Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(50)

His head gave a small jerk then tilted slightly to the side. “I’m sorry?”

“Moira, your assistant?” she said on a question as if he didn’t know his own assistant’s name. “She called me today,” she explained and went on, “you didn’t.”

Cash stared at her a moment and Abby held her breath.

Then she watched as he threw his head back and let out a deep, rich bark of laughter before his arms closed tightly around her, crushing her body to his. His head came down and he buried his face in her neck.

Still laughing against her neck, he muttered, “I see.”

She pushed her body back and twisted her head to look at him. “You see what?”

He was still smiling when his head came up and his eyes locked on hers. “I see you’re pissed off that I didn’t call.”

“No, I –” she started but his arms gave her a gentle squeeze, effectively silencing her.

“I was in meetings all day. Unfortunately what I do means I have a lot of meetings. Even though I’d vastly prefer to be on the phone talking to you, or listening to the crazy shit that goes on in your house, sometimes I won’t be able to call.” One of his hands came up and gave her neck that gentle squeeze she liked way too damned much. “Abby, you’re going to have to get used to that.”

She felt a tremor slide through her body at his words and it wasn’t a tremor of fear.

“Get used to it?” she whispered, wondering what he meant.

His lips touched hers then he said, “Yes. You’re going to have to get used to it.” And he obviously wasn’t going to say any more, as in explain what on God’s green earth he was talking about, because he let her go and casually walked into the kitchen while saying, “I’m getting a drink. You open your boxes.”

For what seemed like years (but obviously wasn’t) she stared at his back as he moved around the kitchen pouring himself a whisky.

Then she looked at the bag with the boxes.

Then she looked back to him.

“My boxes?” she asked.

Back still to her, he took a sip from his whisky while standing in front of an attractive, modern, stainless steel wine rack, pulling out bottles and inspecting them, before shoving them back and he said, “In the bag. Those are for you.”

She sucked in breath and her eyes went back to the boxes.

“For me?” she whispered but he didn’t answer. He’d found what he was looking for and went about the task of opening a bottle of red wine.

On legs that felt like they were made of wood, Abby moved to the boxes and found there were three. She pulled them out and, one-by-one, unveiled three robes.

One was tailored in a man’s style but it was made from a sumptuous pink silk so pale it was almost, but not quite, colourless. The next was a long, cream, cotton, waffle-weave but its lapel was smooth. The last was also long but this one was made of the finest, dove grey cashmere, luxuriously soft to the touch.

Abby stood frozen, the lush cashmere in her hands, and she didn’t wonder why Cash was giving her presents. She also didn’t wonder why those presents were all robes.

All she could think was that she’d always wanted a cashmere robe.

Always.

During the good times with Ben in all her spending she’d never bought herself one. She could explain away purchasing expensive shoes, handbags and pieces of jewellery with a variety of womanly excuses but spending hundreds of dollars on a robe you wouldn’t wear out of the house seemed over the top.

And she knew exactly how much it cost. She’d looked covetously at many of them and not one had cost less than multiple hundreds.

And the one in her hands was of a superior quality to any of the ones she’d seen.

“Abby?” she heard Cash call and her head shot up.

He was standing at the end of the counter, his weight resting on one hand, the fingers of his other hand curled around his whisky glass, his eyes were on her.

“I –” she felt her throat close which she thought at that moment was a good thing as she had no idea what to say. She cleared her throat, the pertinent question springing into her head and she asked, “Why?”

His face went hard and for one frightening second, she thought he was angry.

Then when he spoke, she realised it wasn’t anger but a very scary resolve.

In a voice harder than his face, he declared, “I take care of what’s mine.”

Abby felt it was safe to say that he hadn’t lost interest in her and instantly she had something new to worry about.

She opened her mouth to speak but he got there before her.

“Do you like them?” he asked.

She blinked then repeated, “Like them?”

His head moved to indicate her presents and he prompted, “The dressing gowns.”

Still slightly dazed, and certainly not thinking, she shook her head and said, “No,” she watched as his face went blank, guarding his reaction but she kept talking, “No, I don’t like them, Cash. Any woman in her right mind doesn’t like cashmere.” As if unable to stop herself, Abby babbled on, “Any woman in her right mind wants a room made out of cashmere with a bed made out of cashmere, a bed with cashmere sheets and cashmere pillows and cashmere blankets. So she can roll around in cashmere. No, Cash, I don’t like them. I love them,” she paused, “but especially the cashmere.”