Penmort Castle (13 page)

By the time she
made it down the stairs, Nina Simone had started singing, “Tell Me
More and More and Then Some”.

She saw Cash
was in the kitchen, a tumbler of Scotch in one hand, the other hand
clenched in a fist that was on his hip. He was wearing a pair of
dark brown suit trousers, a dress shirt the colour of which was an
attractive blend between dandelion yellow and burnt orange that had
a subtle sheen, it was unbuttoned at his throat and the cuffs were
turned back.

His eyes were
locked on her.

And he looked
less
happy than his voice sounded on her phone.

“Cash –” she
started.

At the same
time he demanded, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“There was an
accident on the motorway and then –” she began.

He cut her off.
“Do you have your mobile?”

“Yes,” she
answered.

“Did it occur
to you to phone to let
me
know it wasn’t
you
in a
fucking accident on the motorway?”

Two things came
to Abby at once.

First, the
reminder that she knew
exactly
how it felt to learn someone
you cared about had been in an accident on the highway.

Second was the
shocking knowledge that Cash wasn’t angry because he was losing
time with her, valuable time he’d paid dearly for. He was angry
because he was worried about her.

She knew how
she felt about the first, it tore at her soul every day. The second
she didn’t know what to do with.

Cash didn’t
give her time to figure it out.

“Abby, answer
me,” he clipped.

“No,” she
started and when his eyes narrowed dangerously, she hurried on, “I
mean, yes, of course it did. But it’s illegal to talk on your
mobile in the car.”

“Next time
you’re going to be an hour late, darling, rest assured in the
knowledge that
I’ll
pay the fucking fine if you get pulled
over for talking on your goddamned phone,” he returned and Abby
thought it was safe to say that Cash Fraser, International Hot Guy
Extraordinaire, was
pissed off
.

“Cash –” she
began again.

And again he
cut her off by demanding, “Get over here.”

She gave a
start. “What?”

“I said, get…
over… here.”

This, Abby
decided, was not going well.

She briefly
considered running for her life.

She then
figured Cash would catch her. His legs were longer and even though
he was standing behind the counter and she couldn’t see it was
unlikely he was wearing high heels.

So, with no
other option open to her, she moved toward him and as she did so he
leaned forward and set down his tumbler with an angry
clunk
.

When she got
within arm’s reach, he snatched her purse from her and tossed it
unceremoniously on the counter even though it was Coach and no one
should treat Coach like that but she wasn’t going to share that
morsel of knowledge with Cash at that moment.

When he was
done with that, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, he gave it a
sharp tug and she fell into him. Her hand came up to cushion her
fall and it landed on his chest. He dropped her wrist; she tilted
her head back and opened her mouth to say something to diffuse his
anger when she saw his head descending.

Then he was
kissing her, hard, hot, open-mouthed and hungry, his arms wrapping
around her, crushing her to his solid body.

Her hand not
trapped between them went to his shoulder, not in a loving embrace
but to hold herself up as her knees had turned to mush.

She felt his
kiss burn from her mouth, through to her breasts, down passed her
belly, straight between her legs and when he lifted his head, she
was nigh on panting and her body was on fire.

“I don’t like
waiting,” he growled low.

“So noted,” she
breathed.

“You’re going
to be late, I don’t give a fuck if it’s five minutes, you call,” he
demanded.

She nodded. He
glared at her.

She stood still
and took it silently, not wanting to throw any fuel on the already
scorching fire.

After awhile of
standing in the kitchen crushed to Cash, his arms still holding her
tight, she braved the wild beast.

“Do you want me
to make dinner?”

“No, I don’t
want you to make fucking dinner,” he shot back.

Obviously,
she’d spoke too soon.

“We’re going
out,” he announced.

“But, Aileen
went out and bought –” she started.

His arms got
tighter, interrupting her word flow by squeezing the breath out of
her. “We’re going, fucking,
out
.”

“Okay,” she
wheezed.

His arms
loosened and he let her go, reached out, grabbed his whisky and
threw it back in one gulp. Then down the glass went with another
angry
clunk
, he seized her purse, tossed it to her and took
her hand, dragging her to the chair where his suit jacket was. He
snatched it from the chair then hauled her upstairs, hand still in
hers.

They were at
the front door, he’d put on his suit jacket and was shrugging on
his overcoat and Abby was watching him.

His silence was
flipping her out. So she broke it.

“You say ‘fuck’
a lot when you’re angry,” she informed him for lack of anything
else to say.

His eyes sliced
to her. “Abby, I’m not in the mood for you being cute.”

At his words,
she felt the room pitch crazily.

“You think I’m
cute?” she whispered.

His eyes
skewered her to the spot and she decided not to speak again.

Then he opened
the door, took her hand and marched her through.

* * * * *

Abby stood at
Cash’s bathroom sink, hands curled around the edge of the basin,
deep breathing to stop herself from hyperventilating.

It was time for
bed. This was going to happen now.

She’d agreed to
it. She was going to have to go through with it.

She wasn’t only
near to hyperventilating because she was terrified.

She was also
near-to hyperventilating because she was terrified about what it
said about her because she, deep down, wanted it.

That night,
after dinner, after walking the romantic streets of Bath with Cash,
after they came back to his house and ate the leftover pears with
cream and chocolate sauce, she’d rinsed and put the dishes in the
dishwasher.

While she was
doing this she realised if this was real, if he had asked her out
and this was their third date, even though (before Ben, obviously)
she had a strict six-dates-before-sex rule, she would be doing
something just like this with Cash.

And looking
forward to it.

She might have
even done it on the second date.

Earlier that
evening Cash had nursed his anger on the short walk into town (he
lived in a townhouse just off the Circus). He’d nursed it through
the maitre d’ of the impossibly busy, posh restaurant scurrying to
find the Fabulously Rich and Famous Cash Fraser a table (a
prime-spot two-top at the window out of which the Maitre d’ rushed
a couple enjoying the final sips of their coffee). He’d nursed it
through a glass of neat whisky that he drank while they
contemplated the menu and ordered. And he’d nursed it through their
starters.

Abby learned
two things the hard way. The first being that Cash Fraser did,
indeed, not like to be kept waiting. The second being that Cash
Fraser was formidable when he was angry and thus, one should do all
in their power not to let that happen.

Once he’d
thawed (somewhere in the middle of them consuming their mains), he
was replenishing Abby’s wine, when she quietly said, “I’m sorry I
was late, Cash.”

His eyes went
from her wine glass to her. He finished his task, put the bottle on
the table and Abby held her breath as he got out of his chair,
throwing his cloth napkin on the table by his plate.

She had no idea
what he was going to do and she watched him round the table and
stop beside her.

At his height,
her head was tilted back at an impossible angle to look up at him
and not a single thought entered her paralysed mind.

Then he leaned
down, wrapped his hand around the back of her head and touched his
lips briefly to hers.

When he was
finished, he said against her mouth softly, “Don’t do it
again.”

“I won’t. I
promise,” she whispered back.

He lifted up,
kissed her forehead and then walked back around the table, sat
down, shook his napkin out and laid it in his lap.

He calmly
resumed eating.

After the shock
of this tender act had worn off, Abby became aware that people were
watching.

Some of them
were trying to hide the fact that they were watching the
fascinating show of an internationally famous man eating dinner
with his partner.

Some of them
weren’t trying to hide anything, they were watching openly.

Abby felt a
sense of desolation that there was a possibility that Cash’s action
was a performance for their benefit, not a demonstration of
affectionate forgiveness.

But she’d never
know because she could never ask.

She’d hidden
her disappointment and drawn him out by asking about his music (he
very much liked old jazz, not just Nina Simone but also Louis
Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, Duke Ellington and the
like). She’d asked him about his work (he couldn’t tell her much,
it was confidential, but he’d gotten into the business while he was
attending Oxford, working at a summer internship and he discovered
the possibility someone was stealing and selling company secrets
and instead of whistle-blowing, he’d quietly investigated, found it
to be true, presented his evidence and it all started from
there).

They passed the
rest of dinner in companionable conversation and decided against
dessert in favour of the pears at the townhouse.

However, when
they left the restaurant, instead of turning toward his home, Cash
turned her toward Bath.

It was cold.
She thought at first too cold for a stroll through an ancient
city.

She’d decided
(luckily, considering they ended up in a posh restaurant,
unfortunately, considering they took a walk after) to wear a slim,
black pencil-skirt with a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, black,
high-heeled boots and finishing the outfit with her hip-length,
black wool coat that closed only by a tie-belt (her makeup that
evening was her “Sophisticated Casual” look).

At first, he
held her hand then, noticing she was cold, he held
her
. His
arm going around her shoulders, he tucked her into his side as they
strolled.

They didn’t
talk. They just walked, letting the beauty of Bath tell its tale as
they did so.

Then something
strange happened.

A flash of
light which could only come from a photographer caught them,
jarring them out of their silent, comfortable cocoon and back into
the real world.

Considering
this was what Cash wanted, what Cash was paying for, his reaction
to the photographer was bizarre.

He looked, at a
glance from Abby, for all the world
angry
at the intrusion.
He immediately turned them toward his home and he seemed to be
shielding her with his tall frame as they went.

When they
arrived at the short flight of stairs in front of his house, he
even tucked her in front of him, his arm around her waist, his
other hand opening the door as he sheltered her with his shoulder
from the lens of the cameraman. Cash pressed her inside and blocked
the view as he shut the door.

Without a word,
and Abby decided not to ask, they’d gone downstairs.

Abby fixed the
pears and made decaf coffee which, she told him, even though he
could probably care less, she had to drink as she never drank
caffeinated beverages after noon or she’d never get to sleep.

They ate and
drank while Abby sat on the counter and Cash stood close, his hips
resting against a corner in the counter, one of them also resting
against her knee.

When they were
done, she’d rinsed and put the dishes away and was standing at the
sink, turning off the faucet, thinking crazy thoughts, when she
felt him behind her back.

His hand came
to her hip, his mouth to her neck, and he murmured, “Time for
bed.”

At his words
her stomach did a queer little dip that wasn’t unpleasant in the
slightest.

Now there she
was, wishing for the first time since Ben (and drowning with guilt
about it) that she was experiencing the scary but thrilling
anticipation of connecting with someone whom she found handsome and
compelling.

Not
about to perform the services for which she was being very
generously paid.

“Bloody hell,”
she whispered to her reflection and walked out of the bathroom.

The lights
again were dim, only the lamps on either side of the bed were
lit.

Cash was lying
on top of the covers slightly to the middle of his side, wearing
his pyjama bottoms. His back was to the headboard, his long legs
stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.

He held a sheaf
of papers in his hand and there were several small piles of papers
fanned out on Abby’s side of the bed.

Abby stopped at
the sight of him.

“Was I in the
bathroom a year?” she asked, referring to his swiftly taking over
the bed with paperwork.

His head lifted
from his study of the papers in his hand and she noticed
immediately that he was wearing a pair of attractive, silver-framed
reading glasses.

She also
noticed that he looked really good wearing his attractive,
silver-framed reading glasses.

“You wear
glasses,” she told him unnecessarily.

“Yes,” he
replied.

“They look good
on you,” she blurted, feeling like a fool.