Penmort Castle (9 page)

Her face
gentled. “I’m sorry, Cash.”

“Don’t be, I
never knew him.”

He saw surprise
flash in her eyes before she said, “I’m sorry about that too.”

He moved to put
his dishes in the sink. “Don’t be sorry about that either, from
what I know, he was a twat.”

When he turned
from the sink, she was watching him and, gently, she repeated, “I’m
sorry about that too.”

At her words,
instead of walking to her, forcing open her legs and pulling her
into his arms, moulding her body to his, crotch to chest, so he
could kiss her like he very much wanted to do, he leaned his hip
against the sink, crossed his arms on his chest and replied, “I’m
sorry about it too.”

She took
another sip of wine, tilted her head and asked, “Your Mom?”

“Suicide. I was
fifteen.”

Her eyes got
wide and she breathed, “Bloody hell,” she shook her head and went
on, “oh my God.”

“I found her,”
Cash, likely suffering from guilt for forcing her to talk about her
own dead parents, found himself sharing a piece of information that
he rarely shared with anyone.

“Oh my God,”
she repeated.

“It wasn’t a
surprise. She’d tried three times before,” Cash continued.

Her back
straightened and she lifted a hand that Cash saw was shaking before
she demanded in a voice as shaky as her hand, “Please, stop
talking.”

“She wasn’t a
well woman, Abby, it was the reason my father didn’t marry her,”
Cash explained because she was looking pale and for some reason in
pain.

Her look
intrigued him.

Women looked at
him in many different ways all of which he could read. Cash knew
Abby was horrified by what he’d shared but he didn’t quite
understand the pain.

“Still,” she
whispered, breaking him out of his thoughts, “you found her?”

“It was
expected. Every time I came home, I expected something. She was
manic depressive, amongst other things, and refused to take meds.
When she was high, she was brilliant, funny, beautiful, smart, full
of energy. When she was down, she was suicidal. It’s not as tragic
as it sounds if it’s your life. It’s only tragic when it’s not,”
Cash stated calmly because he was calm. He’d long since learned
this lesson and he’d learned it very well. “She was the one who
called me Cash, came up with it during a high. I was very young and
it stuck. I don’t remember ever answering to anything else.”

Latching onto a
change of topic, Abby asked, “What’s your real name?”

“Conner.”

She observed
him for a moment.

“Yeah,” she
said softly, “that fits too.”

He moved toward
her and stopped in front of her. He leaned in and put his hands on
the counter at either side of her hips.

He watched as
her body tensed and he ignored it.

“When I met
you, I thought the name ‘Abby’ didn’t suit you,” he told her.

“Really?” she
asked, leaning away from him but, he noted, trying to look like she
wasn’t.

This nearly
made him laugh.

“Really,” he
replied and moved closer, “but tonight, you’re an Abby.”

“I’m always
Abby,” she returned then, with her voice slightly breathy and
higher than normal, she asked, “Do you want pears?”

“Not right
now,” he answered.

“More whisky?”
she queried.

Cash shook his
head.

She bit the
side of her lower lip just like she did the day he met her.

He’d been
right, it was adorable.

With his eyes
still on her mouth he said, “Right now, it’s time for bed.”

* * * * *

Abby opened her
eyes to a feeling of warm unfamiliarity mingled with the
realisation that it was early morning and dark.

For a moment
she was pleasantly confused.

Then her brain
woke, her senses cleared, her vision adjusted and panic ensued.

In the shadows
she could see a wide expanse of chest and a bedside clock that said
it was twenty past five.

Both the chest
and the clock belonged to Cash.

Her body froze
as she took in her position.

She was lying,
tucked tight to his side, her thigh thrown over one of his. She was
curled so deeply into him that her calf had fallen between his
legs. Her head was resting heavily on his shoulder, a good deal of
her body doing the same down the length of his and her arm was
wrapped around his waist.

She found this
position disturbing in a variety of ways.

Firstly, she
had not slept in a bed with anyone other than Jenny since Ben died
and she couldn’t believe she’d had any sleep at all beside Cash
much less almost on top of him but it appeared she had.

Secondly, she’d
never cuddled with Ben in sleep, not because she didn’t want to but
because Ben didn’t like it. He’d gently told her early in their
sexual relationship that he preferred to be unhindered while
sleeping. This had always secretly disappointed her and after he’d
died she yearned to go back in time with the knowledge of what
would befall them and coax him into learning how to sleep with her
pressed against him.

Lastly, she
barely knew Cash Fraser. She’d been in his company only three
times. Yet she felt comfortable and snugly warm cuddled up to
Cash’s long, hard body in a way that wasn’t forbidden or wrong (as
she thought it should feel) but instead in a way that seemed
perfectly natural (as she thought it was
not
).

Last night,
after he told her it was time for bed Abby had been close to
hysteria.

It took all her
energy and concentration not to let on this was the case.

Indeed, their
very short evening together took a lot of energy and
concentration.

There was
something weirdly intimate passing between them regardless of the
fact that they barely knew one another. She thought it had a lot to
do with her being in his home, cooking for him and waiting for him
to get home from work. These were things you didn’t do on a second
date. These were things you did for someone you knew well and cared
about.

She was also
trying to be friendly without being too friendly and she thought
this might be working though she found it immensely taxing. Cash
made it harder by deciding, freakishly (to Abby’s way of thinking),
to deepen their conversation past the trivial to the very personal.
Pressing her for information and openly sharing the horror stories
of his mother and father didn’t help. It was impossible to stay
distant from someone who told you he didn’t know his father outside
of the fact he was a “twat” and found his mother after she
committed suicide.

In fact, any
human with a modicum of compassion was forced by all the rules of
being
a human with a modicum of compassion not to stay
distant when such a story was shared.

Even though
nothing about him invited it, indeed he seemed entirely adjusted to
his hideously sad history, Abby had wanted to put her arms around
him. She found it almost painful not to give into this
instinct.

But then he’d
said they were going to bed and everything else flew out of her
head.

He’d moved away
from her on the counter (thankfully) and asked where her bag was.
She told him, they went upstairs, he retrieved it from the lounge
and took her to his bedroom. All the while, Abby’s sense of doom
intensified.

He had an
enormous master suite on the second floor, replete with a huge
king-size bed covered in a deep grey comforter with six big, fluffy
pillows stacked at the head, three to a side, two in black pillow
cases, two in midnight blue and the top in a matching grey sham.
The furniture in the room was heavy, dark and uber-masculine. The
look, like everything else in his house (and everything about him)
was powerfully male, sleek, expensive and modern.

He showed her
to the adjoining bathroom. It was immaculate white, looked brand
new and fitted with what appeared to be a top-of-the-line bathroom
suite. It had grey accent tiles and thick, luxurious towels in the
colours of his bed sheets.

He left her in
the bathroom; she closed the door behind him and changed.

The search for
a casual but classy outfit in which to cook dinner for Cash Fraser,
International Spy Catcher, was nothing compared to the search for
what to wear to his bed.

She didn’t want
to give him any ideas by wearing anything alluring but she also
didn’t want to step out of her role of Cool Paid Escort to the Rich
and Famous by wearing what she’d normally wear (a pair of comfy
PJs).

She and Jenny
had settled on a dusty-blue nightgown made of super-soft, stretchy
cotton that hugged her upper body and fell to a line of
charcoal-grey lace at the hem just above her knees. Thin, grey,
satin straps held the nightgown to her shoulders but there was no
other adornment. It was fitted and graceful without being overtly
sexy.

She donned the
nightgown, brushed her teeth, washed her face, applied moisturiser,
pulled out her ponytail and, taking a deep, calming breath (which
didn’t work in any way, shape or form), she walked out to the
bedroom.

Cash had turned
on the overhead light to the room when they entered but now only a
soft light shone from the sleekly lined lamp on the bedside table
that had a black shade and a glass base. He was standing by the
bed, his BlackBerry in hand, his thumb pressing buttons, wearing
nothing but a pair of dark grey, cotton, drawstring pyjama bottoms,
the quality of the material demonstrated by a low sheen.

His chest and
feet were bare.

Abby (and her
rapidly beating heart) noticed immediately that Cash’s clothing was
not
costly camouflage.

Cash Fraser had
a great body.

His chest was
all smooth muscle leading down to the planes and contours of strong
abdominals. His collarbone and the tops of his hip bones stood out
in sexy relief. His biceps and lower arms had well-defined muscles,
his veins slightly jutting.

She found
herself thinking (at that moment descending into a kind of dazed
madness) that a man with a body like that could climb mountains,
fight wars, battle opponents hand-to-hand in bloody combat and, no
matter the challenge, always come away the victor.

This alarmed
her.

Greatly.

Even as it
captivated her.

Even more
greatly.

“Abby?” he
called and her body jerked at his deep brogue saying her name.

Her eyes flew
from him to the bed and she stared at it in desperation like it was
going to form a mouth and start telling her a fascinating tale.

“Sorry,” she
muttered. “Tired,” she muttered again, not trusting her own
voice.

“Which side?”
Cash asked and as she was studiously regarding the bed at the same
time trying to ignore her thoughts and feelings, she didn’t know
what he was talking about.

Her eyes
shifted to him.

It was a
mistake.

He was too
gorgeous for his own good (and hers).

“Pardon?” she
enquired.

“Which side of
the bed?” he asked and she started yet again.

She slept on
the left with Ben. She’d taken to sleeping in the middle without
him.

“The middle,”
she blurted.

Another
mistake. This made him smile.

He had a great
smile.

Oh dear
Lord,
she thought.

He twisted his
torso and placed the BlackBerry on the bedside table then strolled
to her.

He got up close
and his chin tipped down to look at her.

“Relax,
darling,” his burr was a soft rumble, “I don’t bite.”

In desperation
Abby tried to be flip. “That’s a relief.”

“Though, I
don’t mind if you do,” he continued and she could do nothing but
swallow.

He saw her
nervous reaction and it made him grin.

Then he walked
passed her to the bathroom.

She scrambled
to the bed, getting in on the left side. She pulled the covers high
and curled into herself, making her body as diminutive as she
possibly could.

She didn’t know
if she could do this. In fact, she was pretty certain she couldn’t.
In fact, she was extremely certain she was giving it all away by
acting like a frightened virgin.

She couldn’t
give it all away. She’d dug this hole for herself, now she had to
live in it until the time when she could dig her way back out.

She forced
herself to relax, uncurl and assume a sleeping position that normal
people might use, on her side, hands tucked under her face, knees
crooked.

Minutes later,
he came out of the bathroom.

She didn’t
watch as he turned out the light and got into bed.

But her body
was tense as he turned to her. She felt his hand come to rest on
her hip and his mouth went to her ear.

“Good night,
Abby,” he said softly.

“Good night,”
she replied chirpily.

She could swear
she heard him chuckle.

Normally this
might annoy her. At the time, she was too flipped out to let it
register.

He kept his
hand where it was but settled behind her. She could feel his body,
though he kept his distance.

She waited.

He didn’t move
and he didn’t try anything.

She waited
more.

He stayed where
he was and she felt his hand get heavier as his breathing got
steadier. Moments later, his hand slid away as he fell to his
back.

She waited
more, hoping he’d start snoring which would give her a valid reason
to find somewhere else to sleep.

He didn’t.

Eventually her
body relaxed and shortly after she fell asleep.

Now this.

How she’d
snuggled into him, she had no idea. But she had to move and
fast.

Carefully she
rolled to her back. Unfortunately, Cash rolled with her.

His body was
pressed to her side much like hers was to him moments before
(except, of course, the head to the shoulder bit), and she felt his
hand come to rest on her belly.