Just looking at him, she knew instinctively he had complete control of the powerful car.
Her body relaxed and her fingers loosened from the door handle, her hand moving back to join her other one in her lap.
He didn’t speak. Neither did she.
This lasted for awhile.
Then Abby started to get uncomfortable.
So she asked, “Where are we going?”
“To dinner,” was his uninformative answer.
She looked at him. “I know, but where?”
“A restaurant,” was his equally uninformative answer.
Abby sighed and looked straight ahead. “Will photographers be there?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Is there some kind of event happening?” she pressed, wanting to know what to expect.
“No. I’ve arranged a tip off call to be made, they’ll hear we’re there and they’ll show,” he answered and went on. “They’ll be fed the information about you tonight.”
Abby blinked in surprise and again turned to look at him. “What information?”
He glanced at her before his attention returned to the road and then he negotiated a winding turn at approximately five hundred miles per hour faster than she’d ever contemplate while he replied, “Your back story.”
“My back story?” she repeated stupidly not having the first clue what he was on about.
His voice dipped lower, deeper and throatier (and therefore quite a bit sexier), when he responded, “Abby, it wouldn’t exactly serve my purpose for them to know what you are. James has arranged for them to be fed your story.”
Abby felt like he’d slapped her across the face.
She was, of course, providing him a service at a fee. She didn’t, exactly, like to be reminded of that.
She shirked off the hurt and went on, “And what’s my story?”
It was an altogether different but immensely more painful reaction she had to his answer. “You’re an American widow. You used to work at the Pentagon in a civilian position for the United States Air Force. Your husband was a lobbyist on Capitol Hill for a large, healthcare not-for-profit. You have dual citizenship, American father, English mother, moved to England from DC some time after the death of your husband when you inherited your grandmother’s property.”
Abby felt every muscle in her body seize up.
Kieran had given James her real story.
Why would he do that?
Why, she had to repeat in her head, on God’s green Earth would he do that?
She tried to steady her rapidly beating heart and mentally forced her body to relax and she did this by thinking of all the gratifyingly horrific ways she was going to make her good friend pay for his betrayal.
“There’s quite a bit of detail in that story,” she said softly, for lack of anything else to say and trying to throw him off the fact that the air in the car had suddenly grown thick and she was the reason for it.
“Your husband’s name was Benjamin Butler,” he informed her and hearing Ben’s name come from Cash’s mouth made instant tears burn the backs of Abby’s eyes.
“That’s a nice name,” she whispered while she worked very hard at controlling her tears. She continued when she had herself together. “And what if they check?”
Cash glanced at her as he rounded a bend, the car gliding smoothly down a steep, winding hill.
“You sound surprised,” he remarked.
Abby didn’t reply.
Cash continued, “I’ve been told your people have taken care of this.”
It was then she realised why Kieran had divulged her story and Abby stopped considering her varied forms of torturous retribution.
Part of the plan was that she and Cash would be seen together, photographed together and talked about before they attended his aunt and uncle’s Silver Wedding Anniversary celebrations at the family estate, Penmort Castle.
Seeing as he was Cash Fraser, dangerous, international spy-hunter, people would be curious to know who the hell she was.
She hadn’t exactly covered her tracks, given a false name, had plastic surgery to modify her features or even changed her hair colour. If they checked, it wouldn’t be hard for them to find out.
She looked out the passenger window and hoping she sounded bored with the details, stated, “I don’t involve myself with those things. My…” she hesitated then used his terminology, “people do.”
“You work alone,” was his strange reply and although it was a statement, it was also a question and she didn’t know how to answer, mainly because it was obvious she would work alone.
He hadn’t asked to look like Hugh Hefner with five escorts dripping off his arms.
“Of course,” she replied.
“For yourself,” he went on.
She looked at him again. “Yes.”
“Not with an agency,” he continued and she finally got it.
“Not with an agency,” Abby repeated.
“How many people take care of you?” he asked.
“Two,” she replied honestly, not thinking to include James who was Cash’s friend and for Abby just a go-between or Pete who took care of her in a way but not this way.
“Do they work for others like you?” Cash pushed and Abby pressed her lips together.
This was none of his business.
And furthermore, him saying the words “like you” made her feel cheap and dirty even though she was expensive and had showered that evening at Jenny’s for fear of her tub crashing through the floor.
“Cash,” she said softly but she hoped her meaning was clear.
It was and it wasn’t, he changed the subject but not really.
“May I ask a personal question?” he requested.
“And the questions you’ve been asking aren’t personal?” she returned.
When he replied there was a hint of surprise in his voice, “No, Abby, they’re not. Business is not personal.”
Damn, damn and double damn but she’d given something away. He didn’t know her “back story” was real. He didn’t know that her “people” were her two best friends in all the world. He didn’t know that the reason behind her prostituting herself was very, very personal.
She covered by acquiescing. “Of course, ask me anything you want.”
She noticed that they’d reached the city and he’d negotiated the bridges to turn back across the river. He now paused their conversation to parallel park on the street outside a restaurant she knew, one she’d always wanted to go to but couldn’t afford, one that Kieran and Jenny wanted to take her to (and pay) but she wouldn’t let them.
It was exclusive because it was pricey. She looked and saw that the décor through the big windows facing the river was simple. The lighting soft and romantic, the tables draped in white cloths with white buds blooming from small, glass vases. Flickering tea lights lit the tables and she could see a roaring fire was burning in an ancient hearth against the back, stone wall.
Cash, having parked and turned off the car, interrupted her perusal of the restaurant with one word and that word startled her because there was a low, vibrating harshness underlying it. “Why?”
Her eyes moved from the restaurant to Cash. “Pardon?”
“Why?” he repeated.
“Why what?” she asked, confused and wondering if she missed something.
“Why are you what you are?”
Abby blinked then swallowed then she had the desire to cry which was mingled with the desire to flee which was also mingled with the desire to reach out and slap him as hard as she could thus punishing him for something for which she should be punishing herself.
She didn’t do any of these things.
She also didn’t answer.
He didn’t read her silence correctly as in that she refused to answer.
Instead he went on, “You could get the same things you want without doing what you do to get them.”
Her body grew tight and her voice was cold when she
asked, “And what, after knowing me all of perhaps thirty minutes, do you think I want?”
“You live in a three-quarters of a million pound house in an exclusive town, you wear five hundred pound shoes and you knew the value of my car just glancing at it,” he informed her and she had to admit she was shocked he knew these things. Though he didn’t know the state of her house, which likely would decrease its value, though its location would guarantee a very good asking price, still she was taken aback that he knew how expensive her shoes were, what man knew something like that?.
She kept silent and he continued. “And you know your value.”
“What does that mean?” she snapped, not knowing his inference but knowing she didn’t like it whatever it was.
“It means that you know a man would pay a great deal to possess you.”
She hadn’t known any such thing until he’d proved it yesterday.
Still, she replied swiftly, “That’s the point.”
His answer was soft. “Fucking hell,” he muttered and he sounded annoyed. “Abby, you’re a clever woman. You know you can sell yourself without having to sell yourself.”
“What I do with myself is no business of yours, Mr. Fraser,” she replied, her voice ice cold, the effect, even on her, was chilling.
They sat in the car staring at each other, Abby trying not to shiver. As each moment passed the air started to grow heavier and heavier.
Abby didn’t entirely understand it but she had the vague feeling he was angry and she couldn’t imagine why.
When she could stand no more, hiding the fear she had at what he might answer, she offered, “Would you like to back out of our arrangement?”
“Fuck no,” was his immediate if somewhat curt response and Abby felt herself relax.
Without delay, the edgy conversation obviously over, he turned and exited the car.
As he rounded the back to come to her door, she felt her relaxation disintegrate and got tense because she had the nagging suspicion that she’d hoped that would be his answer but not simply because she needed the money.
Which would indicate that she was failing, somewhat spectacularly, at keeping her head on straight.
And at this realisation, she thought, Oh, bloody hell.
* * * * *
“Our coats,” Cash commanded the waiter after he paid the bill.
“Of course, sir,” the waiter replied.
Cash’s eyes moved back to Abby who was sitting across from him, her elbow on the table, her head in her hand, her fingers had sifted into her thick hair at the side and her gaze was turned to the boats bobbing at their ropes on the river.
She, he thought, looked pensive.
He, Cash knew, was angry.
There were a variety of reasons for his anger.
First and foremost, he was angry because he’d agreed not to have her until three weeks later when they went to Penmort.
He couldn’t imagine, considering the price he was paying for her, what made him agree to that ludicrous caveat.
He wanted her tonight.
He was also angry because she was what she was.
When a woman looked like her, talked like her, smelled like her, dressed like her, had warm hazel eyes that contradicted her cool composure and hinted at something deeper and more intriguing and had wildly varying, easily readable, if puzzling reactions, that woman should not be a whore.
He was also angry because it was clear she intended to keep herself distant, which was likely a necessary professional detachment, when he wanted to know her story.
That wasn’t exactly true, he knew her story.
She’d given it away in the car with her reaction to what he thought at the time was a fabrication.
Abigail Butler, body for sale, had a dead husband named Benjamin who used to be a lobbyist. She used to work for the US Air Force. Now she lived in her grandmother’s home and sold herself to men who could afford to pay top price.
What Cash meant was he was angry that she kept herself distant when, for some baffling reason, he wanted her to share. He wanted her to admit her story and explain why a successful woman would turn to prostitution on the death of her husband.
This was not in his experience a normal reaction to grief.
He wanted to know why she would do such a remarkably stupid thing. He wanted to know why, when it was clear she could attract another man and live a very comfortable life, undoubtedly earning her keep on her back but at least not debasing herself in doing it.
Lastly, he was angry at himself for giving a fuck.
Abigail Butler had a purpose in his life for one month only.
She was going to cushion him from his uncle’s idiotic intentions while Cash extricated himself from that messy situation at the same time rubbing his uncle’s nose in his many failures and securing what was rightfully his.
And she was going to satisfy him in bed as many times as he could manage in the one week she was available to him.
And then she’d be gone.
Dinner, it went without saying, had not been enjoyable.
Not that the food wasn’t delicious, because it was.
Not that her company wasn’t enjoyable, because it was, both innately (she continued to be a bundle of contradictions, cold and unapproachable, mixed with warm and amusing), as well as conversationally (she was clearly well-read and well-travelled with a capacity to listen, actively, and share, if only superficially).
Not that she wasn’t earning her pay because no one in that restaurant, witnessing her behaviour (her soft, enticing smiles; the times she’d touch his hand while speaking; when she’d lean toward him with avid attention as if his terse, impatient responses to her soft conversation were utterly fascinating), would think she was anything less than a woman clearly smitten with her dinner partner.
He’d paid six thousand, six hundred and sixty six pounds for that night with her not including the exorbitant bill for dinner and she’d earned every penny.
The waiter came with their coats and Cash stood, relieving the waiter of his burden and throwing his overcoat on his chair. He shook out Abby’s cape and moved around her so she could remain where she was. Once behind her, he positioned the heavy garment on her shoulders as she moved slightly back into his body, getting closer to him. This was not to make his task easier but a show to those watching, including the three photographers he earlier saw positioning themselves outside, that this was an act of intimacy between a man and his lover, not one of chivalry.
She wasn’t just good, Cash thought with growing disgust, she was superb.
And this made Cash even angrier.
She fastened the cape at her throat and put on her gloves while he donned his overcoat then gripped her elbow, leading her out of the restaurant with all eyes on them.
He could visualise them together. Abby was blonde, tall and elegant but tonight in that alluring dress that hinted at the body beneath it rather than brazenly displaying it as her clothing did yesterday, she showed she had a unique, individual style. Cash was dark and much taller but not overpowering her with his height as he did with most women, and men for that matter.
He knew they made an exceptional-looking couple. It was part of the package he’d paid for.
They were out into the night and he was not looking forward to the drive to take her home.
He would want to come in and make two efforts. The first would be getting her to open up to him. The second would be getting her to sleep with him.
Neither, Cash knew at this juncture, would succeed.
And Cash was used to success, failure was not an option. But he knew that would be what he’d face if he pressed her.
And he didn’t like this either.
They’d only taken two steps on the pavement when Abby, as if oblivious to the now descending photographers, curled into him. She put her hand to his stomach and he stopped at her bold touch, his head tilting down toward her.
She was smiling at him.
Not on
e of her composed, controlled smiles. This one was radiant and lighting up the night, as if she was happy, carefree and deeply in love.
At the sight something in his gut clenched and it was a feeling he’d never felt before in his entire life.
The feeling wasn’t painful, instead it was supremely pleasant.
Unusually caught off guard by her smile and his response to it, he didn’t react as she came up to her toes, leaning into him, her breasts pressing against his arm as she tipped her head back, her eyes slightly closed, her lips lightly parted, her entire face an invitation.
Without willing himself to do it and completely unable to stop himself if he’d tried (which he didn’t), his head bent and as she intended, doing the job he’d paid her to do to put on a show to the photographers, his mouth met hers.
The minute their lips touched hers relaxed under his, her scent filled his nostrils in an overwhelmingly intoxicating way and her body melted into his, bestowing on him a goodly amount of her weight as if she’d lost the ability to stand on her own two feet.
He accepted her obvious if somewhat surprising invitation and deepened the kiss, his hand moving from her elbow in order to wrap his arm tightly around her waist, hauling her closer to him.
Her body went rigid as his tongue touched hers.
She tasted, he realised with acute clarity, as complex and exquisite as everything else that was Abby and he felt his body begin to heat in response.
His head came up at her reaction and he belatedly saw the camera flashes around them.
Her guard was down and Cash could easily read the strange mix of wonder and alarm on her face.
Instinctively he recognised that something had changed. She might have begun this show for the photographers but it didn’t end that way.
He attributed this to the brief but remarkably affecting kiss and the cameras, which she had to know where there.
The former of the two reactions he saw on her face served to please him, dissipate his anger and bring him to the swift decision that he would not wait to have her. Instead, he’d coax her to break her own rule and sleep with him before they reached the castle.