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With that she held out the phone to Abby.

Abby stifled the urge to strangle her to death and took the phone, mumbling, “Excuse me,” and with all due haste she left the room, walked down the hall and shut herself in the living room.

Then she put the phone to her ear and with no further ado said, “I told you she could be worse.”

She heard Cash’s rich laughter through the phone and at the sound her belly dipped.

When he’d stopped, she asked, “How much do the English authorities frown on homicide of blue-haired ladies?”

Cash didn’t answer, instead he told her, “I’m considering hiring her. She’d strike fear in the hearts of half the bastards I have to deal with every day. How old is she? My pension people will want to know.”

“Nine hundred and ninety-two,” Abby answered and heard his lush laughter again and knew she’d tried to make him laugh on purpose, again.

When his laughter died, she asked, “Why are you calling? Is something up?”

There was still amusement in his voice when he responded, “I’m calling because that’s what women expect men to do. You expect us to call at least once a day, proving we’re capable of thinking of nothing but you when we’re not. We’re thinking of work.”

Abby smiled to herself, walking to the window where she saw Jenny parking her new Mini outside. “So you’re calling me to tell me you’re not thinking about me?”

His voice changed when he replied. It got that deeper, throatier, sexier that she was beginning to like way too much.

“You? No. Your ass, your smile, your hair and that fucking kiss this morning? Yes.”

She was inordinately thrilled he was thinking about the kiss. When she wasn’t thinking about her screwed up life, her troubles, her house and crazy Mrs. Truman, that was all she could think about.

“Mostly,” he went on, “I wanted to make sure you got my note.”

She’d got it. It was sitting on the kitchen counter by his espresso maker with a set of keys beside it. The black ink was a manly scrawl on the sheet telling her to take the keys, leave a grocery list for his housekeeper and that he’d be home at seven.

She’d made a grocery list but she’d also met Aileen, his housekeeper, by bumping into her while going out the front door.

To Abby’s surprise, Aileen acted like she didn’t run into a woman every time she came to see to Cash’s house.

They’d chatted for a bit and Abby decided she liked her. Then again, there were few people Abby didn’t like, she could count only one and at that very moment that particular person was sitting in Abby’s kitchen.

“I got your note,” she told Cash as she walked toward the door.

Jenny was about to come in and Jenny was Abby’s best friend in the whole world. She didn’t want her to meet Mrs. Truman without warning. No true friend would let that happen.

“Good, what are you making me for dinner?” Cash asked in her ear as Abby opened the door to find Mrs. Truman outside it eating a Bourbon biscuit and unabashedly listening.

“Mrs. Truman!” she cried instead of answering Cash.

“You need to speak up when I’m eavesdropping,” Mrs. Truman told her. “I’m not as young as I once was and that includes my ears.”

At that moment, Jenny walked in stomping her feet and slamming the door, shouting, “It’s fucking cold out there!”

“Language!” Mrs. Truman snapped and Jenny swung around, her face getting pale.

Jennifer Kane was the kind of woman who didn’t let anything faze her. Kieran had a great job that paid really well but he also had to move from country to country. Without a peep, Jenny went with him. She said good-bye to friends. She bought and sold homes and cars and shipped belongings. She found new friends and renewed acquaintances. She travelled to far lands with her husband on business and pleasure.

She could even change her own oil.

What she couldn’t do was live without fear of nosy, maddening Mrs. Truman.

Jennifer Kane was a strong woman but she wasn’t Superwoman.

“Cash,” Abby whispered, “I think I have to –” she was going to say “go” but Mrs. Truman was speaking.

“You and your Australian husband are coming with her,” she pointed a bony finger at Abby, “and her new man, to my place for dinner. Tomorrow night. Seven.”

Jenny’s pale face swung to Abby and she asked, “I am?”

“You are,” Mrs. Truman declared, moving forward, toward her coat, “Bring a bottle. White. Chilled. And some dog treats. They’re having company too.” Then she let out a piercing whistle, Abby winced at the shrill sound nearly dropping the phone and she could hear little spaniel feet thundering through the house. Mrs. Truman turned her attention to Abby. “Tell your man I won’t take any last minute excuses. I don’t care if he’s got fancy schmancy friends. If Marlon Brando himself asks him to dinner, he’s going to say no. Understood?”

“I think Marlon Brando is dead, Mrs. Truman,” Jenny, now standing (or, more accurately, huddling, protection in numbers as it were) beside Abby, informed the old woman.

“Is not,” Mrs. Truman shot back.

“I think he is,” Jenny, unwisely, pressed.

“He is not!” Mrs. Truman snapped loudly and Abby could hear Cash chuckling in her ear so she knew he could hear every word. “I would have heard,” Mrs. Truman went on.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Jenny mumbled toward Abby (and Abby’s phone), and Cash’s chuckle became laughter.

The dogs had arrived and Mrs. Truman was clipping their leads on them. “Tomorrow, seven. Don’t be late,” she said and then she was out the door.

Abby rushed forward to close (and lock) it behind her.

“I’m sorry, Cash, that was –”

“Stop saying sorry, darling,” his burr sounded softly in her ear, her body experienced a top-to-toe shiver and he finished, “see you tonight.”

Then he disconnected.

Abby slid her phone shut and saw Jenny was staring at her.

“What just happened?” she asked and Abby had a fleeting feeling of fear that Jenny knew about the top-to-toe shiver.

“What?” Abby asked, trying to look innocent.

“Are Kieran and I really having dinner with you, Cash Fraser and Mrs. Truman?” Jenny queried as if she wanted above all else in the world for Abby to say “no”.

Abby was forced to disappoint her friend. “I’m afraid so.”

“My God,” Abby breathed, “we’re going to have to pretend he’s your new boyfriend. He doesn’t know about us.”

This was true.

“Oh my God,” Abby whispered, a new feeling of fear gripping her.

“Don’t worry,” Jenny rallied first, “I’ll talk to Kieran. Everything will be fine. Right?”

Abby nodded, as ever sucking courage from her friend in a time of need.

Abby and Jenny walked to the kitchen together.

“Was it okay?” Jenny asked, “Last night?”

Abby nodded, went to the kettle and took it to the sink to refill it.

She was going to lie.

If there was ever a time to lie, this was it.

Jenny already felt responsible enough. She didn’t need to know what happened this morning.

“He was really late,” Abby explained to her friend. “We just talked and then went to bed. He didn’t try anything.”

“How weird,” Jenny mumbled to herself then her eyes focused on Abby. “What’d you talk about?”

“Music,” that wasn’t a lie, really, “food,” that also wasn’t a lie, as such. “Not much, he was really late,” that was a total lie (well, not the last part).