Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(80)

Indeed, the only things he’d allow her to do was make him coffee, pour him a whisky or cook his food.

Abby was beginning to find this grating.

She might, if circumstances had been different, have found his gallantry attractive. She would, however, probably have explained the extent of it was unnecessary.

She might, again if things were different between them, find getting him a coffee, a whisky or dinner, something she enjoyed doing.

Instead, she found this a reminder that she was his. It reminded her that not only did she work for him, he owned her and, as he’d told her more than once, he took care of what was his.

She wasn’t his cherished partner, she was his valued possession.

He clearly took care of his possessions, his home, his car, his jet.

She was just one of many of his expensive belongings and this behaviour reminded her of that.

“Cash, you had the bags, I could open the door,” Abby stated and even though an escort would have kept her mouth shut, Abby was tired so she didn’t.

His eyes moved to her. “Yes,” he replied quietly, “but you aren’t going inside.”

Abby blinked at him in confusion, saw his eyes move to the bay window of her living room and his chin lifted. Abby’s eyes followed and she saw, just dimly, what looked like flickering candlelight shining through her curtains.

Her body froze.

No one should be there and certainly no candles should be lit.

Jenny knew they weren’t returning until late and she hadn’t a clue they’d be coming to Abby’s. Even if she’d wanted to leave them a warm welcome just in case, she wouldn’t have left a candle burning.

“Oh my God,” Abby breathed, “someone’s in there.”

“Stay at the door,” Cash ordered. “I don’t want you coming in until I tell you it’s safe. Understood?”

Panic welling in her, Abby grabbed his forearm as he lifted the key toward the latch.

“Cash! You can’t go in there!” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s there.”

“Darling, you might have intruders in your house. What do you suggest I do?” he calmly returned and Abby let him go and threw up her hands.

“I don’t know. Call the police?” she tried.

He dismissed her suggestion by lifting his hand to the lock while he said, “Stay here.”

“Cash!” Abby protested but under her breath so the bad guys wouldn’t hear.

Cash inserted the key into the lock but he looked over his shoulder and down at her, his eyes serious, his face hard. “Stay. Fucking. Here.”

All right then.

He was using the f-word.

Abby decided it was time to back down.

However, she also decided not to give in gracefully.

So she crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a glare.

He completely ignored her, opened the door and silently entered her house.

Abby waited.

Then she waited some more.

Then she heard several female shrieks ending with Mrs. Truman shouting, “Dear Lord, what are you doing here?”

Abby grabbed the bags Cash left outside, rushed in, dropped them in the entry, closed the door, pulled off her coat and threw it on the coat stand all the while hearing Cash and Mrs. Truman’s loud conversation.

“What the f**k?” (Cash)

“Language!” (Mrs. Truman)

“Would you care to explain why you’re in Abby’s house in the dead of night and what in f**king hell you’re doing?” (Cash)

“You’re early!” (Mrs. Truman)

“It’s f**king midnight!” (Cash)

By this time Abby made it to her living room only to see it wasn’t one candle lit, but at least two dozen of them.

And it wasn’t Mrs. Truman alone who was enjoying a dead-of-night, candlelit, clandestine moment in Abby’s living room but Jenny was there, to her confusion, for some reason Fenella was there too, as was some woman Abby had never seen.

The woman was dark-haired, dark-eyed, curvaceous and either around five years older than Abby or she was ten and hid it well. She was wearing stylish, hip-hugging, faded, boot-cut jeans over high-heeled boots with a cool, heavy-buckled belt Abby would kill for, all this topped with a snug-fitting turtleneck.

Oddly, she was also wearing a silk scarf wrapped around her head, the faded, fringed ends tangled in her long hair and a webby shawl was thrown over her shoulders.

It wasn’t a look Abby would be able to pull off (or, in all honesty, would want to) but the lady did so, brilliantly. She looked like a Rock ‘n’ Roll Gypsy.

Abby had a sinking feeling she knew what this was about.

But what was Fenella doing there?

“What the f**k are you doing here?” Cash asked, as if in Abby’s brain, his angry gaze had swung to Fenella then it moved to The Gypsy Queen. “And who the f**k are you?”

Abby put her hand up, wrapped her fingers around Cash’s bicep, leaned into his side and in the hopes of calming him, said softly, “Cash.”

“Really,” Mrs. Truman scolded, foiling Abby’s calming attempt, “your language is unacceptable, Cash Fraser.”

Cash’s furious eyes sliced to Mrs. Truman and Abby was treated to proof positive that the older woman had nerves of steel when she didn’t even flinch.