Penmort Castle (5 page)

Luckily, he got
control of his hilarity, put the car in gear and reversed expertly,
and somewhat alarmingly quickly, out of her drive.

Then he raced
down the street.

Then he turned
left and raced down the next street.

Then he turned
right and raced down the next.

And
then
he turned left again and raced down yet another street.

Abby clutched
the door handle as he manoeuvred skilfully (and rapidly) through a
roundabout at the edge of town and raced down a dark, secluded
straightaway.

She was about
to say something before she
did
something, something
embarrassing, something like shriek in terror, when she looked over
at him and saw that he was driving with his right hand on the
steering wheel, his left casually resting on the knob of
clutch.

Just looking at
him, she knew instinctively he had complete control of the powerful
car.

Her body
relaxed and her fingers loosened from the door handle, her hand
moving back to join her other one in her lap.

He didn’t
speak. Neither did she.

This lasted for
awhile.

Then Abby
started to get uncomfortable.

So she asked,
“Where are we going?”

“To dinner,”
was his uninformative answer.

She looked at
him. “I know, but where?”

“A restaurant,”
was his equally uninformative answer.

Abby sighed and
looked straight ahead. “Will photographers be there?”

“Yes,” he
replied.

“Is there some
kind of event happening?” she pressed, wanting to know what to
expect.

“No. I’ve
arranged a tip off call to be made, they’ll hear we’re there and
they’ll show,” he answered and went on. “They’ll be fed the
information about you tonight.”

Abby blinked in
surprise and again turned to look at him. “What information?”

He glanced at
her before his attention returned to the road and then he
negotiated a winding turn at approximately five hundred miles per
hour faster than she’d ever contemplate while he replied, “Your
back story.”

“My back
story?” she repeated stupidly not having the first clue what he was
on about.

His voice
dipped lower, deeper and throatier (and therefore quite a bit
sexier), when he responded, “Abby, it wouldn’t exactly serve my
purpose for them to know what you are. James has arranged for them
to be fed your story.”

Abby felt like
he’d slapped her across the face.

She was, of
course, providing him a service at a fee. She didn’t, exactly, like
to be reminded of that.

She shirked off
the hurt and went on, “And what’s my story?”

It was an
altogether different but immensely more painful reaction she had to
his answer. “You’re an American widow. You used to work at the
Pentagon in a civilian position for the United States Air Force.
Your husband was a lobbyist on Capitol Hill for a large, healthcare
not-for-profit. You have dual citizenship, American father, English
mother, moved to England from DC some time after the death of your
husband when you inherited your grandmother’s property.”

Abby felt every
muscle in her body seize up.

Kieran had
given James her real story.

Why would he do
that?

Why, she had to
repeat in her head, on God’s green Earth would he
do
that?

She tried to
steady her rapidly beating heart and mentally forced her body to
relax and she did this by thinking of all the gratifyingly horrific
ways she was going to make her good friend pay for his
betrayal.

“There’s quite
a bit of detail in that story,” she said softly, for lack of
anything else to say and trying to throw him off the fact that the
air in the car had suddenly grown thick and she was the reason for
it.

“Your husband’s
name was Benjamin Butler,” he informed her and hearing Ben’s name
come from Cash’s mouth made instant tears burn the backs of Abby’s
eyes.

“That’s a nice
name,” she whispered while she worked very hard at controlling her
tears. She continued when she had herself together. “And what if
they check?”

Cash glanced at
her as he rounded a bend, the car gliding smoothly down a steep,
winding hill.

“You sound
surprised,” he remarked.

Abby didn’t
reply.

Cash continued,
“I’ve been told your people have taken care of this.”

It was then she
realised why Kieran had divulged her story and Abby stopped
considering her varied forms of torturous retribution.

Part of the
plan was that she and Cash would be seen together, photographed
together and talked about before they attended his aunt and uncle’s
Silver Wedding Anniversary celebrations at the family estate,
Penmort Castle.

Seeing as he
was Cash Fraser, dangerous, international spy-hunter, people would
be curious to know who the hell
she
was.

She hadn’t
exactly covered her tracks, given a false name, had plastic surgery
to modify her features or even changed her hair colour. If they
checked, it wouldn’t be hard for them to find out.

She looked out
the passenger window and hoping she sounded bored with the details,
stated, “I don’t involve myself with those things. My…” she
hesitated then used his terminology, “people do.”

“You work
alone,” was his strange reply and although it was a statement, it
was also a question and she didn’t know how to answer, mainly
because it was obvious she would work alone.

He hadn’t asked
to look like Hugh Hefner with five escorts dripping off his
arms.

“Of course,”
she replied.

“For yourself,”
he went on.

She looked at
him again. “Yes.”

“Not with an
agency,” he continued and she finally got it.

“Not with an
agency,” Abby repeated.

“How many
people take care of you?” he asked.

“Two,” she
replied honestly, not thinking to include James who was Cash’s
friend and for Abby just a go-between or Pete who took care of her
in a way but not
this
way.

“Do they work
for others like you?” Cash pushed and Abby pressed her lips
together.

This was none
of his business.

And
furthermore, him saying the words “like you” made her feel cheap
and dirty even though she was expensive and had showered that
evening at Jenny’s for fear of her tub crashing through the
floor.

“Cash,” she
said softly but she hoped her meaning was clear.

It was and it
wasn’t, he changed the subject but not really.

“May I ask a
personal question?” he requested.

“And the
questions you’ve been asking aren’t personal?” she returned.

When he replied
there was a hint of surprise in his voice, “No, Abby, they’re not.
Business is not personal.”

Damn, damn and
double damn but she’d given something away.
He
didn’t know
her “back story” was real.
He
didn’t know that her “people”
were her two best friends in all the world.
He
didn’t know
that the reason behind her prostituting herself was very, very
personal.

She covered by
acquiescing. “Of course, ask me anything you want.”

She noticed
that they’d reached the city and he’d negotiated the bridges to
turn back across the river. He now paused their conversation to
parallel park on the street outside a restaurant she knew, one
she’d always wanted to go to but couldn’t afford, one that Kieran
and Jenny wanted to take her to (and pay) but she wouldn’t let
them.

It was
exclusive because it was pricey. She looked and saw that the décor
through the big windows facing the river was simple. The lighting
soft and romantic, the tables draped in white cloths with white
buds blooming from small, glass vases. Flickering tea lights lit
the tables and she could see a roaring fire was burning in an
ancient hearth against the back, stone wall.

Cash, having
parked and turned off the car, interrupted her perusal of the
restaurant with one word and that word startled her because there
was a low, vibrating harshness underlying it. “Why?”

Her eyes moved
from the restaurant to Cash. “Pardon?”

“Why?” he
repeated.

“Why what?” she
asked, confused and wondering if she missed something.

“Why are you
what you are?”

Abby blinked
then swallowed then she had the desire to cry which was mingled
with the desire to flee which was also mingled with the desire to
reach out and slap him as hard as she could thus punishing him for
something for which she should be punishing herself.

She didn’t do
any of these things.

She also didn’t
answer.

He didn’t read
her silence correctly as in that she refused to answer.

Instead he went
on, “You could get the same things you want without doing what you
do to get them.”

Her body grew
tight and her voice was cold when she asked, “And what, after
knowing me all of perhaps thirty minutes, do you think I want?”

“You live in a
three-quarters of a million pound house in an exclusive town, you
wear five hundred pound shoes and you knew the value of my car just
glancing at it,” he informed her and she had to admit she was
shocked he knew these things. Though he didn’t know the state of
her house, which likely would decrease its value, though its
location would guarantee a very good asking price, still she was
taken aback that he knew how expensive her shoes were, what man
knew something like
that?
.

She kept silent
and he continued. “And you know your value.”

“What does that
mean?” she snapped, not knowing his inference but knowing she
didn’t like it whatever it was.

“It means that
you know a man would pay a great deal to possess you.”

She hadn’t
known any such thing until he’d proved it yesterday.

Still, she
replied swiftly, “That’s the point.”

His answer was
soft. “Fucking hell,” he muttered and he sounded annoyed. “Abby,
you’re a clever woman. You know you can sell yourself without
having to sell yourself.”

“What I do with
myself is no business of yours, Mr. Fraser,” she replied, her voice
ice cold, the effect, even on her, was chilling.

They sat in the
car staring at each other, Abby trying not to shiver. As each
moment passed the air started to grow heavier and heavier.

Abby didn’t
entirely understand it but she had the vague feeling he was angry
and she couldn’t imagine why.

When she could
stand no more, hiding the fear she had at what he might answer, she
offered, “Would you like to back out of our arrangement?”

“Fuck no,” was
his immediate if somewhat curt response and Abby felt herself
relax.

Without delay,
the edgy conversation obviously over, he turned and exited the
car.

As he rounded
the back to come to her door, she felt her relaxation disintegrate
and got tense because she had the nagging suspicion that she’d
hoped that would be his answer but not simply because she needed
the money.

Which would
indicate that she was failing, somewhat spectacularly, at keeping
her head on straight.

And at this
realisation, she thought,
Oh, bloody hell.

* * * * *

“Our coats,”
Cash commanded the waiter after he paid the bill.

“Of course,
sir,” the waiter replied.

Cash’s eyes
moved back to Abby who was sitting across from him, her elbow on
the table, her head in her hand, her fingers had sifted into her
thick hair at the side and her gaze was turned to the boats bobbing
at their ropes on the river.

She, he
thought, looked pensive.

He, Cash knew,
was angry.

There were a
variety of reasons for his anger.

First and
foremost, he was angry because he’d agreed not to have her until
three weeks later when they went to Penmort.

He couldn’t
imagine, considering the price he was paying for her, what made him
agree to that ludicrous caveat.

He wanted her
tonight.

He was also
angry because she was what she was.

When a woman
looked like her, talked like her, smelled like her, dressed like
her, had warm hazel eyes that contradicted her cool composure and
hinted at something deeper and more intriguing and had wildly
varying, easily readable, if puzzling reactions, that woman should
not be a whore.

He was also
angry because it was clear she intended to keep herself distant,
which was likely a necessary professional detachment, when he
wanted to know her story.

That wasn’t
exactly true, he knew her story.

She’d given it
away in the car with her reaction to what he thought at the time
was a fabrication.

Abigail Butler,
body for sale, had a dead husband named Benjamin who used to be a
lobbyist. She used to work for the US Air Force. Now she lived in
her grandmother’s home and sold herself to men who could afford to
pay top price.

What Cash meant
was he was angry that she kept herself distant when, for some
baffling reason, he wanted her to share. He wanted her to admit her
story and explain why a successful woman would turn to prostitution
on the death of her husband.

This was not in
his experience a normal reaction to grief.

He wanted to
know why she would do such a remarkably stupid thing. He wanted to
know why, when it was clear she could attract another man and live
a very comfortable life, undoubtedly earning her keep on her back
but at least not debasing herself in doing it.

Lastly, he was
angry at himself for giving a fuck.

Abigail Butler
had a purpose in his life for one month only.

She was going
to cushion him from his uncle’s idiotic intentions while Cash
extricated himself from that messy situation at the same time
rubbing his uncle’s nose in his many failures and securing what was
rightfully his.