She wore no other adornment.
She looked, as ever, exquisite.
“I wasn’t sure what to wear to a dinner party at crazy Mrs. Truman’s. I’ve been thinking about it all day,” she told him as she walked into the room.
This was the wrong thing to say.
Except for his enjoyable conversation with his uncle and when work intruded, he’d thought about nothing but her all day.
“I was thinking armour but I’m not sure a suit of armour goes with these shoes,” she finished when she’d stopped in front of him, a small smile playing at her glossed lips, her head tilted back to look at him.
She meant to be amusing. For the first time, Cash didn’t laugh.
Her smile faltered and her head tilted to the side.
“Cash?” she called.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he looked to the window and caught their reflection in the glass.
She was standing close, head still tilted back to look at him but she wasn’t touching him.
Even in the indistinct reflection of the glass he could see they complimented each other. It wasn’t the first image he’d seen of them together and it wasn’t the first time he recognised they looked good.
He liked the look of them together. They matched. She looked like she belonged with him. She looked like she was the kind of woman that would belong to him. If he was honest with himself, it aroused him, thinking of her as his.
But she wasn’t his, no matter how much he paid for her.
She belonged to the man in that photo.
Her hand came to rest lightly on his arm, taking him out of his thoughts and she asked, “Cash? Is everything all right?”
He threw back the remainder of his whisky, looked down at her and replied, “Fine.”
“You’re behaving funny,” she told him.
“I have a lot on my mind,” he returned.
She regarded him a moment and then asked, “Do you,” she paused then went on, “want to talk about it?”
“No,” he answered truthfully.
She hesitated then went on quietly, “Is it me? Have I done something –?”
Cash cut her off with a lie, “It isn’t you.”
Her brows came together and she bit the side of her lip again. As Cash watched her teeth sink into the flesh, he realised just how much he enjoyed the endearing vision of Abby biting her lip and his hand tightened around the glass.
At her next words, his body went still.
“You’re lying,” she accused.
He stared at her.
He had lied many times in his life. Either no one had ever figured it out or they’d never had the courage to call him on it.
“I’m not lying,” he lied again.
She ignored his words, her hand moving away as she continued, “It’s what happened this morning.”
“Abby –” he started but she shook her head and took a step away.
“I freaked you out,” she informed him.
“You didn’t.”
Her arm came up and her fingers sifted through her hair in agitation. “I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know why I did what I –”
Cash cut her off. “I know why.”
She blinked before she breathed, “What?”
“I know why,” he repeated. “Your husband died in a car accident. This morning for whatever reason, you had a panic attack. It happens,” he dismissed it, not wanting to speak of it further, not wanting to speak of it ever.
“My husband?” she whispered.
“Abby, let’s move on from this,” he suggested but it wasn’t a suggestion as such but a gently worded demand.
She wasn’t listening. “What do you know of Ben?”
That was when Cash lost his patience, when she said his name.
Therefore, when he spoke again, his voice was abrupt to the point of being harsh. “I know you married him in a lace dress. I know you loved him when you married him. And I know he died in a car accident. That’s all I want to know and, darling, this is the last time we’ll speak of Ben.”
She kept silent and they stared at each other for a long time. Finally, her eyes broke from his and she glanced away.
His desire to arrive early and get to know her better had succeeded.
He just didn’t like what he learned.
Cash looked at his watch and saw they still had time before they had to be next door.
Regardless of the friction palpable in the room, he decided to make an effort to salvage the night.
“We have time,” he told her, “I’ll get you a drink.”
“I’ll get it,” she replied and started to move to the door but Cash caught her arm.
“Abby, I said I’ll get it.”
She looked up at him and took in a breath before saying, “Okay.”
It was then he realised he had no idea, outside red wine and herbal tea, what she drank.
To his displeasure, his voice sounded as aggravated as he felt when he asked, “What do you drink?”
Her eyes never left his even as her lips twitched. Cash recognised the humour of the situation and his body relaxed.
Slowly the tension slid out of the room.
Abby leaned into him, wrapping both hands around his upper arm.
“It’s complicated. I’ll teach you,” she offered and led him to the kitchen.
It was complicated, including hammering some ice between tea towels to crush it (because she didn’t like “big ice”, whatever-the-hell that was), using only chilled diet cola, a shot of amaretto, a dash of cherry juice and three cherries.
The drink itself sounded disgusting, the exacting way she desired it was hilarious.
As she was sipping, her hip against the counter, Cash got close to her.
“You’re particular about a lot of things,” he remarked.
She awarded him with one of her mischievous grins. “Is that a nice way of saying I’m picky?”
Cash chuckled but didn’t answer because she was right.
“That’s okay,” she announced, “I am picky.”
This time, he laughed and through his laughter he saw her grin turn into a smile. Cash’s good mood returned once it became clear they were over their current drama.
As she took another sip, his arm slid around her waist and he brought her body to his from belly to thigh.
“You didn’t call today,” she told him as his hand slid from her waist, up her back, pressing her closer to him.
“I’m sorry, darling, I got busy,” he replied as his other hand took her drink and placed it on the counter.
“That’s okay,” she whispered, staring at her drink then her head turned and he kissed her.
Immediately, and rather gratifyingly, her body leaned into his, one of her arms going around his waist, the other hand up his shoulder to slide along his neck and into his hair.
As disgusting as the drink sounded, on Abby, it tasted brilliant – fresh and sweet.
He deepened the kiss and she responded, pressing closer.
His body began to react, he felt it, he liked it, his arms crushed her to him and the kiss became even deeper, hotter and therefore less in his control.
In an effort to keep hold of his slipping control, his lips released hers and slid across her cheek to her ear.
“You’re coming home with me tonight,” he demanded and her neck twisted, turning to face him at first, he thought, to say something. But when he lifted his head to look at her, her face was flushed, her eyes were half-closed and she sought his mouth with her own.
When his tongue entered her mouth, he heard her low, soft moan.
Even though he hadn’t asked her a question, he liked her answer.
They were, incidentally, late to Mrs. Truman’s.
Chapter Nine
Dinner at Mrs. Truman’s
Abby fixed her lip gloss with a trembling hand in the vestibule while Cash waited and watched.
Thoughts about what happened t
hat night were colliding in her head and her legs were wobbly from the colossal (and very effective, Cash was a really good kisser, as in really good) make out session in the kitchen.
She didn’t know which to focus on first so she decided to ignore both of them and carry on with the evening. She’d think about it later. Much later. When Cash was gone, her house was fixed up and she was back to her normal existence.
Then she thought she didn’t want to go back to her normal existence but she didn’t want to focus on that either so she decided to ignore that too.
She wrapped her pashmina around her shoulders, tucked her bag under her arm, grabbed the wine (Cash had the roses and chocolates, both of which Abby bought from two different exclusive shops in Clevedon so as not to put Mrs. Truman in a bad mood that they were trying to pass off rinky-dink hostess gifts) and put her hand on the latch.
“Ready?” she asked and Cash’s eyes narrowed on her.
She didn’t get a good feeling from his narrow look. She also didn’t need another reaction from Cash that would freak her out. In an effort to stop him from giving into whatever-peeved-him-this-time, she turned the latch and tugged open the door.
She’d barely stepped over the threshold when she came to a jarring stop. Cash’s hand was on her arm waylaying her.
She looked down at his hand then up at him. “Cash, we’re already late.”
His hand went away, he placed the hostess gifts on the seat of the coat stand and he shrugged off his overcoat, murmuring, “It’s freezing out there.”
She realised his intent and her body got tense.
“We’re only going next door,” she told him, hoping he wouldn’t put his overcoat on her. She didn’t want him to keep being so sweet to her (when he wasn’t angry at her that was).
She was pretty sure that most paid escorts didn’t have intense conversations about their dead husbands nor did they cuddle up to their clients in bed late at night while their clients looked over papers.
She figured she wasn’t doing her job very well. The problem was, Cash didn’t seem to mind at all which, of course, made it all worse.
She noticed with frustration that he wasn’t listening to her. He swung his coat out and settled it on her shoulders.
“That’s really unnecessary,” she finished.
“Abby, it’s below freezing,” he told her.
She looked up at him and exclaimed, “We’re walking next door!”
“And you’re not going to get cold while we’re doing it,” he retorted.
“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled, “What are you going to do? Now you don’t have a coat.”
“What I’m not going to do is stand out in the cold arguing,” he declared with annoying logic.
“All right, fine,” she muttered and turned toward the steps but something made her look to Mrs. Truman’s and she halted at what she saw.
Kieran and Jenny were standing at the door, Mrs. Truman in the door, and they were all watching her and Cash.
Illuminated by Mrs. Truman’s light both Jenny and Kieran were wearing comically-identical stunned expressions. Mrs. Truman was scowling.
“It’s seven-oh-seven,” Mrs. Truman announced loudly, “did I say dinner was at seven-oh-seven? No, I did not. I said it was at seven o’clock.” She paused and Abby saw her eyes snap to the bottle Abby was carrying then Mrs. Truman demanded to know, “Is that wine chilled?”
“Yes, Mrs. Truman,” Abby called, deciding to ignore Kieran and Jenny’s stunned looks as well as the fact that she was swimming in Cash’s warm, heavy overcoat that smelled way too much like him.
With a hand at the small of her back, Cash led her down the steps and to Mrs. Truman’s house. Kieran and Jenny were inside by the time they got there and Mrs. Truman slammed the door behind Cash.
“Cash this is –” Abby started the introductions but Mrs. Truman interrupted her.
“Take off your coats. Give me that wine,” she ordered then, for some demented reason, she shouted, “Marco!”
When everyone stood around waiting and nothing happened for a few moments, Jenny leaned toward Abby and asked under her breath, “Are we supposed to say ‘Polo’?”
Abby felt a hysterical giggle start welling up inside her that she managed to tamp down when a young, dark-headed man wearing a white shirt and black trousers appeared.
“This is Marco,” Mrs. Truman proclaimed with a flick of her wrist in his direction. “He’s seeing to us tonight.” Abby didn’t know what that meant and didn’t have a chance to ask, Mrs. Truman continued speaking. “Marco, take their coats. I’ll take the wine to the kitchen. Then they need drinks.” When Marco didn’t move fast enough (though, he did, somewhat immediately, move toward Jenny), Mrs. Truman snapped, “Chop chop! I’m not paying you to stand around and ogle pretty women!”
Marco took the coats, divested them of their gifts and Mrs. Truman bustled them into her front room then disappeared with her two bottles of chilled white wine.
Abby quickly performed the introductions, feeling acutely self-conscious as Cash shook Kieran’s hand and bent low for Jenny to touch his cheek with hers.
Kieran Kane was Abby’s height, thus shorter when she was wearing heels. He was slim, straight and had blond hair that looked highlighted but was actually his true colour, made thus by being streaked by the sun while he jogged and cycled like a madman. He had a permanent tan because when he wasn’t working he was always outdoors or taking his wife on holidays where there were beaches.
Both Kieran and Jenny were trying to study Cash without appearing as if they were studying him (and, incidentally, they were failing).
For the first time in her life, Abby was in a social situation where she had no clue what to do.
How did one go about making what amounted to her “john” and her two best friends comfortable at a dinner party?
Luckily (or unfortunately, depending how you looked at it), Mrs. Truman forged into the breach.
She charged into the room carrying a vase filled with Abby’s roses that had been quickly yet artfully arranged. She placed it on a table and demanded to know, “What are you doing standing up? Sit!”
They didn’t sit because Marco followed Mrs. Truman and asked their drink preferences. When he got to Abby and she slowly explained how she wanted her amaretto and diet coke, Marco stared at her in horrified confusion.
“Diet coke and amaretto?” Mrs. Truman snapped. “What kind of drink is that? And who crushes ice?”
Cash took pity on Marco at the same time tactfully ignoring Mrs. Truman.
While sliding his arm along Abby’s shoulders, he said, “I’m sure Abby will settle for a glass of red wine.”
To which Mrs. Truman retorted, “We’re having fish. You don’t drink red wine with fish.” Then she turned to Marco. “Get her a white wine. Go on, go.”
Marco quickly left (or, more appropriately, escaped) and Mrs. Truman settled them into her furniture.
Abby looked at her surroundings and noted that Mrs. Truman was a packrat like her grandmother. Although she didn’t have piles of books, newspapers and magazines, she had an overabundance of knick knacks, toss pillows and throws. This was all squeezed in between a crazy mix of furniture that dwarfed the room (even though Mrs. Truman’s house was the exact same as Abby’s and the room was huge).
The effect was claustrophobic.
Or maybe, Abby thought, it was all that was her life that was claustrophobic.
When Abby settled into the couch between Mrs. Truman and Cash, she caught Jenny’s eye. Cash had placed his arm along the couch behind her and, as Abby looked at Jenny, Cash’s fingers curled in to stroke her neck.
Jenny’s eyes moved to his fingers then they widened.
Abby couldn’t help it, it felt so nice she shivered.
Cash felt the shiver. He must have misinterpreted it as her being cold and his arm moved to rest around her shoulders, pulling her into the warmth of his side.
Jenny’s eyes bugged out.
/> Abby’s heart skipped a beat.
Unaware of any of this, Mrs. Truman asked, “Well? Isn’t anyone going to speak?”
Surprisingly it was Cash who entered the conversational void by asking Mrs. Truman, “How long have you lived here?”
“Forty-five years,” Mrs. Truman answered, “Morty moved me in on our wedding day.”
“Morty?” Jenny asked.
“My husband, God rest him,” Mrs. Truman replied.
Abby looked at her neighbour, who she’d known (and feared) for as long as she could remember, “You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“You never asked,” Mrs. Truman retorted smartly.
And Abby realised she hadn’t. She’d never made any friendly overtures to Mrs. Truman at all, not when she was young, not since she’d been living next door. She’d just put up with her.
She knew her mother, father and Ben thought she was hilariously cantankerous and thus also never engaged her in simple conversation.
Abby’s grandmother, however, often had Mrs. Truman over for tea or dinner which was how Abby got to know her and Gram liked her very much.
The rest of the family never understood it.
Something about Mrs. Truman’s reply made Abby feel uncomfortable.
“When did he pass?” Kieran asked softly and Mrs. Truman’s eyes moved to him.
“Thirty-six years ago. He married me when I was twenty-five and we were together for nine happy years. Then one day, he was gone. Hit by a bus,” Mrs. Truman answered matter-of-factly but her voice was far less severe than normal.
Even though she noticed this, Abby didn’t process it.
Mainly because she’d been married to Ben when she was twenty-five and she’d had nine happy years with him before he died.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Truman,” Jenny said gently, her eyes shifting between the older lady and Abby because this coincidence was definitely not lost on her and Mrs. Truman’s back went up.