Penmort Castle

Chapter Three The First Date

Abby was already in the vestibule when the ancient bell in the door clanked discordantly as Cash Fraser turned it.

Not wanting to be taken unaware, nor give him any reason to enter her home, she’d been ready for half an hour.

She’d watched for his arrival at the window while alternately pacing the living room, all that time wondering if he could track her down if she took his money and escaped to the wilds of the Brazilian rainforest (and, as he was an industrial spy ring breaker, she figured he could).

On that dismal thought she’d seen his car pull in the drive. She watched his tall, powerful body knife out of the car as if he was being born anew from its sleek depths before she dropped the curtains she was peeking through. She took a long calming breath (which failed to calm her, incidentally) and she ran to the entry, the echo of her heels clattering against the large black and white diamond-tiled floor rang through the cavernous hall as she moved.

Her cat, aptly named Beelzebub (because the fluffy, black furball was a little devil), chased her, weaving around her high-heeled feet, nearly tripping her (part of the reason he was a little devil for he did this often and sometimes succeeded in his efforts).

She was wearing her grandmother’s clothes.

With only a day to prepare and her life in its usual, if quite a bit more dramatic turmoil, she hadn’t had time to shop for anything new.

However, for her first date as paid escort to Handsome Cash Fraser, she knew she needed something special, something she and Jenny would refer to as Clothing Courage.

And as ever, Gram, even dead for over a year, did not disappoint when her granddaughter was in need.

That day the plumber and electrician became a plumber, electrician and contractor because once the bathroom suite and tile were ripped out, the rotting floorboards had to be replaced and there was the small fact that two walls of plaster fell down. Therefore that day had been spent not at the mall but in the tile shop where she bought what seemed like, and cost as much as, acres of expensive replacement tile.

She’d also sent out cheques paying off her credit cards, she settled her debt with Pete and significantly drew down both of her loans. Lastly, she’d gone to the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army.

This final errand for some reason gave her a glorious sense of freedom.

She hadn’t been able to afford to go nuts at a grocery store or any store or in any way shape or form in so long, she forgot how it felt not to have to watch every single penny.

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.

Luckily, he got control of his hilarity, put the car in gear and reversed expertly, and somewhat alarmingly quickly, out of her drive.

Then he raced down the street.

Then he turned left and raced down the next street.

Then he turned right and raced down the next.

And then he turned left again and raced down yet another street.

Abby clutched the door handle as he manoeuvred skilfully (and rapidly) through a roundabout at the edge of town and raced down a dark, secluded straightaway.

She was about to say something before she did something, something embarrassing, something like shriek in terror, when she looked over at him and saw that he was driving with his right hand on the steering wheel, his left casually resting on the knob of clutch.

Just looking at him, she knew instinctively he had complete control of the powerful car.

Her body relaxed and her fingers loosened from the door handle, her hand moving back to join her other one in her lap.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

This lasted for awhile.

Then Abby started to get uncomfortable.

So she asked, “Where are we going?”

“To dinner,” was his uninformative answer.

She looked at him. “I know, but where?”

“A restaurant,” was his equally uninformative answer.

Abby sighed and looked straight ahead. “Will photographers be there?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Is there some kind of event happening?” she pressed, wanting to know what to expect.

“No. I’ve arranged a tip off call to be made, they’ll hear we’re there and they’ll show,” he answered and went on. “They’ll be fed the information about you tonight.”

Abby blinked in surprise and again turned to look at him. “What information?”

He glanced at her before his attention returned to the road and then he negotiated a winding turn at approximately five hundred miles per hour faster than she’d ever contemplate while he replied, “Your back story.”

“My back story?” she repeated stupidly not having the first clue what he was on about.

His voice dipped lower, deeper and throatier (and therefore quite a bit sexier), when he responded, “Abby, it wouldn’t exactly serve my purpose for them to know what you are. James has arranged for them to be fed your story.”

Abby felt like he’d slapped her across the face.

She was, of course, providing him a service at a fee. She didn’t, exactly, like to be reminded of that.

She shirked off the hurt and went on, “And what’s my story?”

It was an altogether different but immensely more painful reaction she had to his answer. “You’re an American widow. You used to work at the Pentagon in a civilian position for the United States Air Force. Your husband was a lobbyist on Capitol Hill for a large, healthcare not-for-profit. You have dual citizenship, American father, English mother, moved to England from DC some time after the death of your husband when you inherited your grandmother’s property.”

Abby felt every muscle in her body seize up.

Kieran had given James her real story.

Why would he do that?

Why, she had to repeat in her head, on God’s green Earth would he do that?

She tried to steady her rapidly beating heart and mentally forced her body to relax and she did this by thinking of all the gratifyingly horrific ways she was going to make her good friend pay for his betrayal.

“There’s quite a bit of detail in that story,” she said softly, for lack of anything else to say and trying to throw him off the fact that the air in the car had suddenly grown thick and she was the reason for it.

“Your husband’s name was Benjamin Butler,” he informed her and hearing Ben’s name come from Cash’s mouth made instant tears burn the backs of Abby’s eyes.

“That’s a nice name,” she whispered while she worked very hard at controlling her tears. She continued when she had herself together. “And what if they check?”

Cash glanced at her as he rounded a bend, the car gliding smoothly down a steep, winding hill.

“You sound surprised,” he remarked.

Abby didn’t reply.

Cash continued, “I’ve been told your people have taken care of this.”

It was then she realised why Kieran had divulged her story and Abby stopped considering her varied forms of torturous retribution.

Part of the plan was that she and Cash would be seen together, photographed together and talked about before they attended his aunt and uncle’s Silver Wedding Anniversary celebrations at the family estate, Penmort Castle.

Seeing as he was Cash Fraser, dangerous, international spy-hunter, people would be curious to know who the hell she was.

She hadn’t exactly covered her tracks, given a false name, had plastic surgery to modify her features or even changed her hair colour. If they checked, it wouldn’t be hard for them to find out.

She looked out the passenger window and hoping she sounded bored with the details, stated, “I don’t involve myself with those things. My…” she hesitated then used his terminology, “people do.”

“You work alone,” was his strange reply and although it was a statement, it was also a question and she didn’t know how to answer, mainly because it was obvious she would work alone.

He hadn’t asked to look like Hugh Hefner with five escorts dripping off his arms.

“Of course,” she replied.

“For yourself,” he went on.

She looked at him again. “Yes.”

“Not with an agency,” he continued and she finally got it.

“Not with an agency,” Abby repeated.

“How many people take care of you?” he asked.

“Two,” she replied honestly, not thinking to include James who was Cash’s friend and for Abby just a go-between or Pete who took care of her in a way but not this way.

“Do they work for others like you?” Cash pushed and Abby pressed her lips together.

This was none of his business.

And furthermore, him saying the words “like you” made her feel cheap and dirty even though she was expensive and had showered that evening at Jenny’s for fear of her tub crashing through the floor.

“Cash,” she said softly but she hoped her meaning was clear.

It was and it wasn’t, he changed the subject but not really.

“May I ask a personal question?” he requested.

“And the questions you’ve been asking aren’t personal?” she returned.

When he replied there was a hint of surprise in his voice, “No, Abby, they’re not. Business is not personal.”

Damn, damn and double damn but she’d given something away. He didn’t know her “back story” was real. He didn’t know that her “people” were her two best friends in all the world. He didn’t know that the reason behind her prostituting herself was very, very personal.

She covered by acquiescing. “Of course, ask me anything you want.”

She noticed that they’d reached the city and he’d negotiated the bridges to turn back across the river. He now paused their conversation to parallel park on the street outside a restaurant she knew, one she’d always wanted to go to but couldn’t afford, one that Kieran and Jenny wanted to take her to (and pay) but she wouldn’t let them.

It was exclusive because it was pricey. She looked and saw that the décor through the big windows facing the river was simple. The lighting soft and romantic, the tables draped in white cloths with white buds blooming from small, glass vases. Flickering tea lights lit the tables and she could see a roaring fire was burning in an ancient hearth against the back, stone wall.

Cash, having parked and turned off the car, interrupted her perusal of the restaurant with one word and that word startled her because there was a low, vibrating harshness underlying it. “Why?”

Her eyes moved from the restaurant to Cash. “Pardon?”

“Why?” he repeated.

“Why what?” she asked, confused and wondering if she missed something.

“Why are you what you are?”

Abby blinked then swallowed then she had the desire to cry which was mingled with the desire to flee which was also mingled with the desire to reach out and slap him as hard as she could thus punishing him for something for which she should be punishing herself.

She didn’t do any of these things.

She also didn’t answer.

He didn’t read her silence correctly as in that she refused to answer.

Instead he went on, “You could get the same things you want without doing what you do to get them.”

Her body grew tight and her voice was cold when she asked, “And what, after knowing me all of perhaps thirty minutes, do you think I want?”

“You live in a three-quarters of a million pound house in an exclusive town, you wear five hundred pound shoes and you knew the value of my car just glancing at it,” he informed her and she had to admit she was shocked he knew these things. Though he didn’t know the state of her house, which likely would decrease its value, though its location would guarantee a very good asking price, still she was taken aback that he knew how expensive her shoes were, what man knew something like that?.

She kept silent and he continued. “And you know your value.”

“What does that mean?” she snapped, not knowing his inference but knowing she didn’t like it whatever it was.

“It means that you know a man would pay a great deal to possess you.”

She hadn’t known any such thing until he’d proved it yesterday.

Still, she replied swiftly, “That’s the point.”

His answer was soft. “Fucking hell,” he muttered and he sounded annoyed. “Abby, you’re a clever woman. You know you can sell yourself without having to sell yourself.”

“What I do with myself is no business of yours, Mr. Fraser,” she replied, her voice ice cold, the effect, even on her, was chilling.

They sat in the car staring at each other, Abby trying not to shiver. As each moment passed the air started to grow heavier and heavier.

Abby didn’t entirely understand it but she had the vague feeling he was angry and she couldn’t imagine why.

When she could stand no more, hiding the fear she had at what he might answer, she offered, “Would you like to back out of our arrangement?”

“Fuck no,” was his immediate if somewhat curt response and Abby felt herself relax.

Without delay, the edgy conversation obviously over, he turned and exited the car.

As he rounded the back to come to her door, she felt her relaxation disintegrate and got tense because she had the nagging suspicion that she’d hoped that would be his answer but not simply because she needed the money.

Which would indicate that she was failing, somewhat spectacularly, at keeping her head on straight.

And at this realisation, she thought, Oh, bloody hell.

“Our coats,” Cash commanded the waiter after he paid the bill.

“Of course, sir,” the waiter replied.

Cash’s eyes moved back to Abby who was sitting across from him, her elbow on the table, her head in her hand, her fingers had sifted into her thick hair at the side and her gaze was turned to the boats bobbing at their ropes on the river.

She, he thought, looked pensive.

He, Cash knew, was angry.

There were a variety of reasons for his anger.

First and foremost, he was angry because he’d agreed not to have her until three weeks later when they went to Penmort.

He couldn’t imagine, considering the price he was paying for her, what made him agree to that ludicrous caveat.

He wanted her tonight.

He was also angry because she was what she was.

When a woman looked like her, talked like her, smelled like her, dressed like her, had warm hazel eyes that contradicted her cool composure and hinted at something deeper and more intriguing and had wildly varying, easily readable, if puzzling reactions, that woman should not be a whore.

He was also angry because it was clear she intended to keep herself distant, which was likely a necessary professional detachment, when he wanted to know her story.

That wasn’t exactly true, he knew her story.

She’d given it away in the car with her reaction to what he thought at the time was a fabrication.

Abigail Butler, body for sale, had a dead husband named Benjamin who used to be a lobbyist. She used to work for the US Air Force. Now she lived in her grandmother’s home and sold herself to men who could afford to pay top price.

What Cash meant was he was angry that she kept herself distant when, for some baffling reason, he wanted her to share. He wanted her to admit her story and explain why a successful woman would turn to prostitution on the death of her husband.

This was not in his experience a normal reaction to grief.

He wanted to know why she would do such a remarkably stupid thing. He wanted to know why, when it was clear she could attract another man and live a very comfortable life, undoubtedly earning her keep on her back but at least not debasing herself in doing it.

Lastly, he was angry at himself for giving a fuck.

Abigail Butler had a purpose in his life for one month only.

She was going to cushion him from his uncle’s idiotic intentions while Cash extricated himself from that messy situation at the same time rubbing his uncle’s nose in his many failures and securing what was rightfully his.

And she was going to satisfy him in bed as many times as he could manage in the one week she was available to him.

And then she’d be gone.

Dinner, it went without saying, had not been enjoyable.

Not that the food wasn’t delicious, because it was.

Not that her company wasn’t enjoyable, because it was, both innately (she continued to be a bundle of contradictions, cold and unapproachable, mixed with warm and amusing), as well as conversationally (she was clearly well-read and well-travelled with a capacity to listen, actively, and share, if only superficially).

Not that she wasn’t earning her pay because no one in that restaurant, witnessing her behaviour (her soft, enticing smiles; the times she’d touch his hand while speaking; when she’d lean toward him with avid attention as if his terse, impatient responses to her soft conversation were utterly fascinating), would think she was anything less than a woman clearly smitten with her dinner partner.

He’d paid six thousand, six hundred and sixty six pounds for that night with her not including the exorbitant bill for dinner and she’d earned every penny.

The waiter came with their coats and Cash stood, relieving the waiter of his burden and throwing his overcoat on his chair. He shook out Abby’s cape and moved around her so she could remain where she was. Once behind her, he positioned the heavy garment on her shoulders as she moved slightly back into his body, getting closer to him. This was not to make his task easier but a show to those watching, including the three photographers he earlier saw positioning themselves outside, that this was an act of intimacy between a man and his lover, not one of chivalry.

She wasn’t just good, Cash thought with growing disgust, she was superb.

And this made Cash even angrier.

She fastened the cape at her throat and put on her gloves while he donned his overcoat then gripped her elbow, leading her out of the restaurant with all eyes on them.

He could visualise them together. Abby was blonde, tall and elegant but tonight in that alluring dress that hinted at the body beneath it rather than brazenly displaying it as her clothing did yesterday, she showed she had a unique, individual style. Cash was dark and much taller but not overpowering her with his height as he did with most women, and men for that matter.

He knew they made an exceptional-looking couple. It was part of the package he’d paid for.

They were out into the night and he was not looking forward to the drive to take her home.

He would want to come in and make two efforts. The first would be getting her to open up to him. The second would be getting her to sleep with him.

Neither, Cash knew at this juncture, would succeed.

And Cash was used to success, failure was not an option. But he knew that would be what he’d face if he pressed her.

And he didn’t like this either.

They’d only taken two steps on the pavement when Abby, as if oblivious to the now descending photographers, curled into him. She put her hand to his stomach and he stopped at her bold touch, his head tilting down toward her.

She was smiling at him.

Not one of her composed, controlled smiles. This one was radiant and lighting up the night, as if she was happy, carefree and deeply in love.

At the sight something in his gut clenched and it was a feeling he’d never felt before in his entire life.

The feeling wasn’t painful, instead it was supremely pleasant.

Unusually caught off guard by her smile and his response to it, he didn’t react as she came up to her toes, leaning into him, her breasts pressing against his arm as she tipped her head back, her eyes slightly closed, her lips lightly parted, her entire face an invitation.

Without willing himself to do it and completely unable to stop himself if he’d tried (which he didn’t), his head bent and as she intended, doing the job he’d paid her to do to put on a show to the photographers, his mouth met hers.

The minute their lips touched hers relaxed under his, her scent filled his nostrils in an overwhelmingly intoxicating way and her body melted into his, bestowing on him a goodly amount of her weight as if she’d lost the ability to stand on her own two feet.

He accepted her obvious if somewhat surprising invitation and deepened the kiss, his hand moving from her elbow in order to wrap his arm tightly around her waist, hauling her closer to him.

Her body went rigid as his tongue touched hers.

She tasted, he realised with acute clarity, as complex and exquisite as everything else that was Abby and he felt his body begin to heat in response.

His head came up at her reaction and he belatedly saw the camera flashes around them.

Her guard was down and Cash could easily read the strange mix of wonder and alarm on her face.

Instinctively he recognised that something had changed. She might have begun this show for the photographers but it didn’t end that way.

He attributed this to the brief but remarkably affecting kiss and the cameras, which she had to know where there.

The former of the two reactions he saw on her face served to please him, dissipate his anger and bring him to the swift decision that he would not wait to have her. Instead, he’d coax her to break her own rule and sleep with him before they reached the castle.

The latter reaction was understandable, he knew the cameras could be disconcerting if you weren’t used to them.

Cash gave a glare to the photographers even though it was he who called them there in the first place. They’d managed to interrupt something that had turned into a moment Cash most definitely did not wish to be interrupted.

One called out a question that Cash didn’t bother to hear. When he started leading Abby to the car, his arm firmly around her waist rather than at her elbow, he unconsciously moved his body to shield her from the cameras. It was a natural instinct at complete odds to the whole point of this exercise.

And he didn’t give a good God damn.

For comfort’s sake, her arm stole around his waist though her hand never left his stomach. When he looked down at her again she was peering around his body at the calling photographers.

Cash saw that she had not managed to compose her expression. Her customary aloofness had disappeared, the alarm was still there (the wonder, unfortunately, gone), and Cash again found himself thinking she looked rather adorable.

“It’ll be all right,” he murmured his assurance.

Her eyes shifted to him and, still unguarded, he read immediately that she most definitely didn’t believe him.

And it was right there for him to see, there was no thinking about it.

Abigail Butler, the woman who very much wanted him to believe she was a remote, impersonal, accomplished call girl was instead downright adorable.

Taking in her endearingly disgruntled look, Cash couldn’t, if under torture, have stopped himself from throwing his head back to laugh.

And that was one of the pictures printed the next day, along with one of the kiss.

Abby with one hand on Cash’s stomach, the other arm around him, her upper body curled into his side but she was walking forward even as her head was tilted back. She was regarding Cash with what looked like loving irritation. Cash’s arm was around her waist, his head was tipped back, his attractive face full of laughter.

Fifty miles away, in a cold, sturdy, ancient castle situated on a steep cliff, its parapets facing the waters of the Bristol Channel, Alistair Beaumaris sat amongst the used china and silver of the breakfast table, looked at the picture and it put him in a very bad mood.

Alistair was brother to the true heir of Penmort, Anthony, who had, to Alistair’s way of thinking, foolishly sired an illegitimate son to a Scottish beauty but never wed her. Nevertheless, upon his brother’s death, Anthony bestowed the Beaumaris fortune on her as well as the castle.

After his brother committed this heinous act, Alistair had spent thousands of pounds in the attempt to convince the courts it was impossible to bequeath “outside the family” as well as convincing them the fortune went with the castle.

And, fortunately, he’d succeeded in these endeavours.

Now, unfortunately, Alistair Beaumaris needed Conner Ewan “Cash” Fraser. He needed him to marry one of his stepdaughters.

Not that he liked Cash Fraser. Indeed, he hated the man. In fact, his preference would be to see him just as dead as his father and if he didn’t need him he would make his preference a reality, just as Alistair had done with Cash’s father.

Not even that he liked his stepdaughters and wanted them to make an excellent match. He didn’t hate them. They could be tolerable some of the time. However most of the time they were wholly annoying and he had no problems telling them so and explaining exactly and in some detail how they were.

No, he needed Fraser’s money.

And that reminder put Alistair in an even worse mood.

The ghost of Vivianna Wainwright floated two inches from the high ceiling directly over the cluttered table, not, for now, allowing her presence to be seen or felt.

She looked down at the picture in the paper and her spectral eyes moved lovingly over the tall, dark man.

They grew hard as they shifted over the cool, blonde woman.

Vivianna’s mood was not bad.

It was murderous.