Penmort Castle

Chapter Fifteen Battle Stations

Abby waited until she’d gotten dressed and taken two more paracetamol to combat the nagging headache that started some time after Cash left. A headache that was only partially due to her misadventure with the ghost and also partially due to her crazy, screwed up life.

She waited until she was sitting on the train platform to slide open her phone and hit the speed dial number that would connect her straight to Jenny.

When Jenny answered, Abby proclaimed, “Battle stations.”

“Oh my God. What happened?” Jenny asked.

“I’m in Bath. I should be home in an hour. Be at my house when I get there,” and as an afterthought she demanded, “Bring donuts.”

“Oh no, is it a donut drama?” Jenny moaned, knowing exactly what that meant.

“No, it’s an ice cream and tequila drama but it’s only eight o’clock in the morning. We’ll wait until ten to break out the tequila,” Abby told her.

“Shit,” Jenny muttered, said good-bye and rang off.

A little over an hour later when Abby turned the key in her door and shoved it open, Zee darted out without saying hello.

Abby knew immediately why.

All three of Mrs. Truman’s spaniels came crashing toward Abby to give her a hearty doggie greeting.

Abby bent down to offer them strokes and Mrs. Truman appeared in the hall.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, hands on hips. “The coffee’s cold.”

Abby straightened.

Mentally, she cursed Jenny to perdition for letting Mrs. Truman in.

Verbally, she said good morning, took off her coat and hung it on the coat stand.

When she did, Mrs. Truman gasped.

“Is that blood?” she screeched and ran forward with the energy of a woman half her age.

Jenny came shooting out of the living room and her eyes widened at what she saw.

Mrs. Truman had Abby’s forearm in a gentle grasp and she was pushing back Abby’s sleeve to expose the bandages.

“Abigail, what on earth happened?” Mrs. Truman asked.

“Are you okay?” Jenny called, coming forward.

Abby squeezed Mrs. Truman’s hand and replied, “I’m fine. I need to change. Can you warm up the coffee? I’ll be down in five minutes.”

It was then Mrs. Truman’s eyes narrowed on Abby’s outfit.

“Abigail Butler, you’re wearing the same clothes from last night,” she accused.

“Um, yes,” Abby told her.

Mrs. Truman’s narrowed eyes came to hers. “Are you engaging in hanky-panky with your young man?” she snapped and Abby felt her face flush.

“Mrs. Truman –” Abby started to tell her this, above all, was none of her business but didn’t get anything out before Jenny spoke.

“That’s hardly the point. Her arm is covered in bandages!” Jenny had walked up close.

“It is the point, Jennifer,” Mrs. Truman shot back. “A good girl doesn’t do that before marriage.”

“You were awake when we celebrated the millennium, weren’t you?” Jenny returned and Abby pulled in breath waiting for Mrs. Truman to explode.

She wasn’t disappointed.

“Well, aren’t you Mrs. Fancy Pants?” Mrs. Truman asked sharply on raised voice and one of her spaniels yapped in support of its mistress. “It’s clear to see Abigail has enough emotional distress with losing her grandmother and her job and overall stress with all this banging and new roofs and men in and out of her house all day. Not to mention, her first romance after the death of her beloved. She doesn’t need sex mucking up the waters.”

Mrs. Truman was right about that. Alas, it was too late.

Clearly Jenny also knew the older woman was right. This was evidenced by her lack of retort accompanied by a stubborn glare.

Abby sighed.

“Ladies, can I change?” she asked.

Mrs. Truman let go of her arm. “You change. I’ll make more coffee. Warmed up coffee tastes funny. You need fresh when blood’s involved,” she declared with authority as if this kind of situation happened to her frequently.

Abby escaped to her room, tore off her dress, thigh high stockings and boots, threw on some jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt and dashed, barefoot, to the bathroom.

She said good morning to the two workmen who were installing her basin, asked if they needed a cuppa (they didn’t, Mrs. Truman had serviced them) and then she ran downstairs.

The donuts had been arranged artfully on one of Gram’s china platters. It sat on the table in front of the couch with Gram’s silver coffee service and china.

Mrs. Truman had been busy.

Abby perused the selection of donuts.

English donuts were different than American. There was less variety, which was disappointing. But many of them involved custard and/or cream which Abby thought, as a plus.

While Mrs. Truman poured her coffee, Abby selected a long donut, split lengthwise and piped along the split with mixture of cream and custard and dropped to her couch. One of Mrs. Truman’s dogs jumped up beside her and sat panting and staring at Abby’s donut.

The whole time, Abby felt Jenny’s eyes on her.

When she settled, Jenny impatiently demanded, “Start with the blood.”

“Well,” Abby began, not knowing how to say what she had to say without them thinking she was insane.

“Spit it out, Abigail, we don’t have all day,” Mrs. Truman asked then bit into a sugar-coated jam donut, consuming at least a quarter in one bite.

“I was shoved into a mirror by a ghost,” Abby blurted.

Jenny gasped.

Mrs. Truman snapped, “What?” but since her mouth was full, bits of donut flew out.

Abby took in a breath and explained, “Cash’s family owns Penmort Castle. It’s said to be haunted and I’m here, just barely, to tell you that is most definitely true.”

Jenny shot out of her chair and leaned toward Abby. “I knew this would happen. I told you.”

Mrs. Truman swallowed and decreed, “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“There is!” Jenny shouted, clearly beside herself.

“Is not!” Mrs. Truman shouted back, never really needing a reason to raise her voice.

“Trust me, Mrs. Truman, I would have been fighting your corner but I saw her. I knew what she was. I could see through her. She was there, she was real, she was angry and she shoved me,” Abby told her and looked up at Jenny. “Then my hand went through the mirror, I cut myself, slipped, banged my head on the basin and went unconscious.”

“Oh God,” Jenny breathed and collapsed back in her chair.

“What does Fraser say about this?” Mrs. Truman asked.

“I haven’t told him the ghost part,” Abby admitted.

“Well I can see why not considering if you did he’d rightly think you were mad,” Mrs. Truman retorted.

Abby turned her body to face the older woman. “Honest, I wish it wasn’t true. But I’m telling you, Mrs. Truman, she’s real and she means to hurt me,” Abby’s eyes moved to Jenny. “And, in less than two weeks from now, I’m supposed to go back there for the anniversary celebrations and stay there, overnight.”

“You can’t do it,” Jenny told her immediately.

“I know!” Abby agreed. “But I can’t not do it either, Cash would be –”

“You have to get rid of her,” Mrs. Truman butted in and both women’s eyes moved to her.

“Get rid of her?” Jenny asked.

Mrs. Truman waved her donut in the air. “Yes, get rid of her.”

“Who?” Abby queried.

“The ghost!” Mrs. Truman replied with severe impatience.

“How’s she going to do that?” Jenny enquired.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Truman admitted, “but we’ll sort something out.” Then she took another bite of her donut and calmly chewed.

It wasn’t lost on Abby that Mrs. Truman said “we’ll”.

Abby decided not to fight it, she wouldn’t win. It seemed post-dinner-party that Mrs. Truman had decided to become a fixture in Abby’s life.

Abby had to admit she didn’t mind in the slightest.

“I don’t think it’s that easy to get rid of a ghost,” Abby told the older woman.

“I didn’t say it’d be easy,” Mrs. Truman noted, waving the remains of her donut again. “I just said we’d sort something out.” She leaned forward and took a sip of coffee before sitting back and saying, “I know a few people. I’ll make some calls.”

Abby couldn’t imagine what kind of calls she’d make to find someone to get rid of a ghost but she didn’t have time to ask, Jenny spoke.

“Are you okay, your arm, that is?”

Abby nodded. “Yes, Cash found me in the bathroom and carried me to a couch. He cleaned me up and then demanded that the paramedics look me over before he’d even let me sit up. I had a little headache this morning but mostly head and arm are both fine.”

“He’s a good boy,” Mrs. Truman muttered but Jenny was watching Abby closely and Abby knew why.

Abby took a bite of her donut and assured Jenny, mouth full, “It’s all good.”

“You’re being smart?” Jenny asked.

“Yes,” Abby kind of lied.

She wasn’t sure she was being smart but she was trying to be.

Mrs. Truman was looking between the both of them then she enquired, “Is there something I should know?”

Abby answered with another mini-fib, “No, just that Cash and I made up.”

Mrs. Truman made a “pah” noise and then stated, “Of course you did. The papers all say he’s very bright. Anyone who’s bright wouldn’t let a good thing like you slip through his fingers because of a silly quarrel.”

Abby was processing her feelings at getting a compliment from Mrs. Truman when the bell on the door clanked.

“Who’s that?” Abby asked the room at large.

“How should we know?” Mrs. Truman asked back.

Abby dropped her half-eaten donut on the tray and walked to the front door, three yapping spaniels at her heels.

She opened it and a tall, good-looking young man she’d never seen in her life was standing outside.

“Abigail Butler?” he asked.

“Yes,” Abby answered.

“I’m Simon. Mr. Fraser asked me to come and see about your plumbing,” he announced then shoved inside through Abby and the dogs and he closed the door.

“Um,” Abby started, staring at him, unable to take in what he said or his forward behaviour, “someone is already seeing to it.”

Simon had walked through the vestibule, the dogs who he was gamely ignoring dancing at his heels and he was standing in the hall.

“Yes that was mentioned,” Simon told her. “I’m here to make certain the job gets finished to Mr. Fraser’s standards and look into the rest of the system.”

Abby wasn’t certain, but it felt like her blood pressure was rising.

“That isn’t necessary,” she told Simon as she noticed both Jenny and Mrs. Truman had come to the door of the living room to watch. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Simon looked down at her. “I was also told you’d say that. Regardless, Mr. Fraser was pretty clear he wanted a report by close of business today as to how the system could be updated promptly and then he’s stated he wants me to move forward and get it done.”

Abby read between the lines. Cash wanted it done even if Abby refused. And it would get done, no matter what Abby said.

Yes, Abby realised, her blood pressure was rising.

“You’re here on a wasted errand,” she explained to Simon on another kind of lie. “They’re almost finished.”

Simon looked toward the stairs. “I’ll just have a look.”

“Really, it isn’t…” Abby started but Simon was on the move and Abby began to follow him. “Excuse me,” she called up the steps and he turned.

“You don’t have to come, I’ll find my way,” Simon told her and then he kept right on going.

Abby stared at his departing back.

Then the bell clanked again.

Abby turned slowly to the door but looked back at Mrs. Truman and Jenny.

“Well, see who it is,” Mrs. Truman prompted sharply and Abby and the three spaniels went back to the door.

She opened it and a man three inches shorter than Abby and about twenty years older stood outside carrying a tool box.

“Abigail Butler?” he asked.

What now?

“Yes,” she answered.

“I’m Nigel. Mr. Fraser asked me to pop by and fix your bell,” he told her.

Abby looked at Nigel then at the bell in her door then to Jenny and Mrs. Truman who’d come out into the hall.

When she looked back at Nigel, he was bent, had put his tool box on the stoop and was petting two of Mrs. Truman’s panting, happy dogs.

“Cute little fellas,” Nigel remarked.

“Um, there isn’t anything wrong with my bell,” Abby told him.

Nigel’s head tilted back and he looked at her then he reached out and turned the bell.

It clanked cacophonously.

Abby closed her eyes.

She opened them when she heard Nigel say, “Probably just needs a good cleaning. Won’t take but a minute. I’ll just get started.”

Then he grabbed his tool box, straightened, pushed in through Abby and the dogs, closed the door, dropped immediately to his knees and got to work.

Abby stared at him.

Then she turned and stiffly walked to Mrs. Truman and Jenny.

“Did that just happen?” she asked them.

“Yes,” Mrs. Truman said shortly and then vanished back into living room.

Jenny came forward and stopped when she was close to Abby.

“Remember, it’s just a job,” she whispered.

“We talked about this,” Abby whispered back, “Cash and I. He said he wouldn’t interfere.”

“It’s just a job,” Jenny repeated.

“But –” Abby began and Jenny’s hand grasped hers and squeezed.

“Let him do what he wants to do. It’s his thing. If he’s getting off on taking care of you, let him do it,” Jenny said and then went on. “Just don’t get used to it.”

“I don’t think –” Abby started again and Jenny squeezed her hand again.

“It’s his thing. Not yours. Just let it go and keep focused.”

“Jenny,” Abby breathed.

“Focus,” Jenny repeated firmly.

Abby understood what Jenny was trying to do but she was way too freaked out to let her do it.

“It’s my house. It’s Gram’s house. Ben loved this house. It’s theirs. This house is the only place I can still be with them. I can’t be thinking of Cash every time I hear the door bell or take a shower!” she cried but under her breath so Nigel couldn’t hear.

“Too late for that,” Jenny said logically.

“Jenny!” Abby exclaimed.

Jenny got even closer. “I know it’s tough and it’s going to get tougher. But you can do it.”

“I don’t think I can,” Abby admitted and Jenny gave her another hand squeeze.

“I know you can. And anyway, you’ve got bigger fish to fry. There’s a ghost who wants to kill you, for goodness sakes.”

This, Abby thought, was true.

“Priorities,” Jenny finished, gave Abby’s hand another squeeze, let her go and then walked back into the living room.

Abby took a deep breath then followed her friend back to the donuts.

Abby felt the hair being shifted off her neck and she opened her eyes to see a man’s thigh encased in black trousers with thin pinstripes set wide.

She looked up and saw a wine-coloured shirt, collar open at a muscular neck.

Then up further and she saw Cash.

He was sitting in the crook of her lap, one hand on her hip, his eyes warm on her face. Abby was lying on her side on the couch in the seating area off his kitchen.

“Did I fall asleep?” she asked in somnolent surprise.

Cash smiled, leaned forward and picked something up from the floor. He came up with her book which she must have dropped after she fell asleep while reading.

“I think you lost your place,” he murmured, setting the book by her still full but now probably cold mug of herbal tea on the low table in front of the couch.

Abby’s eyes went from the book to the digital clock on the microwave over the stove.

When she saw it was a quarter to eight, she shot to sitting position, dodging around Cash, and jumped to her feet crying, “Oh God! The dumplings!”

She rushed to the kitchen, registering that her nagging headache which she’d been keeping at bay all day with pain medication had come back. With it being way late, and with the dumplings to sort, she didn’t have time to do anything about it.

Abby hurried to the counter saying, “I meant to have everything ready for you when you got home. This is going to take at least another half an hour.”

As Abby threw the tea towel off the dumpling dough, Cash’s voice said from behind her, “Darling, relax.” She turned to walk to the drawer to get a spoon as he went on, “Martini or amaretto?”

He was at the cupboard containing the liquor, looking at ease and unperturbed, making drinks in his kitchen while she cooked.

This she found vaguely alarming because it was not-so-vaguely appealing.

Abby decided to focus on the drink rather than the appeal of Cash and herself doing normal boyfriend/girlfriend stuff in his kitchen and replied, “Martini.”

While Cash started to make the drinks, Abby opened the crock pot and the aroma from the food wafted strongly into the room. Without delay, she began to spoon in the dumpling dough.

Then she heard him say, low and deep, “Fuck.”

She froze, gooey spoon in hand, and turned to see him staring at the crock pot.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“What is that?” he asked in return.

Abby looked down at the crock pot then back to Cash, worry filling her at his reaction and she answered, “Irish stew. Um,” she hesitated then went on, “don’t you like Irish stew?”

His eyes went from the pot to Abby and she held her breath.

“You know how you feel about cashmere?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

His lips turned up slightly at the ends. “I feel that way about Irish stew.”

A weird, intense, happy warmth spread through her at this news.

Then it occurred to her that she’d said she wanted to roll around in cashmere and it was on the tip of her tongue to tease him but she stopped herself.

Ben, she would have teased.

Jenny and Kieran, she still could tease.

She could even tease Mrs. Truman (probably).

Cash wasn’t hers to tease.

She went back to her task and muttered, “That’s good.”

She felt him get close and then she felt him casually kiss the side of her head as she was at her business with the dumplings.

At his kiss, the happy warmth was joined with a short, strong, lovely shiver.

He was back to seeing to her martini before she had a chance to shrug off this reaction. It took effort but she had herself firmly in hand by the time she finished the dumplings, cleaned her hands, pulled the crock out of the heating unit and slid it in the oven to bake the dumplings.

She was closing the oven door when she heard, “Abby, we have a problem.”

She looked up to see Cash close the refrigerator and turn to her, his face was grave.

She felt her heart start beating faster.

“What problem?” she asked.

He walked to her as she flicked the oven mitts off her hands and onto the counter but he didn’t answer.

“What is it?” she prompted when he didn’t speak.

He got close and put both hands on her neck.

“Darling,” he said solemnly but there was a strange, magnetic light in his eyes, “we don’t have any olives.”

Then she saw his mouth twitch.

Her belly dipped and her heart lurched.

But she didn’t speak.

Cash was teasing her.

She could likely protect her heart from domineering, sexy, charismatic Cash but loving, kiss-on-the-side-of-the-head, teasing Cash?

Impossible!

He squeezed her neck, “Do you think you could do without the olives?”

Abby considered this. Then she bit the side of her lip.

Because the answer was no, she could absolutely not drink a martini without the olives.

Cash’s eyes dropped to her mouth then he gave a shout of rich laughter and his arms came around her, pulling her to him.

“I take it that’s a no,” he said over her head and she could tell by his voice (not to mention the laugh) that he found this highly amusing.

“That’s a no,” Abby admitted to his chest.

He kissed the top of her head and then murmured there, “I’ll drink the martini and make you an amaretto.”

She nodded then he moved away.

She had nothing to do but wait for the dumplings to bake. Therefore Abby was at odds with how to proceed seeing as they were moving around his kitchen like an old married couple and she shouldn’t be thinking about how lovely it was to move around Cash’s kitchen, with Cash, like they were an old married couple.

She decided to stand, hip against the counter and watch him make her drink.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked, thinking that sounded lame.

“No,” he replied.

“No?” she repeated, watching him work, noticing that the ingredients for her favourite drink were all ready at hand. Obviously Cash (or Moira) had a conversation with Aileen and the kitchen had been stocked with her preferences.

That gave her a warm feeling too.

He continued as Abby fought valiantly against the warm feeling. “I have to go to Germany tomorrow.”

Abby watched him move to the fridge for the ice and enquired, “When will you be home?”

“Saturday.”

Abby’s breath caught.

Her first thought was that she wouldn’t see Cash for three days.

She’d been with him every day for over a week. She was used to being with him. She was used to having dinner with him. She was used to sleeping in his bed. She was used to sleeping with him in his bed. She was used to doing other things with him in his bed too.

She didn’t like the idea of not seeing him.

Maybe for a day but three?

Then Abby’s emotional warrior reared up and mentally kicked her in the shin.

This reminded her that she and Cash didn’t exist in that joyful time where everything about their relationship was shiny and new. They weren’t caught in those early days of discovery where you spent every moment you weren’t together thinking about being together and every moment you were together thinking life was bliss. It wasn’t the beginning of something that you knew, you just knew was going to be something magical.

They were nothing of the sort (even though it felt like they were).

Three days was a godsend. Three days meant she could shore up her defences and have her head screwed on properly. Three days was a miracle.

Her miracle lasted two seconds because Cash went on. “I want you with me.”

Abby’s body jerked at his words.

“In Germany?” she breathed.

He dumped the ice in a tea towel but turned his head to her and she saw he was smiling. “No, darling, I thought you could go to Capri. We’ll meet back here.”

Even though he was amusing, Abby didn’t laugh. She was busy searching blindly for a way out.

Germany meant all Cash and nothing but Cash except when Cash was working, which would be time she was alone, without workmen, paint pots, Jenny, Mrs. Truman and her spaniels, which would be time she’d be doing nothing but thinking about Cash which meant zero time to get her head on straight.

She came up with a solution.

“What’ll I do with Zee?” she tried.

His brows went up. “Zee?”

“My cat.”

“You named your cat Zee?”

“His name is Beelzebub but that’s hard to say all the time, especially when you’re yelling at him,” Abby explained.

Cash stared at her then asked, “You’re telling me you essentially named your cat Satan?”

“Well, yes,” Abby replied as if it was perfectly natural to name your beloved pet after the Lord of Hellfire and Damnation and watched as Cash did a very slow blink which forced her to defend her choice. “You don’t know him. Trust me, he’s aptly named. He can be a little devil.”

He watched her a moment then his face grew warm and soft and Abby struggled with her instinctive, highly pleasant reaction to that look.

He smiled and turned away, shaking his head. Then he slammed the ice in the tea towel against the counter, twice.

“I’ve tried that, it doesn’t work. You have to use a rolling pin or a meat tenderiser,” she informed him helpfully but watched as he upended the perfectly crushed ice into her drink then she muttered, “Okay, well, if you have the strength of He-Man, it works.”

She heard his chuckle as he handed her the drink, tossed the tea towel into the sink and went back to the martini.

“Can you get someone to look after your cat?” he enquired.

She could. Jenny would do it. Pete would do it too. Hell, Mrs. Truman would probably do it.

“Yes,” she replied and tried not to sigh.

He poured the martini from the shaker into a stemmed glass, saying softly, “Make the call.”

Abby blinked.

Then she asked, “Now?”

He turned to her, took a sip, his eyes on her over the rim of the glass.

Her brain noted Cash looked very sexy drinking from a martini glass.

Her emotional warrior trotted over to her brain and slapped it upside its head.

“Now,” he replied after his hand lowered. “We leave from Bristol Airport at half ten.”

Abby’s eyes bugged out. “Ten thirty! But I have to pack.”

“I’ll take you home tomorrow morning to pack,” he told her.

“But, I need time to pack,” she blurted, horrified. “We’re going to be gone for three days. That’s six outfits. Day time and night time. Plus accessories. Plus toiletries. Plus I need to strategise makeup. I have to be prepared for anything. That might take hours. Under normal circumstances, that would take days.”

“We’ll be at your house by seven. We have to be at the airport by nine. You have an hour and a half.”

“Seven?” she breathed, beyond horrified straight to distraught.

Seven meant she had to be up, showered, dressed and made up to leave Cash’s at six. That meant she’d have to be out of bed by four thirty.

Abby’s headache started pounding but she didn’t have time to worry about it because she’d started to hyperventilate.

The only times she remembered being up and out of bed of her own accord that early were Christmas mornings when she was a kid and the time her parents took her to Disneyland.

Abby didn’t do mornings, especially not super-early ones where only nurses, doctors and criminals were awake and functioning.

Cash saw her dismay and tried to calm her with promises.

“You can sleep in the car,” he said.

“But –” she started.

“And on the plane,” he went on.

“But –”

He came close, mouth smiling (like she was amusing him), and he put his hand to her neck, effectively silencing her with a gentle, affectionate squeeze.

“Abby, make the call,” he demanded.

She gave it a moment, ever-hopeful he would relent.

He didn’t.

Abby sighed.

Then she made the call.

Abby was lying on the sofa off the kitchen, her temple resting on Cash’s thigh, her eyes unseeing on the book in front of her.

She didn’t want to be in that position (well she did but she didn’t).

But she was.

After dinner, when Cash told her he had a few things to read through before going to bed, she’d joined him on the sofa and he’d manoeuvred her into that position.

Skilfully.

He was sitting upright, feet on the table, ankles crossed, reading glasses on, going over papers while his fingers idly played with her hair.

This felt nice.

All of it did.

So Abby was concentrating on anything but how nice it felt.

She decided to concentrate on dinner, which was weird. After they sat down to eat, her headache had begun hammering and her mind inventoried her belongings in a failed effort to decide what to take to Germany.

Conversation was short and stilted but not intentionally. Abby was miles away namely, in Germany, wondering what the weather was like.

She didn’t figure Cash noted this because halfway through dinner he took a call with a murmured, “Sorry, darling, this is important,” and then was on the phone the rest of the time they ate.

At his side, watching him sitting at the head of the dining table and talking business while eating was when she realised he worked like a demon.

He got up early, got home late, read through papers at night and worked weekends.

Abby asked herself, what kind of life was that?

As far as she could tell, outside of working out and the time he spent with her, he had no life away from work. There were no photos around his house, no mementos from travels, no blinking answering machine with messages from mates who wanted him to meet them at the pub.

Nothing.

This worried her. Then she got worried because she was worried. Then she told herself to stop thinking about it.

He was off the phone by the time she’d done the dishes and put the food away only for him to tell her he had more work to do.

Now she was on her side on the couch, head resting on his thigh, legs curled into her belly, trying to read but there was so much in her head, she hadn’t turned a page in ages.

His fingers moved to her hairline, tracing it from temple to behind her ear, then the tips drifted down the length of her neck to her collarbone.

Abby’s attention moved from her thoughts and focused on his fingers.

Then she heard his rough brogue say, “You’re angry with me.”

In surprise she rolled to her back and looked up at him. “Pardon?”

He studied her from behind his sexy glasses.

Then he tossed his papers to the side, his eyes came back to hers and he repeated, “You’re angry with me.”

She stared at him a moment then placed her book on the table, rolled back around, put her hand to the couch and pushed up to face him.

Then she said, “I’m not angry with you.”

His hands went under her armpits and hauled her closer so she was almost sitting in his lap. She put both her palms on his chest as one of his hands dropped from under her arm, the other one came to rest on her hip.

“Abby, don’t lie to me,” he said, but softly, taking the sting out of his words. “You haven’t been yourself all night.”

She felt her brows go up and started, “I –” but he cut her off.

“It’s the house.”

Her brows lowered significantly, registering her confusion. “The house?”

“I’ll not have you living in that house the way it is,” he stated firmly.

It dawned on her that he meant her house.

“Cash –” she began again only to be cut off again.

“I know I told you I wouldn’t get involved but, darling, it’s taking too long. I don’t like the thought of you there without the bare necessities. Simon’s report indicated there are other significant issues. They have to be seen to promptly and I’m going to see that they are.”

“Cash, I –” she began again only to be interrupted again.

“I’m not discussing this,” he declared.

Abby sighed and she did this deeply and loudly.

Then she asked, “Can I speak now?”

“Only if you don’t intend to argue with me,” he answered.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or yell.

She wanted to laugh because it felt nice, him taking care of her, seeing to her “issues”. She hadn’t had anyone (but Jenny) to help her along the journey of life for so long she forgot how good it felt to share the burden.

She wanted to yell because he was way, too, damned bossy.

Instead, she did neither. Partly because she had a headache but partly because escorts didn’t argue, girlfriends did.

She was, she told herself firmly, the former, not the latter.

“I can’t say I wasn’t a bit,” she hesitated then found the word she was looking for, “peeved when Simon and Nigel showed up today. But I got over it.”

His lips tipped up at the word “peeved” but he replied, “If that’s the case, can you explain why you’ve been distant all night?”

She answered immediately, “Yes. I have a headache. I’ve been fighting it all day. I –” she stopped talking because she saw his eyes narrow dangerously and she knew from experience that was not a good sign.

His hand came up and pulled off his glasses.

“You have a headache?” he asked, his voice had dipped low, toward the scary zone where it went when he was irate.

“Yes,” she told him cautiously then went on. “It’s not a big deal. I get them sometimes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded to know and she could tell by the way he did that he wasn’t irate, he’d gone beyond that.

“It’s not a big deal,” Abby repeated, confused by his reaction.

“Normally, no. When you’ve slammed your head against a basin and lost consciousness, then yes, it fucking well is,” he returned, tossed his glasses on his papers and reached for his BlackBerry.

Abby blinked and asked, “What are you doing?”

His eyes were on his BlackBerry and he was using his thumb to manipulate it but he answered, “I’m calling my physician.”

Abby pulled in a breath then said quietly, “Cash, you don’t have to do that. It’s just a headache.”

His eyes came to hers and pinned her to the spot.

Not that she could go anywhere. The hand that was resting on her hip had become fingers gripping it.

“Have you felt nauseous?” he asked.

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Problems with balance? Vision?”

“No!” she cried. “Cash –”

But his eyes moved away and he said into his phone, “Tim? Cash,” and Abby stared at him in shocked, but contradictorily pleased, horror as he continued, “sorry for the late call but Abby had an accident last night, hit her head and was unconscious for several minutes. She was checked by paramedics…”

And he went on and Abby watched him.

When it became clear to Cash that all was well and clear to Abby, from what she heard of their conversation, that Invisible Tim had given her the go-ahead to live her life and take the flight the next day, which was something she hadn’t considered or she would have faked a full-blown concussion, Cash ended the call.

“Tim thinks you’ll be okay,” Cash informed her.

“I already told you I was okay,” she informed Cash.

“Do you have seven years of medical training and fifteen years of practice?” Cash asked evenly.

Abby gritted her teeth and then replied, “No.”

He watched her mouth as she formed the word, his own mouth forming a grin.

“All right then,” he muttered, leaned forward, kissed her forehead and sat back, his eyes coming to hers. “we’re agreed. We’ll take Tim’s word for it.”

They weren’t agreed on anything but Abby didn’t say that.

She continued to grit her teeth and stare at him.

This made him chuckle.

Her stare became a glare.

His chuckle became a laugh.

She stopped glaring and rolled her eyes.

He pushed up to his feet, taking her with him, announcing, “Time for bed.”

On that, they were agreed.

After Cash gave her more paracetamol, they turned out the lights and made their way upstairs.

They were in bed, Abby’s front pressed to Cash’s, his arm resting heavily on her waist, their legs tangled and she felt his steady breathing stir the hair at her crown.

It was then the tears stung the backs of her eyes.

And Abby realised it hurt, it actually physically hurt, to want something, something within reach, something that was pressed tight to you, legs tangled with yours.

Something you couldn’t have.

And it hurt because she knew it was wrong to betray Ben’s memory. She knew it was wrong to have the desire to move on, not to something else, but to something that felt better than what she had before.

And it hurt because she knew she was being selfish. Most women didn’t even have the beauty of what she had with Ben much less the glory of all that was Cash.

To control the tears, she allowed herself a moment of weakness.

Knowing he was asleep and she was safe to give a piece of herself away, she wrapped her arm around his waist and snuggled closer to his solid warmth.

And she fell asleep.

Cash felt Abby’s weight settle into him.

His arm tightened around her and he bent his knee until his thigh was pressed against the heat of her. In sleep, she accommodated him by hooking her leg around his hip.

Thoroughly entwined, Cash felt the peace invade.

And he allowed himself to sleep.