She was not big on mornings, though she was usually up well before now. Exacerbating her usual morning mood was the weight of her current predicament.
Therefore, when she said, “Hello?” into the receiver, her fresh-from-sleep voice sounded peeved.
“Abby.”
It was Cash.
What was with this guy?
Could he not leave her alone for even a moment?
“Cash,” she said, her voice sounding breathy.
There was heavy silence before he said softly, his burr trilling deliciously in her ear sending an uncontrollable shiver down her spine, “I’ve woken you.”
She tried (and failed) to ignore the shiver and then tried to decide what to say.
She couldn’t tell him she had trouble sleeping that would expose too much.
She also couldn’t lie and say she hadn’t been asleep, her voice made it obvious.
“I like my sleep,” she said instead, something which was not a lie.
There was more silence and this was heavier.
When he didn’t break it, she called, “Cash? Is there something you want?”
“Yes,” came his immediate reply.
She got up on an elbow and Zee looked up at her, blinking (Zee, being feline, liked his sleep too).
When Cash didn’t expand on his answer, Abby was forced to ask, “Well? What is it?”
There was a hesitation, then, “Do you cook?”
She blinked at Zee and repeated stupidly, “Cook?”
“Yes. Pots. Pans. Spoons. Ovens. Cook,” he spoke in one word sentences, sounding like he was trying not to laugh.
Abby felt her blood pressure rising.
This was not because he seemed to be amused at her expense.
This was because him seeming amused made her feel funny and not in a bad way. It was a good way. It was a way that put her vow to be faithful to her dead husband in heart, mind and soul (if not in deed, obviously) until the she day she died in peril.
With effort she controlled it. She knew she let on way too much last night. Somehow she had to keep her distance without being unfriendly.
How she was going to manage that, though, she had no earthly clue.
“I know what cooking is,” Abby answered. “What I’d like to know is, why are you calling me at eight o’clock in the morning and asking me if I know how to do it?”
“Because, if you do, you’re cooking for me tonight at my place,” he replied.
Abby’s heart lurched at the very idea of cooking a meal for him at his home. The lurch was both fear and excitement, something else with effort she controlled.
“I fail to see how that’s going to get our picture in the paper,” she returned.
“What will be seen, and perhaps photographed, is you coming in my front door,” Cash explained, though she could tell he was no longer amused but attempting to be patient.
She had to admit he was right and Abby pushed up to rest her back against the headboard as Zee got to his feet and stretched.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we went out?” she queried.
“Abby, if we always go out, they’re going to think we’re dating. If you’re at my place, they’re going to think we’re together. The object of this is to make them think they missed the first part and that we’re well into the second part,” he informed her and again, annoyingly, he was right. He went on, “Now, do you cook?”
She gave in ungraciously on a sigh, “I cook.”
When he spoke again, he was back to sounding amused. “My assistant will call you and make certain whatever you need is at the house.”
“Fine,” Abby replied, deciding that giving in also had the additional benefit of bringing her closer to the end of this weirdly intimate conversation.
Her anticipated relief was short-lived when Cash said, “Bring a bag.”
Abby’s lungs seized.
“Pardon?” she wheezed into the phone.
“A bag,” Cash repeated.
“Why?”
“You’re spending the night.”
Oh my Lord, she thought.
“What do you mean, spending the night?” she asked, the breath coming back into her lungs with a burning whoosh.
There was a pause before he asked, this time back to sounding like he was attempting patience, “I’m not certain which part of ‘spending the night’ you need me to explain.”
Her blood pressure rose again, this time for a different reason and she failed at controlling it. “The part, Mr. Fraser, where you don’t remember that the deal is I don’t sleep with you until we go to the castle.”
His voice was low, rough, vibrating and unbelievably effective when he replied softly, “Darling, the deal is I don’t fuck you until we go to the castle. I can sleep with you whenever the hell I want. And tonight you’re spending the night.”
Was that the deal?
The preliminary deal was, she pretended to be his girlfriend including sleeping in the same bed with him. The point was that she’d share a room with him at the castle, thus proving to his uncle that she was, indeed, his very attached and devoted girlfriend.
However, there were no restrictions noted on that and she’d stupid, stupid, stupidly not made any.
He’d amended the deal with the sex part, which she’d only restricted to after they went to the castle, not getting into the sleeping-in-the-same-bed-with-him part.
Which meant, yet again, he was right.
But why would he want to sleep with her?
What, she asked herself again, was with this guy?
“Bring a bag,” he repeated.
“Fine,” she snapped.
“Enough to leave things you may need there,” he demanded.
Oh dear Lord in heaven above, she cried in her head.
“Fine,” through her teeth she gritted out loud.
“Moira will give you my address and make sure you get in,” he told her.
“Who’s Moira?” she clipped.
“My assistant,” he answered.
For some reason, that took the wind out of her sails.
“Oh,” she said softly.
More silence, then she heard his voice, far less authoritarian, much gentler and definitely sexy, say, “What are you making me for dinner?”
“Fillet steak marinated in arsenic,” she returned acidly.
She heard his quick bark of laughter, it was nearly as delicious as his soft burr sounding in her ear and she knew she’d done it again. Unconsciously, she meant to make him laugh.
“Are you done with me?” she continued, far angrier with herself than she was with him and wondering if she could find a hypnotist who could stop her from being funny and charming.
While she was contemplating her first move of the morning (directly to the phonebook to look up hypnotists), the soft burr was back, trilling lushly through the phone and throughout her system, when he answered, “Not even close.”
Then she heard the disconnect and he was gone.
Zee stared at her, likely wondering about breakfast.
Abby stared back and muttered, “Bloody, bloody hell.”
“What is with this guy?” Jenny exclaimed as she snapped hangers across the rails of a clothing display at Harvey Nichols.
It was early afternoon, they were shopping and Abby had shared her plans for the evening.
“I’m learning that during negotiations I should be very detailed in what I will, and will not, do as an escort,” Abby replied, snapping her own hangers.
Jenny stopped snapping hangers and stared in disbelief at Abby.
“What?” Abby asked her friend on raised brows.
“Do not even joke about the possibility that this will become your profession,” Jenny hissed.
“That’s not what I meant,” Abby replied, and it wasn’t.