Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(32)

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 h*ps 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.