But before this thought could intrude, Cash forced her response and it shot through her, her neck and back arching, her hips rearing against his hand. She heard the soft, low noises she made as if from far away as her body exhilarated in the glorious orgasm he’d given her.
And when she was done, breath coming fast, her hands still clenched in his suit jacket, his fingers left her and, she couldn’t help it, that felt good too and she let out a soft moan. His hand glided over her hip to her bottom, pressing her against him as he held her until her trembling stopped.
“Now, darling,” his voice rumbled roughly against her neck, “that was worth a diamond bracelet.”
Her body went still at his words but he didn’t notice, or worse, didn’t care.
He pulled away, exited the bed, leaned over and tugged her dress down. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet at the side of the bed.
Her legs were shaky, not only from her climax but also her emotion. Her head tilted back to look at him and when her eyes caught his, his were still cold.
And that coldness froze the heat right out of her, chilling her to her core.
“Fix your hair,” he ordered. “I’ll meet you at the door.”
On that, without a word or touch, he turned and left.
Abby stared after him until he disappeared.
Then she stared some more.
Then she realised throughout the time they’d been together he’d never treated her like a whore. Not once. Not with the robes, not with the bracelet, not with all of his orders to be somewhere or do something.
She knew this because with what he’d just done, he treated her like a whore.
On unsteady legs, she went to her dressing table, smoothed back her hair and re-clipped the barrette firmly. She fixed her lip gloss, grabbed her bag and walked to the light switch. She flipped it off then walked down the hall, down the stairs to the front door where she saw Cash, standing, waiting, wearing his overcoat, ready to go.
Averting her eyes, she reached out to grab her mother’s deep taupe, long, wool winter coat.
Before she could swing it around, in one of his usual gallant gestures (this one, for obvious reasons, bittersweet), Cash took it from her hands and held it out for her.
She turned her back to him and slid her arms through as thoughts began to invade, feelings began to press in and Abby could feel the tears pooling in her eyes.
She took deep breaths to control them.
This effort failed.
Lifting her hand, she pulled the hair out of her collar after Cash settled the coat on her shoulders. In an effort to hide her face, she kept her gaze to the floor as she walked to the door, turned the latch and opened it.
“Abby,” Cash’s voice called.
Only her torso twisted toward him, her eyes, tears still shimmering and unshed, lifted to his.
When her gaze met his, Abby could swear she saw his nearly imperceptible flinch but this didn’t penetrate the aching fog that shrouded her.
“I’m ready,” she said softly, turned and walked out into the bitter cold.
She didn’t feel the chill.
Chapter Thirteen
Penmort Castle
Cash was furious.
He’d been furious all day.
No, strike that, he’d been furious that morning.
In the afternoon, after James spoke to him, he’d been livid.
But those feelings had been directed at Abby.
Driving his car down the dark motorway toward Penmort Castle, Abby at his side, silent and staring at nothing out the passenger window, Cash was, at present, furious with himself.
That morning after she’d accused him of making her a whore when it was she who sold her body for two hundred thousand pounds; and after she’d told him she considered the dressing gowns he’d bought her a payment for services rendered, he’d felt a fury unlike anything he’d felt in his life.
Then he’d spoken to Abby in a way he’d never spoken to a woman in his life.
Indeed, it was not lost on Cash that, over the last week, Abigail Butler had made him feel, and do, many things he’d never felt, or done, in his life.
When he’d come home on Friday night to a light burning in the hall, Billie Holliday’s voice coming at him only to walk downstairs and see candles flickering, dim lights shining and Abby in a kitchen surrounded by cutting boards topped with chopped vegetables and something on a grill pan covered with foil, he’d felt something strange.
It was something he couldn’t remember ever feeling but perhaps he’d had it once when he was a child before his grandfather died.
It was contentment.
Even though she’d appeared anxious, coming home to her still made a strange ease settle over him.
And throughout the weekend, this ease grew.
It grew when he caught her eyes on him after her nap, her gaze soft and almost awed as if he was a god not a man. It grew simply because she was sleeping, exhausted by him, naked on his couch. It grew the next day when he’d done something he’d never done before, spent most of a day in bed with a woman. It grew as he discovered her body, was stirred by her touch, pleased that she seemed just as happy to do nothing but the same. And then she dozed while he held her and sometimes he’d slide his hands along her skin, familiarising himself with her even while she slept.
Lastly it grew the night before, when he came home and turned her into his arms and she’d muttered in sleepy relief that he was safe at home.
Cash knew it was him that she was happy was safe. It was him she looked at with awe. It was him on whose couch she slept naked. It was him whose body she put her mouth on, smiling against his skin when she made him groan.
It was him.
Not Ben.
And Cash began to feel more than content.
He felt at peace.
And he’d never, not once, felt peace in his life.
Knowing as a child does that something was not right with his mother, with his father’s family, Cash had not even felt it when his grandfather was alive.
Abby gave that to him. He felt it, he understood it and he meant to keep it.
But that morning, Abby had upset that peace.
And that afternoon, when James had come to deliver Abby’s message, she’d annihilated it.
James had seemed surprised, confused and even concerned at the message he had to deliver.
James had been at Cash’s side on the pavement when Cash made the unprecedented move to peer through a shop window and pause in his daily business to buy a diamond bracelet for a woman.
Cash had never done such a thing. Not for any woman.
James, for years a colleague and a friend, had attempted to ask tactful questions but Cash didn’t bite. James didn’t need the answers, Cash’s actions told the story.
And Cash couldn’t care less.
Abby was his. She’d given herself freely. Not just the first time, every time, all weekend, with her response to his touch, her reaction to the cashmere dressing gown, her gaze on him while he was reading.
Everything.
And as he told her, he took care of what was his.
And being Cash’s meant she’d wear cashmere and diamonds.
That was simply the way it was going to be.
But the message she relayed to James said quite plainly she wanted to end things.
And that idea, Cash found, he could not tolerate.
It was so intolerable it caused the slowly ebbing burn which had been reducing all day to re-ignite.
He’d even felt for a moment actual rage.
Therefore, by the time he stood at Abby’s door, he planned to teach her a lesson. He planned to make it perfectly clear the difference between being his and being his whore. Spurred by fury, he’d carried out his plan.