“Fine. What time?” she asked, sounding even to her own ears like she knew what she was doing. It appeared she was actually good at this stuff and she didn’t know if she should take that as a positive or negative sign.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Cash told her.
“No,” Abby replied immediately, luckily sounding brisk rather than panicked, “I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
“You aren’t going to meet me at the restaurant,” he returned in a very firm voice.
The panic deepened but Abby fought it. “I’m sorry Cash. Part of the deal is you don’t get to know where I live.”
“You live at Number Twenty-two Eton Road.”
Oh dear Lord, how did he know that?
If James told him then James wasn’t being a very good business manager. He was only supposed to give him her phone number.
Now what did she do?
Time to put her foot down. “You aren’t coming here. I’ll meet you at your house.”
“I’ll be at your place at seven,” he repeated.
The panic was now full-blown.
How would she cope with Cash Fraser and his charismatic presence forcing his way into her home? She didn’t need memories of him here, he’d ruin everything.
She forced her voice to go cold. “You’ll not come to my house.”
“Seven,” was his reply, then he disconnected.
She slid her phone shut and whispered, “Bloody hell.”
Chapter Three
The First Date
Abby was already in the vestibule when the ancient bell in the door clanked discordantly as Cash Fraser turned it.
Not wanting to be taken unaware, nor give him any reason to enter her home, she’d been ready for half an hour.
She’d watched for his arrival at the window while alternately pacing the living room, all that time wondering if he could track her down if she took his money and escaped to the wilds of the Brazilian rainforest (and, as he was an industrial spy ring breaker, she figured he could).
On that dismal thought she’d seen his car pull in the drive. She watched his tall, powerful body knife out of the car as if he was being born anew from its sleek depths before she dropped the curtains she was peeking through. She took a long calming breath (which failed to calm her, incidentally) and she ran to the entry, the echo of her heels clattering against the large black and white diamond-tiled floor rang through the cavernous hall as she moved.
Her cat, aptly named Beelzebub (because the fluffy, black furball was a little devil), chased her, weaving around her high-heeled feet, nearly tripping her (part of the reason he was a little devil for he did this often and sometimes succeeded in his efforts).
She was wearing her grandmother’s clothes.
With only a day to prepare and her life in its usual, if quite a bit more dramatic turmoil, she hadn’t had time to shop for anything new.
However, for her first date as paid escort to Handsome Cash Fraser, she knew she needed something special, something she and Jenny would refer to as Clothing Courage.
And as ever, Gram, even dead for over a year, did not disappoint when her granddaughter was in need.
That day the plumber and electrician became a plumber, electrician and contractor because once the bathroom suite and tile were ripped out, the rotting floorboards had to be replaced and there was the small fact that two walls of plaster fell down. Therefore that day had been spent not at the mall but in the tile shop where she bought what seemed like, and cost as much as, acres of expensive replacement tile.
She’d also sent out cheques paying off her credit cards, she settled her debt with Pete and significantly drew down both of her loans. Lastly, she’d gone to the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army.
This final errand for some reason gave her a glorious sense of freedom.
She hadn’t been able to afford to go nuts at a grocery store or any store or in any way shape or form in so long, she forgot how it felt not to have to watch every single penny.
Knowing her day would be full, the night before Abby had gone rooting through her grandmother’s things to find something “not casual”.
Abby’s grandmother kept everything. There were four bedrooms in the house and when Gram died and Abby moved in, the wardrobes in all four, as well as boxes stuffed full in the loft, were filled with clothes from the many decades of her grandmother’s, and her mother’s (and her great grandmother’s), lives.
It was a veritable clothing museum and definitely any clotheshorse, girlie-girl’s dream.
Tonight Abby was wearing a dress she’d carefully unpacked, hand washed and allowed to drip dry overnight then that day she’d steam pressed it.
It was vintage ‘40’s, made of aubergine, silk crepe. It had a bloused, boat-neck bodice that fell gracefully to a slim, body-hugging waist that had a three inch band of intricately-designed black beading. The straight skirt came to just below the knee and had a slit up the back. It had short, loose sleeves and an elegant drape that exposed Abby’s back to just above her bra strap.
Abby kept her hair down but blew it sleek to frame her face and she’d done her makeup in what she referred to in her wide array of makeup looks (an array she’d once enumerated to Ben while he nearly choked himself laughing even though she was not being funny) as “Smoky Evening”.
She wore the antique dress with a pair of sheer, black stockings with a seam up the back and her own black velvet, high-heeled shoes that had a rounded, closed toe, bare sides and an intricately designed heel made of a multitude of slender, velvet bands leading up and into a delicate ankle strap.
The shoes were designer and expensive and Abby had owned them for six years.
They were bought in the days of Ben. When he was, obviously, alive. When they’d both had good jobs (but Ben’s was better and higher paid). When they’d lived in a two-bedroom townhouse in the Georgetown area of Washington DC. When Ben had managed their money, setting aside a modest amount for their retirement, with two savings accounts he carefully monitored – a small one for a rainy day, a larger one for the extravagant vacations they liked to take.
Ben didn’t mind that more than occasionally Abby bought expensive shoes or designer clothes or exclusive pieces of jewellery. Back then, they were only just beginning to talk about starting a family. It was still just the two of them. They were young. They had all the time in the world to think about the future.
On that heartbreaking thought, Abby swung her grandmother’s heavy, black velvet cape around her shoulders, shoved her arms through the holes and fastened the silk frog at her throat.
She had to stop thinking about Ben.
At least for tonight.
“Be good, Zee,” she told her cat who meowed in return and performed a downward-facing kitty-cat stretch as Abby grabbed her grandmother’s velvet evening bag and her own black, leather gloves.
She allowed herself a moment to bend and scratch her cat’s behind, her newly-manicured, pearlescent-pink-tipped nails sifting through the fine, soft, black fur just above her cat’s tail right where Zee liked best to be scratched. When she did, as usual, Abby heard him start to purr.
After she gave Zee his customary good-bye, Abby positioned herself strategically at the door so she could push through before Cash got any ideas about coming inside. She opened the door only as far as it needed to go watching the ground so she could step out without tripping then shoving her body through. She came very close to Cash, who for some reason didn’t move out of her way.
She immediately smelled his cologne, not because it was overpowering, but because she was that close to him.
She’d smelled his cologne when she’d met him. It was subtle, slightly woodsy, slightly spicy, very male.
It entirely suited him.
Abby ignored her brain registering she very much liked his scent.
She pulled the door until she heard the latch catch and twisted, tilting her head questioningly to see that, although hi
s body was facing her and the door, Cash’s head was turned to the side.
Abby looked in the same direction to see what caught his attention.
Then her stomach did a nosedive of dismay.
Mrs. Truman from next door was on her front doorstep, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to protect her against the damp, bitter, late-January cold. The light from the vestibule illuminated her (and her short, tightly-set, blue hair) and two of her three King Charles Spaniels were dancing around her ankles and yapping noisily at Cash.
I don’t need this, Abby thought and opened her mouth to say something before Mrs. Truman could do something. Something crazy or snooping or irritating or all three, but as usual Mrs. Truman got there first.
“Who are you?” she snapped at Cash, as if she was entitled to know and also as if she knew beyond all doubt that whatever his answer, it was going to cause her great misery.
Abby again started to respond but it was Cash who spoke first, his deep, throaty Scottish brogue sounding through the dark night. “Cash Fraser.”
Mrs. Truman leaned forward, giving Cash a sharp look both of them could see even across Abby’s stoop, drive and hedge and Mrs. Truman’s hedge, drive and stoop.
“So you are. Thought I recognised you, seen you in the papers. What are you doing with Abigail?” Mrs. Truman asked tartly, clearly feeling that she was owed this information as a privilege of her very existence, when she most definitely was not.
Again, Cash answered, “Taking her to dinner.”
“On a date?” Mrs. Truman enquired as if this concept was foreign to her, foreign and abhorrent like they lived in a time when women were sequestered until marriage and anyone breaking this time-honoured rule should be tarred and feathered.
“Yes,” Cash replied and Abby’s head tilted back to look at him because she could hear a hint of amusement in his voice.
She saw up close (as they were only inches away) in the light which was shining from the stained glass window over her door that he was, indeed, amused.
And Cash Fraser’s handsome face amused was better than it was unamused and unamused he was spectacular.
Abby felt her jaw get tense.
“Abigail does not date,” Mrs. Truman informed Cash authoritatively and she would know, she kept a close eye on Abby, everyone in the neighbourhood and likely everyone in the entire county.
Oh dear Lord, Abby thought.
“She does tonight,” Cash returned.
Abby almost laughed because this was all so absurd, it was hilarious.
At the same time she almost screamed because this was all so absurd, it was scary.
Instead of doing either, she moved to the side, linked her arm through Cash’s and called, “We’ve a booking Mrs. Truman, we don’t want to be late. Have a lovely evening.”
Cash, Abby was happy to note, moved with her as she manoeuvred him toward the grand expanse of stone steps that led up the side of her house to her front door.
Her torture at the hands of her demented neighbour, however, was not quite over.
“Abigail Butler!” Mrs. Truman yelled to their forms descending the staircase and Abby turned her head to look at the old woman when she continued. “I’ll not have him racing his fancy car down the street, waking me up at all hours. You tell him that,” she demanded, even though Cash was right there beside her.
“We’ll be quiet,” Abby called back.
Mrs. Truman was still not done. In fact, she’d saved the best for last.
“And no necking on the front stoop. This is a nice neighbourhood,” she declared.
At that, but most especially at Cash Fraser’s highly amused, soft laughter, Abby didn’t know if she wanted to die or if she wanted to kill Mrs. Truman.
She decided to kill Mrs. Truman. The woman was old and had lived her life. Abby was also relatively certain her sentence would be light if some of her other neighbours testified about Mrs. Truman at the trial.
“Good night, Mrs. Truman,” Abby called firmly.
They heard a loud “humph” which travelled the distance between Abby and Mrs. Truman’s house as Cash led Abby to the sleek, black car in the drive.
All thoughts of Mrs. Truman fled as Abby stared at the car, not having taken it in when Cash arrived.
It was a Maserati.
Ironically since he’d died in one, Ben loved cars, all cars, indeed anything with wheels but most especially fast cars. They’d only ever been able to afford a Nissan Z car for him which he loved, nearly (but not quite) as much as Abby and that had been used when they bought it.
This was brand new.
Ben would have adored this car.
Cash took her to the passenger side and opened the door for her and Abby found she couldn’t stop her breath from catching.
She’d dated frequently before Ben (not at all after him) and every once in awhile her suitors would open the car door for her and only the first few dates.
Throughout their time together Ben had always opened her door for her even if they were going to the grocery store. Abby used to tease him about this show of gallantry, explaining she was a healthy girl, she could open her own doors. He’d always ignored her and did it anyway.
She’d secretly loved it. It was one of the many ways Ben took care of her, protected her and showed he loved her.
With a guiding hand on her arm, Cash steered her to her seat and waited courteously as she shifted her legs into the car before he slammed the door.
Abby took deep breaths to calm herself.
She had to stop thinking about Ben, especially now. Now was not the time to think of her beloved, but very dead, husband.
She tried to appear outwardly calm as she buckled herself in and Cash slid in beside her.
After he’d secured himself and started the car, he faced Abby and remarked, “Your neighbour is interesting.”
Abby kept her body facing forward only turning her head to look at him, her mind whirling in desperation to explain away nosy Mrs. Truman.
Not only that, she wondered what he thought of her living in a huge, rambling, four-story, Victorian semi-detached in a quiet seaside town in an even quieter, old, settled and sedate neighbourhood where the average age of her neighbours was four hundred and twenty-two.
Abby reckoned that Cash probably thought that high-class call girls would not live in such places. Not, Abby thought somewhat hysterically, that she knew where Cash or even herself would think a high-class call girl would live.
To his remark, Abby replied coldly, “Mrs. Truman is a raving shrew.”
She watched as Cash Fraser laughed.
And when he did something profound happened to Abby.
His laugh was deep, throaty and rich, so much so it was almost physical, filling the car and reaching out to her like a caress.
The feeling was so pleasant, the sound of his laughter so arresting, Abby found herself stunned, wanting it never to end and frightened of it at the same time.
Frightened because she made him laugh and she had the feeling he didn’t do it often. Her being able to make him laugh felt like some kind of victory.
She knew in a flash that she’d want all of that again and fleetingly, against her will, she had the bizarre wish that it didn’t happen like this with her his paid escort.
Instead, for the first time with any man since Ben, she wished this was real, that she was there because Cash wanted her to be, not because he’d paid for it.
She turned to face forward, tucking her purse in her lap and starting to put on her gloves in an effort to focus when she said, “You can, of course, think it’s funny. You don’t have to live next to her.”
His laughter died to a soft chuckle through which he asked, “Is she always like that?”
“No,” Abby replied serenely, “sometimes she can be worse.”
He burst out laughing again and even though she didn’t want to Abby turned to watch, liking the look of his handsome face in laughter, again feeling the sense of triumph mingle
d heavily with fear.
If she wasn’t seated (and it was anatomically possible), she would have kicked herself.
Because she knew she was trying to make him laugh.
She most definitely had to get control of herself.
She had to endure the next month being seen publically on his arm and going with him to his ancestral home (which wasn’t, officially, his ancestral home) to help him make the statement that he was quite assuredly unavailable, thus protecting him against his unofficially official uncle’s determined, and unwanted, attempts to get him to marry one of his wife’s daughters by a previous marriage.
Abby did not know why dangerous, action man Cash Fraser didn’t just tell his uncle to go jump in a lake. She also didn’t know why dangerous, action man Cash Fraser didn’t utilise one of the many women at his disposal for this errand instead of paying for one.
Neither of these things were any of her business. She had a job to do and it wasn’t a job she should enjoy.
It had become quickly and blindingly apparent that it was also very, very, very important for her always to keep her head screwed on straight when she was dealing with Cash Fraser.
Since her crooked head had for thirty-eight years directed her down many a wild, winding, screwy path, Abby knew this was going to be a difficult task.
Luckily, he got control of his hilarity, put the car in gear and reversed expertly, and somewhat alarmingly quickly, out of her drive.
Then he raced down the street.
Then he turned left and raced down the next street.
Then he turned right and raced down the next.
And then he turned left again and raced down yet another street.
Abby clutched the door handle as he manoeuvred skilfully (and rapidly) through a roundabout at the edge of town and raced down a dark, secluded straightaway.
She was about to say something before she did something, something embarrassing, something like shriek in terror, when she looked over at him and saw that he was driving with his right hand on the steering wheel, his left casually resting on the knob of clutch.