“Do you have seven years of medical training and fifteen years of practice?” Cash asked evenly.
Abby gritted her teeth and then replied, “No.”
He watched her mouth as she formed the word, his own mouth forming a grin.
“All right then,” he muttered, leaned forward, kissed her forehead and sat back, his eyes coming to hers. “we’re agreed. We’ll take Tim’s word for it.”
They weren’t agreed on anything but Abby didn’t say that.
She continued to grit her teeth and stare at him.
This made him chuckle.
Her stare became a glare.
His chuckle became a laugh.
She stopped glaring and rolled her eyes.
He pushed up to his feet, taking her with him, announcing, “Time for bed.”
On that, they were agreed.
* * * * *
After Cash gave her more paracetamol, they turned out the lights and made their way upstairs.
They were in bed, Abby’s front pressed to Cash’s, his arm resting heavily on her waist, their legs tangled and she felt his steady breathing stir the hair at her crown.
It was then the tears stung the backs of her eyes.
And Abby realised it hurt, it actually physically hurt, to want something, something within reach, something that was pressed tight to you, legs tangled with yours.
Something you couldn’t have.
And it hurt because she knew it was wrong to betray Ben’s memory. She knew it was wrong to have the desire to move on, not to something else, but to something that felt better than what she had before.
And it hurt because she knew she was being selfish. Most women didn’t even have the beauty of what she had with Ben much less the glory of all that was Cash.
To control the tears, she allowed herself a moment of weakness.
Knowing he was asleep and she was safe to give a piece of herself away, she wrapped her arm around his waist and snuggled closer to his solid warmth.
And she fell asleep.
* * * * *
Cash felt Abby’s weight settle into him.
His arm tightened around her and he bent his knee until his thigh was pressed against the heat of her. In sleep, she accommodated him by hooking her leg around his hip.
Thoroughly entwined, Cash felt the peace invade.
And he allowed himself to sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Séance
Cash pulled his Maserati into her drive and Abby watched as he turned off the ignition.
Then he got out and she did as well. She closed her door and watched him go to the trunk and pull out not only her, but also his suitcases.
He put one on the ground, slammed the trunk, picked it up again and his eyes came to hers.
Then he walked right passed her to the steps that led to her front door.
I guess Cash is spending the night, she thought on a sigh and followed him.
Germany had been good or, as with anything to do with Cash, too good.
Indeed, it was exceptional or (although Abby was trying not to think this way, she was, as ever, finding it supremely difficult) one could say it was even magical.
It hadn’t started that way.
In fact, they’d almost had another row before they left.
This happened when they were both in her bedroom the morning she packed.
Cash was standing in the bay window talking on his BlackBerry and alternately watching her and looking outside, his gaze resting on her far-off view of the sea (one of the many things about her house that she loved most, and, incidentally, so had Ben).
She’d closed her suitcase, pleased with her efforts and the fact that she still had ten minutes to spare, and proclaimed, “Done!” as if she’d just successfully climbed Mount Kilimanjaro (which it felt like she had).
Still on his phone, as calm as you please, he walked to her suitcase, opened it, dug under her clothes and took out three pairs of high-heeled shoes.
She watched as one-by-one he tossed each shoe into a corner of the room.
First, she stared at the shoes and made a mental note to have a word with him about how he handled her designer gear. Though she made another note to do it when her head wasn’t about to explode.
Then her eyes went to his.
When their eyes caught, he put his palm over the Blackberry and ordered, “Flats.”
Forgetting for a moment that she was his dutiful escort, not his recalcitrant girlfriend, she’d marched to the shoes, marched back to her bag and repacked them.
The whole time she was at her task, Cash watched.
When she was done, he said into his phone, “One second.”
Then he took it from his ear, again put his palm over it and uttered one word only.
“Abby.”
Without hesitation, mimicking his implacable tone, she returned, “Cash.”
They stared at each other and Abby mentally prepared for battle.
Then to her shock, he sighed, shook his head and finally smiled.
“We’ll buy you a helmet in Munich,” he teased, the smile had reached his eyes and she watched as they warmed. Abby felt the now-familiar pleasantness invade her system at being the recipient of a smile from Cash accompanied by that soft look.
Then turning back toward the sea, he put his phone to his ear.
For their entire trip, that had been the only time they’d disagreed.
Everything else had been wonderful.
Ben and Abby had never travelled well together. They were great once they got to their destination but getting there, and getting home, had never been fun.
Ben always complained about how much Abby packed. Further, he liked to be at the airport an hour before the hours before they actually had to be there, something which drove Abby insane. He was not fond (to say the least) of Abby’s penchant for duty-free shopping. Even though he usually didn’t mind her spending, when they were travelling it annoyed him that she’d blow half of their budget before they even left the country (but Abby couldn’t help it, the deals were just too good to pass up).
Cash didn’t care how much she packed (he just didn’t like her heels), not even when he had to carry her heavy suitcase down to his car. And she didn’t get a chance to duty-free shop as Cash owned his own plane.
Yes. His own plane.
Like everything else he owned it was sleek and expensive but not ostentatious. It was a six-seater jet, a luxurious one but not overly-large nor overly-well-appointed. It was comfortable and well-stocked but he didn’t have gorgeous, rail-thin, model-type flight attendants wearing mini-skirted, cleavage-busting uniforms. They had to make their own coffee, well Abby did, Cash was on his laptop the whole trip.
With some effort Abby hid how stunned she was he had his own plane. Obviously, he was Expensive-Escort, Diamond-Bracelet, Cashmere-Robe Loaded but owning a jet took it to a new level.
She had to hide her shock again when, once they arrived in Munich, they went to the opulent Mandarin Oriental and were shown to an elegant suite which included a king-sized bed and walk-in closet.
She wasn’t surprised however when he tipped the bellman, closed the door and took Abby into his arms for a quick but thorough kiss before telling her he needed to get to work.
Thus started their time in Germany and Abby thought it would be just like home.
It wasn’t.
Firstly, Cash didn’t wake up at five o’clock, turn to her for a heated, but quick, mind-boggling session of lovemaking and leave.
He woke up at six, turned to her for a heated, but long, lingering, mind-boggling session of lovemaking, after which he held her for awhile, asking her questions in a soft voice like what she was going to do that day and stroking the small of her back or playing with her hair.
Then he left.
She spent her days in Munich’s gardens, museums and churches as well as shopping, but not buying (for herself, she got Jenny a souvenir for watching Zee).
Late afternoon, he’d call to warn her he was returning to the hotel but he always gave her plenty of time to get back to meet him there.
They spent their nights in the city’s famous beer gardens with Cash introducing Abby to her new favourite thing, Prinzregententorte, a culinary extravaganza including seven thin layers of cake separated with chocolate buttercream and covered in chocolate glaze.
The minute the cake plate was placed in front of her, her eyes hit it and rounded in greedy, exultant wonder. Cash took in her look and burst out laughing.
After he finished with his hilarity, he partially stood, leaning across the table, one hand on its top, the other one wrapping around the back of her head and with everyone watching and his mouth still smiling, he gave her a hard, short kiss that stole her breath.
He kissed her after she’d eaten the cake too. Since he had a piece as well, that kiss tasted better but Cash kissing her with a smile on his face was definitely the best.
He also spent their evenings conducting gentle, but thorough, interrogations.
He asked about her mother, father and grandmother but, notably and thankfully, not Ben. He asked about her former job and where she went to school.
He also shared his history, telling her more about his mother, a bit about his grandfather and explaining that, outside a couple of visits in his youth, he had little to do with Alistair and Nicola. Indeed, until very recently, he never spoke to them.
He also shared bluntly that he didn’t like nor trust Alistair (Abby had kind of guessed that) and had little patience for his cousins, particularly Suzanne (which Abby had also kind of guessed).
However, it was clear he held a fond regard for Nicola.
It was Penmort Castle that made him, as he called it, “heal the breach”.
She couldn’t blame him for wanting to experience his legacy, even in an unfair outsider way. If she had a legacy like that, she’d want the same.
Further, he not only asked about, but shared his own favourite books, movies and music as well as guiding them into a hilarious conversation about their least favourite books, movies and music.
She answered his questions because, she told herself, it was her job.
Not because she liked doing it. Not because she found it easy talking with him. Not because she was curious about his past and his family and how such a magnificent man as he fit in that strange viper’s den. Not because she was fascinated to know his favourite movie was Touch of Evil and his favourite book was In Cold Blood.
No (she told herself), it was just a job. Only a job.
She wasn’t in Munich with a handsome, fascinating man who not only wanted to know more about her but also easily shared more of himself.
She was there to do her job.
That was it.
After they’d eat, drink and talk, they’d stroll through night-time Munich hand-in-hand and walk off the beer and the Prinzregententorte.
After that, they’d go to their suite and he’d lead her to the bed (or, Friday night, it was the shower, then the bed) where he again made love to her, hot, long, and lingeringly.
It was different for them in Germany. He worked less, spent more time with her and all else, she found (and struggled against) could be forgotten. Their time together was more relaxed without the outside world pressing down on them. It was like being on a vacation but with Cash’s work intruding however insignificantly.
Which made it much, much harder for Abby to remember she was playing a role rather than living a dream.
So by the time they made it home late Saturday evening, she was contradictorily both refreshed and exhausted.
Cash had declared they were spending the night at her house because it was closer to the airport. Abby had attempted, all the way home, in a polite way, to prevent this.
As she followed him up the steps to her door, she knew she’d failed in this endeavour.
She had the keys ready and was beginning to reach around him when his hand came up and he took them from her.
In one of the myriad ways Cash was different than Ben, Abby noted that Cash had made a habit of doing things for her.
Ben would open her car door or he’d make her a drink sometimes when she didn’t even ask, or do other little things here and there that were mostly random but always thoughtful and definitely sweet.
Cash took this behaviour to extremes. He opened car doors, restaurant doors, hotel doors, every door. He made a point of positioning himself closest to the street when they walked along sidewalks something she remembered from years ago when her grandfather was still alive, that he told her was the hallmark of a true gentleman. He asked her preference for food and drink before the waiter arrived then ordered for her. Even though she held a hotel key card to their room, when she was with Cash, she never used it. She never once touched her suitcase. He, or a bellman, carried it everywhere.
Indeed, the only things he’d allow her to do was make him coffee, pour him a whisky or cook his food.
Abby was beginning to find this grating.
She might, if circumstances had been different, have found his gallantry attractive. She would, however, probably have explained the extent of it was unnecessary.
She might, again if things were different between them, find getting him a coffee, a whisky or dinner, something she enjoyed doing.
Instead, she found this a reminder that she was his. It reminded her that not only did she work for him, he owned her and, as he’d told her more than once, he took care of what was his.
She wasn’t his cherished partner, she was his valued possession.
He clearly took care of his possessions, his home, his car, his jet.
She was just one of many of his expensive belongings and this behaviour reminded her of that.
“Cash, you had the bags, I could open the door,” Abby stated and even though an escort would have kept her mouth shut, Abby was tired so she didn’t.
His eyes moved to her. “Yes,” he replied quietly, “but you aren’t going inside.”
Abby blinked at him in confusion, saw his eyes move to the bay window of her living room and his chin lifted. Abby’s eyes followed and she saw, just dimly, what looked like flickering candlelight shining through her curtains.
Her body froze.
No one should be there and certainly no candles should be lit.
Jenny knew they weren’t returning until late and she hadn’t a clue they’d be coming to Abby’s. Even if she’d wanted to leave them a warm welcome just in case, she wouldn’t have left a candle burning.
“Oh my God,” Abby breathed, “someone’s in there.”
“Stay at the door,” Cash ordered. “I don’t want you coming in until I tell you it’s safe. Understood?”
Panic welling in her, Abby grabbed his forearm as he lifted the key toward the latch.
“Cash! You can’t go in there!” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s there.”
“Darling, you might have intruders in your house. What do you suggest I do?” he calmly returned and Abby let him go and threw up her hands.
“I don’t know. Call the police?” she tried.
He dismissed her suggestion by lifting his hand to the lock while he said, “Stay here.”
“Cash!” Abby protested but under her breath so the bad guys wouldn’t hear.
Cash inserted the key into the lock but he looked over his shoulder and down at her, his eyes serious, his face hard. “Stay. Fucking. Here.”
All right then.
He was using the f-word.
Abby decided it was time to back down.
However, she also decided not to give in gracefully.
So she crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a glare.
He completely ignored her, opened the door and silently entered her house.
Abby waited.
Then she waited some more.
Then she heard several female shrieks ending with Mrs. Truman shouting, “Dear Lord, what are you doing here?”
> Abby grabbed the bags Cash left outside, rushed in, dropped them in the entry, closed the door, pulled off her coat and threw it on the coat stand all the while hearing Cash and Mrs. Truman’s loud conversation.
“What the fuck?” (Cash)
“Language!” (Mrs. Truman)
“Would you care to explain why you’re in Abby’s house in the dead of night and what in fucking hell you’re doing?” (Cash)
“You’re early!” (Mrs. Truman)
“It’s fucking midnight!” (Cash)
By this time Abby made it to her living room only to see it wasn’t one candle lit, but at least two dozen of them.
And it wasn’t Mrs. Truman alone who was enjoying a dead-of-night, candlelit, clandestine moment in Abby’s living room but Jenny was there, to her confusion, for some reason Fenella was there too, as was some woman Abby had never seen.
The woman was dark-haired, dark-eyed, curvaceous and either around five years older than Abby or she was ten and hid it well. She was wearing stylish, hip-hugging, faded, boot-cut jeans over high-heeled boots with a cool, heavy-buckled belt Abby would kill for, all this topped with a snug-fitting turtleneck.
Oddly, she was also wearing a silk scarf wrapped around her head, the faded, fringed ends tangled in her long hair and a webby shawl was thrown over her shoulders.
It wasn’t a look Abby would be able to pull off (or, in all honesty, would want to) but the lady did so, brilliantly. She looked like a Rock ‘n’ Roll Gypsy.
Abby had a sinking feeling she knew what this was about.
But what was Fenella doing there?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Cash asked, as if in Abby’s brain, his angry gaze had swung to Fenella then it moved to The Gypsy Queen. “And who the fuck are you?”
Abby put her hand up, wrapped her fingers around Cash’s bicep, leaned into his side and in the hopes of calming him, said softly, “Cash.”
“Really,” Mrs. Truman scolded, foiling Abby’s calming attempt, “your language is unacceptable, Cash Fraser.”
Cash’s furious eyes sliced to Mrs. Truman and Abby was treated to proof positive that the older woman had nerves of steel when she didn’t even flinch.
“Yes. You are correct,” Cash was enunciating his words with scary clarity. “Normally, it would be unacceptable. But you appear to have helped yourself to my girlfriend’s house to do…” he hesitated, cast an irate glance around the living room and continued, “whatever-the-fuck you’re doing and by the looks of it, it isn’t fucking good.”