Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(9)

Again, Cash answered, “Taking her to dinner.”

“On a date?” Mrs. Truman enquired as if this concept was foreign to her, foreign and abhorrent like they lived in a time when women were sequestered until marriage and anyone breaking this time-honoured rule should be tarred and feathered.

“Yes,” Cash replied and Abby’s head tilted back to look at him because she could hear a hint of amusement in his voice.

She saw up close (as they were only inches away) in the light which was shining from the stained glass window over her door that he was, indeed, amused.

And Cash Fraser’s handsome face amused was better than it was unamused and unamused he was spectacular.

Abby felt her jaw get tense.

“Abigail does not date,” Mrs. Truman informed Cash authoritatively and she would know, she kept a close eye on Abby, everyone in the neighbourhood and likely everyone in the entire county.

Oh dear Lord, Abby thought.

“She does tonight,” Cash returned.

Abby almost laughed because this was all so absurd, it was hilarious.

At the same time she almost screamed because this was all so absurd, it was scary.

Instead of doing either, she moved to the side, linked her arm through Cash’s and called, “We’ve a booking Mrs. Truman, we don’t want to be late. Have a lovely evening.”

Cash, Abby was happy to note, moved with her as she manoeuvred him toward the grand expanse of stone steps that led up the side of her house to her front door.

Her torture at the hands of her demented neighbour, however, was not quite over.

“Abigail Butler!” Mrs. Truman yelled to their forms descending the staircase and Abby turned her head to look at the old woman when she continued. “I’ll not have him racing his fancy car down the street, waking me up at all hours. You tell him that,” she demanded, even though Cash was right there beside her.

“We’ll be quiet,” Abby called back.

Mrs. Truman was still not done. In fact, she’d saved the best for last.

“And no necking on the front stoop. This is a nice neighbourhood,” she declared.

At that, but most especially at Cash Fraser’s highly amused, soft laughter, Abby didn’t know if she wanted to die or if she wanted to kill Mrs. Truman.

She decided to kill Mrs. Truman. The woman was old and had lived her life. Abby was also relatively certain her sentence would be light if some of her other neighbours testified about Mrs. Truman at the trial.

“Good night, Mrs. Truman,” Abby called firmly.

They heard a loud “humph” which travelled the distance between Abby and Mrs. Truman’s house as Cash led Abby to the sleek, black car in the drive.

All thoughts of Mrs. Truman fled as Abby stared at the car, not having taken it in when Cash arrived.

It was a Maserati.

Ironically since he’d died in one, Ben loved cars, all cars, indeed anything with wheels but most especially fast cars. They’d only ever been able to afford a Nissan Z car for him which he loved, nearly (but not quite) as much as Abby and that had been used when they bought it.

This was brand new.

Ben would have adored this car.

Cash took her to the passenger side and opened the door for her and Abby found she couldn’t stop her breath from catching.

She’d dated frequently before Ben (not at all after him) and every once in awhile her suitors would open the car door for her and only the first few dates.

Throughout their time together Ben had always opened her door for her even if they were going to the grocery store. Abby used to tease him about this show of gallantry, explaining she was a healthy girl, she could open her own doors. He’d always ignored her and did it anyway.

She’d secretly loved it. It was one of the many ways Ben took care of her, protected her and showed he loved her.

With a guiding hand on her arm, Cash steered her to her seat and waited courteously as she shifted her legs into the car before he slammed the door.

Abby took deep breaths to calm herself.

She had to stop thinking about Ben, especially now. Now was not the time to think of her beloved, but very dead, husband.

She tried to appear outwardly calm as she buckled herself in and Cash slid in beside her.

After he’d secured himself and started the car, he faced Abby and remarked, “Your neighbour is interesting.”

Abby kept her body facing forward only turning her head to look at him, her mind whirling in desperation to explain away nosy Mrs. Truman.

Not only that, she wondered what he thought of her living in a huge, rambling, four-story, Victorian semi-detached in a quiet seaside town in an even quieter, old, settled and sedate neighbourhood where the average age of her neighbours was four hundred and twenty-two.

Abby reckoned that Cash probably thought that high-class call girls would not live in such places. Not, Abby thought somewhat hysterically, that she knew where Cash or even herself would think a high-class call girl would live.

To his remark, Abby replied coldly, “Mrs. Truman is a raving shrew.”

She watched as Cash Fraser laughed.

And when he did something profound happened to Abby.

His laugh was deep, throaty and rich, so much so it was almost physical, filling the car and reaching out to her like a caress.

The feeling was so pleasant, the sound of his laughter so arresting, Abby found herself stunned, wanting it never to end and frightened of it at the same time.