Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(36)
He followed her into the front room that was the same as the hall, enormous and well-furnished in quality antiques.
A tassel-bottomed, inviting, maroon velvet couch faced a large stone-mantel fireplace, two matching armchairs at its sides. There were handsome tables placed strategically around the seating area for comfort of use and aesthetic purposes.
The heavy, maroon velvet draperies were pulled back with silk, cord tassels. The windows were dark, exposed to the night.
The couch sat in the centre, leaving a wide expanse of floor space available to the room. Most of it was empty except for a delicate writing desk, angled in the corner, facing the room.
The desk was not for show, it was obviously in use, the brown leather desk accessories filled with pens, upended notepads and bits of paper. The desktop held a tidy stash of stationery under a tasteful, round glass paperweight in which there was a swirl of colour. Also on top was an antique brass desk lamp, now lit, the lamp’s shade a pink glass globe. The desk had a delicate chair upholstered in plum velvet.
There were several bookshelves standing around the room filled with books and displaying objects d’art, all of the pieces interesting, some of them, Cash noted, highly valuable.
Cash couldn’t help but think that this was not where he saw Abby living. Although it was refined, yet warm and inviting, with silver-framed photos on the mantel, on the desk and dotting the shelves and tables, Cash felt it somehow didn’t suit her.
He didn’t know what would but this was just not it. It was too vast, too old and it didn’t have even a hint of her playful personality or her cosmopolitan flair.
“Whisky?” she asked when he’d stopped behind the couch and his eyes moved to her.
She’d barely entered the doorway. She was standing too far away and she looked preoccupied.
“Abby, come here,” he demanded and her body went still for a moment before she seemed to force herself to move toward him. When she arrived within reach, he lifted his hand to curl his fingers around her neck. “You haven’t even said hello,” he told her, trying not to let her see that her behaviour was displeasing him.
She blinked, looking confused, then asked, “I haven’t?”
Cash shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and she sounded like she was.
This went a long way towards dispelling Cash’s irritation.
“Is there something on your mind?” he queried softly.
“I…” she started, then stopped, took a deep breath and continued, “you just surprised me, being early,” her hands came out at her sides, “I’m not ready yet.”
The tension left Cash’s body.
Women, it was his experience, liked to make an entrance. Even when Abby left his bathroom, her face cleaned of makeup, she still managed to make an entrance (mainly because she looked damned sexy in her clinging blue nightgown).
He bent his head to touch his lips to hers as he gave her neck an affectionate squeeze.
“Tell me where to find the whisky. I’ll get it while you finish getting dressed,” he told her.
She nodded while saying, “In the kitchen, I’ll show you.”
“I can find my way.”
She seemed to be considering this, her eyes darting anywhere but him. Then she swallowed, her gaze came to his and she nodded again. “The cupboard, by the –”
He brushed her lips with his again to interrupt her. “I’ll find it. Go.”
Her white teeth appeared as she bit the side of her lip but she gave another short nod, disengaged from his hand and walked from the room, saying, “I won’t be long.”
Cash watched her go or more to the point, Cash watched her ass sway as she walked away.
He found his way to the kitchen, even more ancient-looking (and warm and welcoming) than what he’d already seen of her house. He located the whisky, a heavy, cut-crystal tumbler, poured himself a drink and walked back to the living room.
Upon entry to the room, Cash saw a black cat with yellow eyes and long, silky fur sitting on the back of the couch, its tail swaying. Instead of the pert nose of a domestic feline, it had the nose of lion. This feature significantly increased the usual catlike disdain. It regarded Cash, blinked, jumped off the couch and trotted smartly from the room.
Cash ignored the cat and looked around.
There was an empty Denby mug on a coaster on the table in front of the couch, the stringed label of the wet tea bag still in it indicating it was a cup of some complicated herbal tea. Next to that was a cookbook with an excess of multi-coloured post-it tags sticking out the sides, a plastic row of the post-its sitting on top of the book, a Waterman pen resting at the book’s side.
Cash went to the mantel and looked at the photos. Most of the pictures were older and in black and white. All of them were candid and in every one the subjects were smiling.
When Cash turned away from the mantel, his eyes caught on a large, silver-framed photo sitting ensconced on a bookshelf and he froze.
It was Abby’s wedding photo.
He stared at it from his place several feet away and it felt like the image depicted was burning itself in his brain.
In slow motion, his body came unstuck and he walked to the photo, his fingers curling around it, he brought it to him for closer inspection.
She’d been a young bride and a beautiful one. Her beauty hadn’t matured to her current magnificence but her obvious happiness made up for it.