Penmort Castle

Chapter Sixteen Séance

Cash pulled his Maserati into her drive and Abby watched as he turned off the ignition.

Then he got out and she did as well. She closed her door and watched him go to the trunk and pull out not only her, but also his suitcases.

He put one on the ground, slammed the trunk, picked it up again and his eyes came to hers.

Then he walked right passed her to the steps that led to her front door.

I guess Cash is spending the night, she thought on a sigh and followed him.

Germany had been good or, as with anything to do with Cash, too good.

Indeed, it was exceptional or (although Abby was trying not to think this way, she was, as ever, finding it supremely difficult) one could say it was even magical.

It hadn’t started that way.

In fact, they’d almost had another row before they left.

This happened when they were both in her bedroom the morning she packed.

Cash was standing in the bay window talking on his BlackBerry and alternately watching her and looking outside, his gaze resting on her far-off view of the sea (one of the many things about her house that she loved most, and, incidentally, so had Ben).

She’d closed her suitcase, pleased with her efforts and the fact that she still had ten minutes to spare, and proclaimed, “Done!” as if she’d just successfully climbed Mount Kilimanjaro (which it felt like she had).

Still on his phone, as calm as you please, he walked to her suitcase, opened it, dug under her clothes and took out three pairs of high-heeled shoes.

She watched as one-by-one he tossed each shoe into a corner of the room.

First, she stared at the shoes and made a mental note to have a word with him about how he handled her designer gear. Though she made another note to do it when her head wasn’t about to explode.

Then her eyes went to his.

When their eyes caught, he put his palm over the Blackberry and ordered, “Flats.”

Forgetting for a moment that she was his dutiful escort, not his recalcitrant girlfriend, she’d marched to the shoes, marched back to her bag and repacked them.

The whole time she was at her task, Cash watched.

When she was done, he said into his phone, “One second.”

Then he took it from his ear, again put his palm over it and uttered one word only.

“Abby.”

Without hesitation, mimicking his implacable tone, she returned, “Cash.”

They stared at each other and Abby mentally prepared for battle.

Then to her shock, he sighed, shook his head and finally smiled.

“We’ll buy you a helmet in Munich,” he teased, the smile had reached his eyes and she watched as they warmed. Abby felt the now-familiar pleasantness invade her system at being the recipient of a smile from Cash accompanied by that soft look.

Then turning back toward the sea, he put his phone to his ear.

For their entire trip, that had been the only time they’d disagreed.

Everything else had been wonderful.

Ben and Abby had never travelled well together. They were great once they got to their destination but getting there, and getting home, had never been fun.

Ben always complained about how much Abby packed. Further, he liked to be at the airport an hour before the hours before they actually had to be there, something which drove Abby insane. He was not fond (to say the least) of Abby’s penchant for duty-free shopping. Even though he usually didn’t mind her spending, when they were travelling it annoyed him that she’d blow half of their budget before they even left the country (but Abby couldn’t help it, the deals were just too good to pass up).

Cash didn’t care how much she packed (he just didn’t like her heels), not even when he had to carry her heavy suitcase down to his car. And she didn’t get a chance to duty-free shop as Cash owned his own plane.

Yes. His own plane.

Like everything else he owned it was sleek and expensive but not ostentatious. It was a six-seater jet, a luxurious one but not overly-large nor overly-well-appointed. It was comfortable and well-stocked but he didn’t have gorgeous, rail-thin, model-type flight attendants wearing mini-skirted, cleavage-busting uniforms. They had to make their own coffee, well Abby did, Cash was on his laptop the whole trip.

With some effort Abby hid how stunned she was he had his own plane. Obviously, he was Expensive-Escort, Diamond-Bracelet, Cashmere-Robe Loaded but owning a jet took it to a new level.

She had to hide her shock again when, once they arrived in Munich, they went to the opulent Mandarin Oriental and were shown to an elegant suite which included a king-sized bed and walk-in closet.

She wasn’t surprised however when he tipped the bellman, closed the door and took Abby into his arms for a quick but thorough kiss before telling her he needed to get to work.

Thus started their time in Germany and Abby thought it would be just like home.

It wasn’t.

Firstly, Cash didn’t wake up at five o’clock, turn to her for a heated, but quick, mind-boggling session of lovemaking and leave.

He woke up at six, turned to her for a heated, but long, lingering, mind-boggling session of lovemaking, after which he held her for awhile, asking her questions in a soft voice like what she was going to do that day and stroking the small of her back or playing with her hair.

Then he left.

She spent her days in Munich’s gardens, museums and churches as well as shopping, but not buying (for herself, she got Jenny a souvenir for watching Zee).

Late afternoon, he’d call to warn her he was returning to the hotel but he always gave her plenty of time to get back to meet him there.

They spent their nights in the city’s famous beer gardens with Cash introducing Abby to her new favourite thing, Prinzregententorte, a culinary extravaganza including seven thin layers of cake separated with chocolate buttercream and covered in chocolate glaze.

The minute the cake plate was placed in front of her, her eyes hit it and rounded in greedy, exultant wonder. Cash took in her look and burst out laughing.

After he finished with his hilarity, he partially stood, leaning across the table, one hand on its top, the other one wrapping around the back of her head and with everyone watching and his mouth still smiling, he gave her a hard, short kiss that stole her breath.

He kissed her after she’d eaten the cake too. Since he had a piece as well, that kiss tasted better but Cash kissing her with a smile on his face was definitely the best.

He also spent their evenings conducting gentle, but thorough, interrogations.

He asked about her mother, father and grandmother but, notably and thankfully, not Ben. He asked about her former job and where she went to school.

He also shared his history, telling her more about his mother, a bit about his grandfather and explaining that, outside a couple of visits in his youth, he had little to do with Alistair and Nicola. Indeed, until very recently, he never spoke to them.

He also shared bluntly that he didn’t like nor trust Alistair (Abby had kind of guessed that) and had little patience for his cousins, particularly Suzanne (which Abby had also kind of guessed).

However, it was clear he held a fond regard for Nicola.

It was Penmort Castle that made him, as he called it, “heal the breach”.

She couldn’t blame him for wanting to experience his legacy, even in an unfair outsider way. If she had a legacy like that, she’d want the same.

Further, he not only asked about, but shared his own favourite books, movies and music as well as guiding them into a hilarious conversation about their least favourite books, movies and music.

She answered his questions because, she told herself, it was her job.

Not because she liked doing it. Not because she found it easy talking with him. Not because she was curious about his past and his family and how such a magnificent man as he fit in that strange viper’s den. Not because she was fascinated to know his favourite movie was Touch of Evil and his favourite book was In Cold Blood.

No (she told herself), it was just a job. Only a job.

She wasn’t in Munich with a handsome, fascinating man who not only wanted to know more about her but also easily shared more of himself.

She was there to do her job.

That was it.

After they’d eat, drink and talk, they’d stroll through night-time Munich hand-in-hand and walk off the beer and the Prinzregententorte.

After that, they’d go to their suite and he’d lead her to the bed (or, Friday night, it was the shower, then the bed) where he again made love to her, hot, long, and lingeringly.

It was different for them in Germany. He worked less, spent more time with her and all else, she found (and struggled against) could be forgotten. Their time together was more relaxed without the outside world pressing down on them. It was like being on a vacation but with Cash’s work intruding however insignificantly.

Which made it much, much harder for Abby to remember she was playing a role rather than living a dream.

So by the time they made it home late Saturday evening, she was contradictorily both refreshed and exhausted.

Cash had declared they were spending the night at her house because it was closer to the airport. Abby had attempted, all the way home, in a polite way, to prevent this.

As she followed him up the steps to her door, she knew she’d failed in this endeavour.

She had the keys ready and was beginning to reach around him when his hand came up and he took them from her.

In one of the myriad ways Cash was different than Ben, Abby noted that Cash had made a habit of doing things for her.

Ben would open her car door or he’d make her a drink sometimes when she didn’t even ask, or do other little things here and there that were mostly random but always thoughtful and definitely sweet.

Cash took this behaviour to extremes. He opened car doors, restaurant doors, hotel doors, every door. He made a point of positioning himself closest to the street when they walked along sidewalks something she remembered from years ago when her grandfather was still alive, that he told her was the hallmark of a true gentleman. He asked her preference for food and drink before the waiter arrived then ordered for her. Even though she held a hotel key card to their room, when she was with Cash, she never used it. She never once touched her suitcase. He, or a bellman, carried it everywhere.

Indeed, the only things he’d allow her to do was make him coffee, pour him a whisky or cook his food.

Abby was beginning to find this grating.

She might, if circumstances had been different, have found his gallantry attractive. She would, however, probably have explained the extent of it was unnecessary.

She might, again if things were different between them, find getting him a coffee, a whisky or dinner, something she enjoyed doing.

Instead, she found this a reminder that she was his. It reminded her that not only did she work for him, he owned her and, as he’d told her more than once, he took care of what was his.

She wasn’t his cherished partner, she was his valued possession.

He clearly took care of his possessions, his home, his car, his jet.

She was just one of many of his expensive belongings and this behaviour reminded her of that.

“Cash, you had the bags, I could open the door,” Abby stated and even though an escort would have kept her mouth shut, Abby was tired so she didn’t.

His eyes moved to her. “Yes,” he replied quietly, “but you aren’t going inside.”

Abby blinked at him in confusion, saw his eyes move to the bay window of her living room and his chin lifted. Abby’s eyes followed and she saw, just dimly, what looked like flickering candlelight shining through her curtains.

Her body froze.

No one should be there and certainly no candles should be lit.

Jenny knew they weren’t returning until late and she hadn’t a clue they’d be coming to Abby’s. Even if she’d wanted to leave them a warm welcome just in case, she wouldn’t have left a candle burning.

“Oh my God,” Abby breathed, “someone’s in there.”

“Stay at the door,” Cash ordered. “I don’t want you coming in until I tell you it’s safe. Understood?”

Panic welling in her, Abby grabbed his forearm as he lifted the key toward the latch.

“Cash! You can’t go in there!” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s there.”

“Darling, you might have intruders in your house. What do you suggest I do?” he calmly returned and Abby let him go and threw up her hands.

“I don’t know. Call the police?” she tried.

He dismissed her suggestion by lifting his hand to the lock while he said, “Stay here.”

“Cash!” Abby protested but under her breath so the bad guys wouldn’t hear.

Cash inserted the key into the lock but he looked over his shoulder and down at her, his eyes serious, his face hard. “Stay. Fucking. Here.”

All right then.

He was using the f-word.

Abby decided it was time to back down.

However, she also decided not to give in gracefully.

So she crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a glare.

He completely ignored her, opened the door and silently entered her house.

Abby waited.

Then she waited some more.

Then she heard several female shrieks ending with Mrs. Truman shouting, “Dear Lord, what are you doing here?”

Abby grabbed the bags Cash left outside, rushed in, dropped them in the entry, closed the door, pulled off her coat and threw it on the coat stand all the while hearing Cash and Mrs. Truman’s loud conversation.

“What the fuck?” (Cash)

“Language!” (Mrs. Truman)

“Would you care to explain why you’re in Abby’s house in the dead of night and what in fucking hell you’re doing?” (Cash)

“You’re early!” (Mrs. Truman)

“It’s fucking midnight!” (Cash)

By this time Abby made it to her living room only to see it wasn’t one candle lit, but at least two dozen of them.

And it wasn’t Mrs. Truman alone who was enjoying a dead-of-night, candlelit, clandestine moment in Abby’s living room but Jenny was there, to her confusion, for some reason Fenella was there too, as was some woman Abby had never seen.

The woman was dark-haired, dark-eyed, curvaceous and either around five years older than Abby or she was ten and hid it well. She was wearing stylish, hip-hugging, faded, boot-cut jeans over high-heeled boots with a cool, heavy-buckled belt Abby would kill for, all this topped with a snug-fitting turtleneck.

Oddly, she was also wearing a silk scarf wrapped around her head, the faded, fringed ends tangled in her long hair and a webby shawl was thrown over her shoulders.

It wasn’t a look Abby would be able to pull off (or, in all honesty, would want to) but the lady did so, brilliantly. She looked like a Rock ‘n’ Roll Gypsy.

Abby had a sinking feeling she knew what this was about.

But what was Fenella doing there?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Cash asked, as if in Abby’s brain, his angry gaze had swung to Fenella then it moved to The Gypsy Queen. “And who the fuck are you?”

Abby put her hand up, wrapped her fingers around Cash’s bicep, leaned into his side and in the hopes of calming him, said softly, “Cash.”

“Really,” Mrs. Truman scolded, foiling Abby’s calming attempt, “your language is unacceptable, Cash Fraser.”

Cash’s furious eyes sliced to Mrs. Truman and Abby was treated to proof positive that the older woman had nerves of steel when she didn’t even flinch.

“Yes. You are correct,” Cash was enunciating his words with scary clarity. “Normally, it would be unacceptable. But you appear to have helped yourself to my girlfriend’s house to do…” he hesitated, cast an irate glance around the living room and continued, “whatever-the-fuck you’re doing and by the looks of it, it isn’t fucking good.”

Abby looked around and realised he wasn’t wrong.

Not only were there candles burning, there were heavy scarves thrown over the shades of her lamps, muting their brightness so much Abby didn’t notice until then they were switched on. More scarves of velvet and silk festooned the table in front of the couch, on which there was a variety of paraphernalia, including burning incense, more candles (dripping onto the cloth, by the way), bowls filled with dark liquid, a huge, clear, round ball on a poofy, tasselled, velvet pillow and what looked, distressingly, like the bones of a small animal (or an infant and, even though neither choice was good, Abby was hoping for the former).

“You weren’t supposed to be home until later,” Mrs. Truman stuck with her earlier theme.

Cash rocked back on his heels and sucked breath in through his nose in an obvious attempt at patience.

Jenny looked at her watch and hesitantly entered the fray.

“Um, Mrs. Truman, I think it is later,” she said.

Mrs. Truman looked at her own watch then up to Jenny and remarked sedately, “Oh, so it is.”

“Time flies when the spirits aren’t talking,” the Gypsy Queen put in.

Cash spoke again and this time he had his anger in check but you could tell, just barely.

“Let’s start this again,” he suggested. “What are you doing here?”

“Séance,” Mrs. Truman instantly replied as if this was an entirely natural thing to be doing in someone else’s living room or at all.

Cash’s eyes narrowed and Jenny and Fenella both took steps back. The Gypsy Queen crossed her arms on her chest, a small smile playing at her mouth and Mrs. Truman went into stare down mode with Cash.

“You’re having a séance,” Cash repeated in a way that said he not only couldn’t believe his ears, he didn’t want to.

“Yes,” Mrs. Truman replied calmly.

“In Abby’s living room,” Cash went on.

Mrs. Truman glanced at Jenny then back at Cash and explained, “It would upset my dogs if we did it at my house.”

“Kieran would totally freak if we did it at ours,” Jenny threw in.

Cash’s eyes cut to her and he gave her a look that said without words, “no fucking kidding?” therefore Jenny took another step back.

Bravely, Fenella spoke up, “And you know Alistair would have a fit if we tried something like this at the castle.”

Cash pinned Fenella with a look. “Would you like to explain why you’re here?”

Fenella’s glance darted around the room then she took in a deep breath and tried but failed to perform a nonchalant shrug. “Well, see, I was in Clevedon the other day, um…” she glanced at Jenny and then said, “shopping. And I thought I’d pop by and say hi to Abby. She wasn’t here because, you know, she was with you.”

When she stopped speaking, Cash prompted, “Yes. I know. Continue.”

Fenella’s mouth moved around like it had forgotten how to form words before she plucked up the courage to go on. “I was knocking on the door and waiting and Mrs. Truman came out and asked who I was. Then we got to chatting then she invited me to tea then she told me about the séance and invited me to come. I’d never been to one and well,” she hesitated before throwing her hands out at the sides and finishing in a voice that was several octaves higher than normal, “I’m here.”

Cash stared at Fenella and it was clear even to someone who hadn’t spent nearly every single day of two weeks with him that he didn’t believe a word she said or at least not the important ones.

Surprisingly, he let it go and turned to The Gypsy Queen. “And you are?”

She lifted her chin while saying, “Cassandra McNabb. Clairvoyant and white witch, at your service.”

Cash watched her for a moment which slid into two which slid into three as all the women stood tense, waiting.

Then he muttered, “Fucking hell.”

“Obviously you’re tired and want a private moment to say goodnight to Abby before you go home,” Mrs. Truman said then continued pointedly, “to your own bed.”

This comment, Abby noted with alarm, made Cash, whose anger had partially cooled, look like he was going to explode.

“Actually –” he started with deadly calm but Abby jumped in front of him, pressed her back to his front and interrupted.

“Actually, why don’t you all just go on home? I’ll blow out the candles and clean up for you tomorrow.”

“Works for me,” Cassandra muttered, wandering toward a fringed bag that lay beside the hearth.

“I’m, um, staying with Mrs. Truman,” Fenella made this surprising announcement, her eyes on Abby looking weirdly like she was trying to communicate something she could not say out loud. “Maybe tomorrow you and I could have a cup of –”

Cash cut her off by saying, “No.”

Fenella’s eyes flitted to Cash and she uttered a strangled, “No?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. Abby’s mine,” Cash declared and when Fenella opened her mouth to speak, Cash went on, “all day.”

“But you just spent three days with her in Germany!” Mrs. Truman snapped.

“Three days where I was working. Tomorrow, I’m not working and Abby’s spending the day with me,” Cash returned.

“You don’t own her,” Mrs. Truman shot back and Jenny made a telltale choking noise which brought Cash’s newly-narrowed eyes to her face.

Bloody hell! Abby thought.

She sought to minimise any possible future damage by quickly announcing, “It’s late. You all get home.” She looked at Fenella. “I’ll call you. Does Cash have your number?”

Fenella nodded, eyes on Cash, and said, “I think so.”

“Good,” Abby smiled at Fenella and then turned to Cassandra. “Sorry this has been heated but I hope you understand we’re both kind of tired,” Cassandra made no reply so Abby went on in a desperate attempt to be polite. “Anyway, it’s nice meeting you.”

Cassandra’s dark brown eyes looked into Abby’s and Abby stood frozen, having the eerie but not entirely unpleasant feeling that Cassandra was reading the words written on Abby’s soul.

Then she broke her own spell by saying, “We’ll meet again.” She walked to the door, stopped, and looked back at Abby. “You’ve got a great cat.”

Then she was gone.

The others followed close on her heels.

Abby closed the door on them and met Cash in the hall, the faint light from the living room was gone indicating that Cash had blown out the candles and turned out the lights.

Abby flipped a switch that flooded the hall with light.

The minute Cash’s eyes focused on her, he remarked, “That woman is a nut.”

“Mrs. Truman?” Abby asked.

“Take your pick,” Cash answered dryly and Abby wanted to be detached and beyond finding Cash amusing but she couldn’t help but laugh.

While still laughing, she felt his arm slide around her shoulders and he started to lead her up the stairs.

“Do you know why Fenella would come visit you?” he asked and Abby could swear she read more than mild curiosity in his tone.

“No idea,” she replied with all honesty.

Fenella’s being there was, far and away, the weirdest part of a very weird night.

Cash may have wanted to say something else but while they were on the landing turning toward the next flight of steps the lights flickered then they did it again then the hall went black.

Cash stopped them dead on the landing and for a moment Abby feared an army of malevolent ghosts would descend.

Then she realised it was just her usual bad luck, bad timing and wiring that was likely laid during World War I.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Cash muttered angrily in the dark.

“It’s probably just a fuse,” Abby replied with more hope than certainty.

She felt rather than saw Cash turn to her. She did this because his arm never left her shoulders and she found herself pressed to him, breasts to chest.

“In all the shit we talked about in Germany, I forgot to ask about this fucking house,” he commented, his tone bland, his use of the f-word a huge, waving red flag.

“It’s just old,” Abby tried.

“It’s old,” he agreed and continued. “It’s also a money pit and likely a fire hazard.”

“It’s not a fire hazard!” Abby felt the need to defend even though the report the surveyor gave her indicated differently, mainly due to the wiring and, perhaps, some of her appliances. Then she went on to semi-lie, “It’s fine. Solid. It can just be cantankerous on occasion.”

Or, more to the point, weekly.

Cash moved into her, his hand curling her back to his side as he reversed directions.

“Where are we going?” Abby asked as he started to guide them back downstairs.

“My place,” Cash answered.

Abby halted, too tired to remember she didn’t want him in her house.

“But it’s late!” she exclaimed.

Cash pressed her to moving again. “It is, darling, but I’m not fucking around with a fuse box at midnight. Furthermore, I like you just the way you are. You’d be far less attractive burned to a cinder.”

“I’m not going to get burned to a cinder,” Abby declared crossly.

“No. You’re not,” he agreed and proved himself right by guiding her firmly to the entry, helping her on with her coat, grabbing his bag and using his other hand to propel her to his car.

Then he drove them to his house.