Jenny stared at her a moment and then said quietly, “Abby, you do your job. You do nothing but your job. If you like it, okay, it’d be hard not to like. If he wants to give you stuff, okay, take it. That’s his deal. But you have to remember, always, it’s a job. Just a job. So when the time comes and he’s through with you, you can walk away, put this behind you and get on with your real life.”
Abby bit the side of her lip, not liking the idea of Cash being “through with her”, not at all even after The Fight but she nodded because she knew Jenny was right.
Very right.
It was then Mrs. Truman bustled in with a tray.
“You don’t have cucumber. All you had was broccoli and carrots. Carrots don’t take the puff out of your eyes.” She slammed the tray down on the bedside table and turned, hands on hips, to Abby. “I had to go to my house to get cucumber,” she declared, as if her house was in Bangladesh, not next door. “You’re lucky I had some. Now lie down,” she ordered and turned to Jenny. “Do you have the outfit sorted?”
“No,” Jenny admitted.
“What have you two been doing?” she snapped and then stomped to the wardrobe grumbling, “I have to do everything.”
Thus ended the drama and for the next half an hour, Abby lay on the bed with two slices of cucumber on her eyes covered in a cool, wet washcloth. She had to take them off to inspect the different outfits Mrs. Truman and Jenny brought from every corner of the house to show her.
Not one of them would do.
Mrs. Truman was holding up (and imperiously shaking) a strapless, baby-blue, knee-length dress with a full skirt made of acres of netting and a satin sash as a belt that Abby was relatively certain her mother wore to the prom (if she went to the prom) and demanding, “This is perfect!” when Jenny came in with more clothes.
“Mrs. Truman, I can’t wear that,” Abby said.
“Why not?” Mrs. Truman returned. “It’s just the thing.”
“That is not the thing,” Jenny butted in, her lip curled in disgust, her eyes on the dress Mrs. Truman was holding.
“It most certainly is,” Mrs. Truman shot back.
“It is, if Abby was going to the dance-a-thon where she’d end up doing the hand jive with Danny Zuko. It is not when Abby is having dinner at a castle with Famous-Worldwide Hot Guy Cash Fraser,” Jenny retorted then before Mrs. Truman could respond she looked at Abby and stated, “I think this is the thing.”
Then Jenny held up the dress Abby wore to Ben’s work Christmas party the last Christmas he’d been alive.
A taupe that was so light it was almost cream, the dress was made of soft wool, clingy in all the right places but providing maximum coverage. It had a cowl-neck and the hem fell to mid calf. Abby wore it with her high-heeled, mocha suede boots and matching wide belt.
It had cost a fortune though the boots and belt cost more, and Ben had loved it. He loved it so much, they left the party early so he could take her home and take it off.
It was perfect. Expensive, timelessly stylish, sexy-yet-demure and, best of all, it would remind her of Ben.
“That’s it,” Abby announced.
“Thank God,” Jenny sighed.
“I still like the blue,” Mrs. Truman grumbled but it was too late. Abby had made her decision and she had to get a move on if she was going to be ready on time which she felt at that moment was a moral imperative.
Mrs. Truman and Jenny put away the clothes while Abby did her makeup in a new look, elegant with a bit of drama (the look she dubbed “Castle Chic”).
Mrs. Truman left to see to her dogs and Jenny did Abby’s hair using a curling iron to give her loads of curls then smoothing it all away from her face in a barrette at her nape that burst in a riot of curls down her back, all the while giving her an “it’s-just-a-job” pep talk.
Then Jenny left Abby alone with her cat Zee.
It was a quarter-to-six and Abby was nervous as hell.
But, importantly, she was ready.
She was in her bedroom transferring needed items into a small, mocha-coloured, patent leather clutch when she heard the bell at the door.
Her head shot up and she stared at her bedside clock.
It couldn’t be Cash. He couldn’t be early again, not tonight of all nights. She wasn’t yet mentally prepared to face him.
Abby left the clutch on her bed and ran down the stairs to see who it was and get them gone before Cash arrived.
Zee, having absented himself during the drama and ensuing clothes-fest, ran to the door with her, nearly tripping her twice.
Abby threw it open and stood frozen, staring at Cash.
One look at him and she knew that he wasn’t over the fight.
Not by a long shot.
Abby made a mental note for possible future reference that Cash Fraser could hold a mean grudge.
“You’re early,” she told him.
“Do they say that instead of ‘hello’ in America?” Cash returned, his dry words reminding her she was being rude and she immediately felt like an idiot.
“Sorry, come in,” Abby stepped out of the way, eyes to the floor, and prattled on, “I’m ready. I need two seconds. Wait here, I’ll be right back. I just have to go get my bag.”
Then she turned tail and ran, Zee running alongside her.
She darted to her room, realised she forgot her lip gloss, flew to her dressing table and grabbed it. In all this activity Zee decided to go away and come back later when Abby wasn’t in a tizzy.
She bent over the bed, shoving everything into her purse and snapping it shut. Then she straightened, turned to run downstairs and instead ran headlong into Cash.
Her body jerked back but his hands came to settle on her hips to hold her where she was.
She tilted her head to look at him, surprised he was there and opened her mouth to speak but he got there first.
“I see they aren’t finished with the bathroom,” he remarked.
Abby stared at him.
She didn’t know what to make of this. His handsome face was closed, his eyes cold and he looked remote. Abby knew, without knowing why she knew, that this meant he was angry.
Very angry.
Scary angry.
Yet his comment was bland.
And he was there. And he hadn’t yet fired her. Not that she’d given him a chance, but still.
“They say it’ll be done tomorrow,” Abby informed him.
Keen to get on with the evening and out of her bedroom, she started to move around him but his fingers tensed at her hips and she stopped.
Her head tipped back in question. “Cash, we should –”
He cut her off by saying, “A minute.”
She looked at him and his eyes held her captive as one of his hands moved lightly over her bottom.
“Cash, what are you –?” she started but he cut her off again.
“You’re wearing underwear,” he told her.
Abby’s breath froze in her lungs.
Oh dear Lord, she forgot about the underwear.
Then she felt her pulse beating in her neck.
“Cash –” she began.
“Take it off,” he ordered and she blinked in stunned surprise.
“What?” she breathed.
“Take them off,” he repeated.
Abby felt a thrill run up her spine and it wasn’t the usual thrill Cash gave her or at least not entirely.
In a pleading whisper, she begged, “Cash, please don’t make me –”
He interrupted her again, his voice patient but barely so, “Abby, take them off.”
Abby felt her spine go ramrod straight, thinking he couldn’t make her not wear underwear. And if he tried, he could have the damned bracelet back.
“No,” she replied, her voice had grown cold.
His head tilted to the side, something dangerous flashed in his eyes and he asked softly, “No?”
Being stupid (but brave, she told herself) in the face of obvious peril, Abby held her ground
and repeated, “No.”
He gazed at her for a moment then two then he replied quietly, “All right Abby.”
She felt her body relax.
He’d given in. He wasn’t going to make her do something which made her uncomfortable. And she had the fleeting thought maybe it was all going to be okay.
She had this thought right before his head bent, his arms went around her tight and he kissed her.
It wasn’t like any kiss he’d given before. It was hot, demanding and very effective but it was also hard and claiming, taking everything but giving nothing in return.
It still, unfortunately, worked on Abby because it came with the scent of him, the feel of him and the memory of how good they could be.
When her arms went around his neck, signifying her not-very-hard-won capitulation, he shifted. They fell, him on his back, her on top of him, to the bed.
He rolled immediately, pinning her under him, not giving her a chance to think, only feel.
His mouth was on hers then it was on her neck just under and behind her ear, a sensitive spot that he manipulated ruthlessly.
His hands were all over her, smoothing over the wool at her side, her hip, up her midriff then his thumb caught against her hard nipple making sweet sensations shoot through her. At the feel of them, her neck arched as she gasped and his thumb stroked back then again, and again.
When she was trembling under him, his thigh went between her legs, his knee pulling up her dress as his hand went down her belly. His fingers took over for his knee and yanked the skirt of her dress up and then they were there, in her panties, she felt them sliding against her and his touch rocketed heat straight through her.
“Wet,” he murmured, his mouth touching hers, his word shivering through her.
Then his fingers moved and all she could think of was what they were doing, how they were making her feel, how delicious it felt and then one slid inside.
“Cash,” she gasped, pressing against him, her hands roaming his body urgently and then clutching at him as her hips bucked, riding his hand as his finger moved in and out, his thumb circling magnificently at the exact perfect spot.
Somewhere in the back of her head it registered that he was holding himself away even as he held her close, his hand between her legs, his other arm wrapped tight around her, his face buried in her neck.
But before this thought could intrude, Cash forced her response and it shot through her, her neck and back arching, her hips rearing against his hand. She heard the soft, low noises she made as if from far away as her body exhilarated in the glorious orgasm he’d given her.
And when she was done, breath coming fast, her hands still clenched in his suit jacket, his fingers left her and, she couldn’t help it, that felt good too and she let out a soft moan. His hand glided over her hip to her bottom, pressing her against him as he held her until her trembling stopped.
“Now, darling,” his voice rumbled roughly against her neck, “that was worth a diamond bracelet.”
Her body went still at his words but he didn’t notice, or worse, didn’t care.
He pulled away, exited the bed, leaned over and tugged her dress down. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet at the side of the bed.
Her legs were shaky, not only from her climax but also her emotion. Her head tilted back to look at him and when her eyes caught his, his were still cold.
And that coldness froze the heat right out of her, chilling her to her core.
“Fix your hair,” he ordered. “I’ll meet you at the door.”
On that, without a word or touch, he turned and left.
Abby stared after him until he disappeared.
Then she stared some more.
Then she realised throughout the time they’d been together he’d never treated her like a whore. Not once. Not with the robes, not with the bracelet, not with all of his orders to be somewhere or do something.
She knew this because with what he’d just done, he treated her like a whore.
On unsteady legs, she went to her dressing table, smoothed back her hair and re-clipped the barrette firmly. She fixed her lip gloss, grabbed her bag and walked to the light switch. She flipped it off then walked down the hall, down the stairs to the front door where she saw Cash, standing, waiting, wearing his overcoat, ready to go.
Averting her eyes, she reached out to grab her mother’s deep taupe, long, wool winter coat.
Before she could swing it around, in one of his usual gallant gestures (this one, for obvious reasons, bittersweet), Cash took it from her hands and held it out for her.
She turned her back to him and slid her arms through as thoughts began to invade, feelings began to press in and Abby could feel the tears pooling in her eyes.
She took deep breaths to control them.
This effort failed.
Lifting her hand, she pulled the hair out of her collar after Cash settled the coat on her shoulders. In an effort to hide her face, she kept her gaze to the floor as she walked to the door, turned the latch and opened it.
“Abby,” Cash’s voice called.
Only her torso twisted toward him, her eyes, tears still shimmering and unshed, lifted to his.
When her gaze met his, Abby could swear she saw his nearly imperceptible flinch but this didn’t penetrate the aching fog that shrouded her.
“I’m ready,” she said softly, turned and walked out into the bitter cold.
She didn’t feel the chill.
Chapter Thirteen
Penmort Castle
Cash was furious.
He’d been furious all day.
No, strike that, he’d been furious that morning.
In the afternoon, after James spoke to him, he’d been livid.
But those feelings had been directed at Abby.
Driving his car down the dark motorway toward Penmort Castle, Abby at his side, silent and staring at nothing out the passenger window, Cash was, at present, furious with himself.
That morning after she’d accused him of making her a whore when it was she who sold her body for two hundred thousand pounds; and after she’d told him she considered the dressing gowns he’d bought her a payment for services rendered, he’d felt a fury unlike anything he’d felt in his life.
Then he’d spoken to Abby in a way he’d never spoken to a woman in his life.
Indeed, it was not lost on Cash that, over the last week, Abigail Butler had made him feel, and do, many things he’d never felt, or done, in his life.
When he’d come home on Friday night to a light burning in the hall, Billie Holliday’s voice coming at him only to walk downstairs and see candles flickering, dim lights shining and Abby in a kitchen surrounded by cutting boards topped with chopped vegetables and something on a grill pan covered with foil, he’d felt something strange.
It was something he couldn’t remember ever feeling but perhaps he’d had it once when he was a child before his grandfather died.
It was contentment.
Even though she’d appeared anxious, coming home to her still made a strange ease settle over him.
And throughout the weekend, this ease grew.
It grew when he caught her eyes on him after her nap, her gaze soft and almost awed as if he was a god not a man. It grew simply because she was sleeping, exhausted by him, naked on his couch. It grew the next day when he’d done something he’d never done before, spent most of a day in bed with a woman. It grew as he discovered her body, was stirred by her touch, pleased that she seemed just as happy to do nothing but the same. And then she dozed while he held her and sometimes he’d slide his hands along her skin, familiarising himself with her even while she slept.
Lastly it grew the night before, when he came home and turned her into his arms and she’d muttered in sleepy relief that he was safe at home.
Cash knew it was him that she was happy was safe. It was him she looked at with awe. It was him on whose couch she slept naked. It was him whose body she put her m
outh on, smiling against his skin when she made him groan.
It was him.
Not Ben.
And Cash began to feel more than content.
He felt at peace.
And he’d never, not once, felt peace in his life.
Knowing as a child does that something was not right with his mother, with his father’s family, Cash had not even felt it when his grandfather was alive.
Abby gave that to him. He felt it, he understood it and he meant to keep it.
But that morning, Abby had upset that peace.
And that afternoon, when James had come to deliver Abby’s message, she’d annihilated it.
James had seemed surprised, confused and even concerned at the message he had to deliver.
James had been at Cash’s side on the pavement when Cash made the unprecedented move to peer through a shop window and pause in his daily business to buy a diamond bracelet for a woman.
Cash had never done such a thing. Not for any woman.
James, for years a colleague and a friend, had attempted to ask tactful questions but Cash didn’t bite. James didn’t need the answers, Cash’s actions told the story.
And Cash couldn’t care less.
Abby was his. She’d given herself freely. Not just the first time, every time, all weekend, with her response to his touch, her reaction to the cashmere dressing gown, her gaze on him while he was reading.
Everything.
And as he told her, he took care of what was his.
And being Cash’s meant she’d wear cashmere and diamonds.
That was simply the way it was going to be.
But the message she relayed to James said quite plainly she wanted to end things.
And that idea, Cash found, he could not tolerate.
It was so intolerable it caused the slowly ebbing burn which had been reducing all day to re-ignite.
He’d even felt for a moment actual rage.
Therefore, by the time he stood at Abby’s door, he planned to teach her a lesson. He planned to make it perfectly clear the difference between being his and being his whore. Spurred by fury, he’d carried out his plan.