Penmort Castle

Chapter Seven Late

Abigail Butler was stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She thought she was being smart. She had it all planned. Then, as usual, it all went awry.

She’d decided, since tonight was the night the use of hands, mouths, touching, tasting, etc. was going to “begin”, she’d delay it by spending part of the time together with Cash cooking.

What she wanted to make for dinner would take a half an hour, more if you counted cooking time.

So she decided to arrive at a quarter to seven and still be cooking when Cash got home. He’d have to wait to do… whatever-it-was-he-was-going-to-do… until after she was done cooking, the food was done grilling and steaming and they were done eating.

She lived in Clevedon, he lived in Bath. It was a forty-five minute drive.

What Abby didn’t know since she usually took the train or travelled during non-rush-hour-times, was that it was a forty-five minute drive on a good day.

On a bad day (which Abby seemed to be having a lot of lately or, perhaps, for the last six years) and traffic was heavy and an accident meant the cars were crawling on the motorway, it took a whole lot longer.

Furthermore, it was against the law to talk on your mobile in your car in England so when Cash called at seven twenty-five, she couldn’t answer.

Even though she turned up her music very loudly so she couldn’t hear the phone beeping to tell her she had a voicemail message, it rested on her passenger seat in a threatening way like a coiled snake waiting to strike, freaking her out throughout her journey.

Last, but not least, it was a veritable impossibility to park in Bath. She’d discovered that the day before but somehow forgot it in the twenty-four hours since driving there last.

She was a half hour late to be there for Cash’s arrival. It became forty-five minutes late by the time she parked and fifty-five minutes late by the time she hoofed it in her high-heeled boots to his house from her parking place which she was sure was closer to Sri Lanka than his townhouse.

She listened to his two word voicemail message on her walk to his house.

“Call me,” and he sounded not happy, to say the least.

At his door she fumbled clumsily in her purse for the key (which she should have extracted on the walk there, but she hadn’t thought of that), found it, unlocked the door and rushed through into the hall.

There were welcoming lights on and she had to stop when she saw them, the pain in her stomach was so acute.

If it was dark and she got home before Ben, she lit the house (just here and there, not anything blazing and environmentally unconscious) so he wouldn’t have to grope around in the dark to find the lights.

She’d never told him to do it but he must have realised her intent and, awhile after they were married, Ben started to do it for her too.

She thought of them as “welcoming lights” because they said someone was home, someone who cared about you, someone who didn’t want you to walk into a cold, dark house after a rough day and grope around to find a light.

It never occurred to her that Cash Fraser was the kind of man who wouldn’t want her to grope around to find a light.

She recovered herself with a deep breath and walked on leaded feet down the hall, around the corner and down the stairs toward the sound of jazz (not new-age, gross jazz but old-age, fantastic bluesy-jazz).

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.

Slowly, he smiled. Abby’s stomach did that queer thrilling dip again.

In his throaty brogue, he ordered, “Come here.”

Her stomach did the dip yet again. She ignored the dip and headed to her side of the bed.

Cash stopped her by saying, “No, Abby, this side.”

She did a stutter-step, confused. Her eyes went to him and saw he was watching her. While she stood frozen and undecided, he patted the area on the bed beside him.

She changed directions and went to his side of the bed. He put the papers in his lap, leaned up and his fingers curled around her wrist. He pulled her down to seated on the bed then settled her at his side, her body resting the length of his, her head on his chest, his arm around her, her hand on his bare midriff.

“I have to go through this before the morning,” he muttered, his fingers curving around her shoulder. “It won’t take long.”

She was a little surprised, a little disappointed and a lot relieved.

“Okay,” she replied quietly.

It felt weird, lying beside him while he read in bed. Weird and wonderful and warm and sweet and comfortable and a lot of other things it shouldn’t feel.

Moments ticked passed as he read and she lay there.

For a bit, she tried to read the papers. Then she realised what little she read made no sense to her.

He shifted papers around, dropped some, picked up others, somehow never disturbing her.

More moments passed and he started stroking her shoulder.

This made her realise she was tense and her body, of its own volition, began to relax.

More moments passed and the tips of his fingers slid up her shoulder, up her neck and his fingers started to play absent-mindedly with her hair.

She’d always liked it when anyone played with her hair.

Lying in Cash’s bed, his warm, strong body against hers, made it all the better.

In fact, she thought dreamily, it was the best.

More moments passed and she fell asleep.