it.
And she was definitely happy.
The photo wasn’t posed. Abby, wearing a complicated but not overdone, strapless gown made, it appeared, entirely of lace, wasn’t smiling.
She was beaming.
Her head was tilted back and her arm was wrapped around a tall, brawny, good-looking blond man who was smiling down at her. She was curled into him, her arm around his back and Cash saw the man’s arm was around her waist. Her fingers were touching his face and – the photo was black and white, so colour was not discernible – but it looked like she was using her thumb to wipe lipstick from his mouth.
The intimacy of the gesture, their shamelessly unhidden joy, Abby glowing in a way she had not even come close to giving him, coupled with the memory of Abby wiping his own mouth the day he met her, all of this made Cash feel like he’d swallowed a mouthful of acid.
The intensity of his reaction vaguely disturbed him, but he resolutely set it aside, put the photo down and threw back the whisky. It took him two drinks to drain the glass.
He headed to the kitchen to refill it and was back in the front room standing at her window, sipping at his whisky, lost in thought (most of these thoughts centred around when he would find the time to purchase a dozen new dressing gowns for her), when she returned.
“I’m ready,” she announced and he turned to look at her.
She was wearing a body-hugging, jade green, jersey dress. It covered her completely from wrists to hem which touched her knees. Even if it covered her almost fully, it left nothing to the imagination. The only expanse of skin that was exposed, outside of her legs, was at the wide, low-cut, v-neck. She was wearing strappy stiletto sandals in patent-leather, a shade darker than the green of her dress. She had on a pair of gold hoop earrings, her hair down around her shoulders in a sleek fall, her makeup more dramatic than the night before but less than it had been the first night they went to dinner.