Penmort Castle (4 page)

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 his 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 mingled 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.