Considering this was what Cash wanted, what Cash was paying for, his reaction to the photographer was bizarre.
He looked, at a glance from Abby, for all the world angry at the intrusion. He immediately turned them toward his home and he seemed to be shielding her with his tall frame as they went.
When they arrived at the short flight of stairs in front of his house, he even tucked her in front of him, his arm around her waist, his other hand opening the door as he sheltered her with his shoulder from the lens of the cameraman. Cash pressed her inside and blocked the view as he shut the door.
Without a word, and Abby decided not to ask, they’d gone downstairs.
Abby fixed the pears and made decaf coffee which, she told him, even though he could probably care less, she had to drink as she never drank caffeinated beverages after noon or she’d never get to sleep.
They ate and drank while Abby sat on the counter and Cash stood close, his hips resting against a corner in the counter, one of them also resting against her knee.
When they were done, she’d rinsed and put the dishes away and was standing at the sink, turning off the faucet, thinking crazy thoughts, when she felt him behind her back.
His hand came to her hip, his mouth to her neck, and he murmured, “Time for bed.”
At his words her stomach did a queer little dip that wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest.
Now there she was, wishing for the first time since Ben (and drowning with guilt about it) that she was experiencing the scary but thrilling anticipation of connecting with someone whom she found handsome and compelling.
Not about to perform the services for which she was being very generously paid.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered to her reflection and walked out of the bathroom.
The lights again were dim, only the lamps on either side of the bed were lit.
Cash was lying on top of the covers slightly to the middle of his side, wearing his pyjama bottoms. His back was to the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.
He held a sheaf of papers in his hand and there were several small piles of papers fanned out on Abby’s side of the bed.
Abby stopped at the sight of him.
“Was I in the bathroom a year?” she asked, referring to his swiftly taking over the bed with paperwork.
His head lifted from his study of the papers in his hand and she noticed immediately that he was wearing a pair of attractive, silver-framed reading glasses.
She also noticed that he looked really good wearing his attractive, silver-framed reading glasses.
“You wear glasses,” she told him unnecessarily.
“Yes,” he replied.
“They look good on you,” she blurted, feeling like a fool.
Slowly, he smiled. Abby’s stomach did that queer thrilling dip again.
In his throaty brogue, he ordered, “Come here.”
Her stomach did the dip yet again. She ignored the dip and headed to her side of the bed.
Cash stopped her by saying, “No, Abby, this side.”
She did a stutter-step, confused. Her eyes went to him and saw he was watching her. While she stood frozen and undecided, he patted the area on the bed beside him.
She changed directions and went to his side of the bed. He put the papers in his lap, leaned up and his fingers curled around her wrist. He pulled her down to seated on the bed then settled her at his side, her body resting the length of his, her head on his chest, his arm around her, her hand on his bare midriff.
“I have to go through this before the morning,” he muttered, his fingers curving around her shoulder. “It won’t take long.”
She was a little surprised, a little disappointed and a lot relieved.
“Okay,” she replied quietly.
It felt weird, lying beside him while he read in bed. Weird and wonderful and warm and sweet and comfortable and a lot of other things it shouldn’t feel.
Moments ticked passed as he read and she lay there.
For a bit, she tried to read the papers. Then she realised what little she read made no sense to her.
He shifted papers around, dropped some, picked up others, somehow never disturbing her.
More moments passed and he started stroking her shoulder.
This made her realise she was tense and her body, of its own volition, began to relax.
More moments passed and the tips of his fingers slid up her shoulder, up her neck and his fingers started to play absent-mindedly with her hair.
She’d always liked it when anyone played with her hair.
Lying in Cash’s bed, his warm, strong body against hers, made it all the better.
In fact, she thought dreamily, it was the best.
More moments passed and she fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
Cash’s Reason
Somewhere in a dream, Abby heard, “Abby, I have to get ready for work.”
To this, her response was to curl her limbs more tightly around the dream Cash Fraser’s body. This had the added benefit of the front of her dream body pressing deeper into the front of Cash’s.
“Darling,” his low, deep brogue was husky and sounded, weirdly to Abby considering it was a dream, vaguely disappointed.
Then her body, not of its own volition, moved and the heat of Cash was gone.
Abby curled into his pillow and fell back to sleep.
Abby felt her hair slide off her neck and then the words, “Abby, I’m leaving,” semi-penetrated her unconsciousness.
Her eyes fluttered open and focused on Cash who in the dark she could see (just barely) was sitting, fully dressed, in the crook of her lap.
“What?” she asked sleepily.
“I’m going to work,” he replied softly.
“Oh.”
“I’ll be at your house just before seven,” he told her.
“Okay,” she said, settling deeper into his pillow then mumbled, “Will you call me today?”
“I’ll call,” he answered.
She snuggled into the pillow and whispered, “Good,” but before he could move she kept talking, “Last night, I thought we were going to begin.”
“Begin what?”
She let out a soft sigh and said, “You know, begin.”
His voice held a smile when he replied, “We did, Abby. Couldn’t you tell?”
She pulled his pillow to her chest and whispered, “Not really.”
“Then you weren’t paying much attention,” he muttered.
She was still not paying much attention. She’d started to drift back to sleep when she felt the covers pulled up over her shoulder and, after that, fingers trailed softly down her jaw.
Then out of nowhere something hit her and panic seized her chest in an angry claw.
As Cash’s hand moved away, her own shot out and caught his wrist in a vice-like grip.
She quickly got up on an elbow and her eyes flew to his shadowed form.
“Abby –” Cash started, sounding surprised and pulling at his wrist but before her mind kicked into gear and she could think what she was saying (or doing, or feeling), she interrupted him.
“You be careful in that car of yours,” she demanded, her voice hoarse with sleep and emotion.
She couldn’t see it but she felt Cash’s body go completely still.
She knew his eyes were on her but since she was having trouble breathing (oxygen, she felt, took priority), she didn’t care.
His other hand came up and he pried her fingers loose from his wrist. After he succeeded in his task, he took her hand in his, palm cupped to palm, and brought the backs of her fingers to his lips.
She felt him kiss her lightly there before he murmured, “Abby, nothing’s going to happen to me.”