Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(10)

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.”