Penmort Castle (24 page)

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.

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.