Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(19)

Not touch his tongue briefly to hers but kiss her so hard, so long and so thoroughly he could smell her sex mingled with her perfume.

She didn’t read his mind instead, she went on to tease, “Though, considering your people brought us the Bay City Rollers, maybe not.”

It was deeply unfortunate, Cash thought, that she’d teased him.

That made him want to kiss her even more.

He didn’t because he knew if he did, at that moment, he might not be able to stop.

He took the whisky from her and lifted it to his lips, his eyes watching her over the rim of the glass. Even dressed casually with very little makeup, she was stunning.

Before taking a drink, he returned, “My people also brought you Nazareth.”

He watched her warm hazel eyes grow even warmer.

“Touché,” she replied softly.

Good Christ, he thought, taking in her warm eyes and soft tone and he found it took a supreme effort of will not to reach for her.

She seemed oblivious to his rampaging thoughts and turned, again heading toward the kitchen.

“I ate already,” she informed him as she moved and he followed.

This did not please him.

He didn’t respond. He leaned a hip against the counter and saw the kitchen was clean and tidy, only a glass half-filled with red wine sat on one of the counters.

Abby took down a plate.

“If I eat late, I don’t sleep. My body doesn’t like it,” she shared.

He knew she liked her sleep, she’d told him that morning when he’d woken her to hear her sweet, soft voice sounding husky, irate and adorable.

He watched her pull out cutlery and set it beside the plate she’d retrieved and while he did so he found that he didn’t like that he knew exactly eight pertinent facts about her. These being she sold her body for money, couldn’t sleep if she ate late, lived in her grandmother’s house, had a dead husband, liked loud music, red wine and sleep and, most importantly, she sounded unbelievably f**kable in the morning.

“I would have preferred you waited for me,” he told her honestly.

Her gaze shifted to him as she pulled on oven mitts.

“Sorry,” she murmured, sounding like she actually was, and turned away to open the oven door.

The tantalising smell came out in a wave and she extricated an earthenware pan filled with what looked like pasta shells overstuffed with meat and sauce and covered in cheese.

“Stuffed pasta shells, garlic bread and salad,” she announced, setting the pan on a pad, she threw off the mitts with an expert flick of her wrists and her eyes went back to him. “Baked pears with cream and chocolate sauce for dessert,” she told him, reaching to pull open the drawer by his hip. “I ate my dessert too,” she admitted.

“If that’s as good as it smells, I’ll forgive you,” he told her.

“It is,” she smiled then bent her head, grabbed a serving spoon and shut the drawer.

“Who taught you to cook?” he asked as she served up the shells.

“Mom,” she replied.

“Is your mother close?” he enquired.

“I like to think so,” was her strange and, Cash thought, evasive answer.

Cash didn’t let it go.

She might wish to remain distant but he didn’t want that and he bloody well paid enough to have her as close as he wanted her.

Which was exactly what he was going to get if he had to tie her down and interrogate her.

Shaking off that altogether too stimulating thought, he pressed, “Is she in England?”

“No,” Abby replied.

“America,” he stated.

“Yes.”

“That’s not exactly close,” Cash remarked.

She’d finished serving up the shells and was returning to the oven for the bread. “Well, she’s not exactly in America,” she came back to the counter with the bread, gracefully flipping the oven door closed with her foot before she did. Her eyes stayed on her task as she went on, “It’s more like she is and she isn’t.”

“That sounds difficult to do,” Cash observed.

She tore off an enormous chunk of what looked like homemade garlic bread and put it on his plate before her eyes met his.

“She’s dead, Cash.”

Her quiet words felt like a blow to the belly.

Fucking hell but he was a bastard.

“Abby,” he said softly by way of an apology.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago,” she told him, putting his fork on the plate and handing it to him then she moved to the fridge.

Cash carried on, he shouldn’t have but he didn’t know that so he did. “Is your father still in America?”

“Yep,” she said casually, head in the fridge, “lying beside Mom.”

When she turned around, hands holding a big salad bowl, her gaze came to his. He saw her eyes were carefully guarded. His eyes were on her, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

She went on matter-of-factly, “Heart attack. Dad. Cancer. Mom. Mom went first. Two years apart.”

With some effort, he started to eat.

The food was, incidentally, better than it smelled.

She put his salad in another bowl, dressed it and slid it along the counter to where he was eating and watching her.

She was busying herself putting away the food when he remarked, “That must have been rough.”