No (she told herself), it was just a job. Only a job.
She wasn’t in Munich with a handsome, fascinating man who not only wanted to know more about her but also easily shared more of himself.
She was there to do her job.
That was it.
After they’d eat, drink and talk, they’d stroll through night-time Munich hand-in-hand and walk off the beer and the Prinzregententorte.
After that, they’d go to their suite and he’d lead her to the bed (or, Friday night, it was the shower, then the bed) where he again made love to her, hot, long, and lingeringly.
It was different for them in Germany. He worked less, spent more time with her and all else, she found (and struggled against) could be forgotten. Their time together was more relaxed without the outside world pressing down on them. It was like being on a vacation but with Cash’s work intruding however insignificantly.
Which made it much, much harder for Abby to remember she was playing a role rather than living a dream.
So by the time they made it home late Saturday evening, she was contradictorily both refreshed and exhausted.
Cash had declared they were spending the night at her house because it was closer to the airport. Abby had attempted, all the way home, in a polite way, to prevent this.
As she followed him up the steps to her door, she knew she’d failed in this endeavour.
She had the keys ready and was beginning to reach around him when his hand came up and he took them from her.
In one of the myriad ways Cash was different than Ben, Abby noted that Cash had made a habit of doing things for her.
Ben would open her car door or he’d make her a drink sometimes when she didn’t even ask, or do other little things here and there that were mostly random but always thoughtful and definitely sweet.
Cash took this behaviour to extremes. He opened car doors, restaurant doors, hotel doors, every door. He made a point of positioning himself closest to the street when they walked along sidewalks something she remembered from years ago when her grandfather was still alive, that he told her was the hallmark of a true gentleman. He asked her preference for food and drink before the waiter arrived then ordered for her. Even though she held a hotel key card to their room, when she was with Cash, she never used it. She never once touched her suitcase. He, or a bellman, carried it everywhere.
Indeed, the only things he’d allow her to do was make him coffee, pour him a whisky or cook his food.
Abby was beginning to find this grating.
She might, if circumstances had been different, have found his gallantry attractive. She would, however, probably have explained the extent of it was unnecessary.
She might, again if things were different between them, find getting him a coffee, a whisky or dinner, something she enjoyed doing.
Instead, she found this a reminder that she was his. It reminded her that not only did she work for him, he owned her and, as he’d told her more than once, he took care of what was his.
She wasn’t his cherished partner, she was his valued possession.
He clearly took care of his possessions, his home, his car, his jet.
She was just one of many of his expensive belongings and this behaviour reminded her of that.
“Cash, you had the bags, I could open the door,” Abby stated and even though an escort would have kept her mouth shut, Abby was tired so she didn’t.
His eyes moved to her. “Yes,” he replied quietly, “but you aren’t going inside.”
Abby blinked at him in confusion, saw his eyes move to the bay window of her living room and his chin lifted. Abby’s eyes followed and she saw, just dimly, what looked like flickering candlelight shining through her curtains.
Her body froze.
No one should be there and certainly no candles should be lit.
Jenny knew they weren’t returning until late and she hadn’t a clue they’d be coming to Abby’s. Even if she’d wanted to leave them a warm welcome just in case, she wouldn’t have left a candle burning.
“Oh my God,” Abby breathed, “someone’s in there.”
“Stay at the door,” Cash ordered. “I don’t want you coming in until I tell you it’s safe. Understood?”
Panic welling in her, Abby grabbed his forearm as he lifted the key toward the latch.
“Cash! You can’t go in there!” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s there.”
“Darling, you might have intruders in your house. What do you suggest I do?” he calmly returned and Abby let him go and threw up her hands.
“I don’t know. Call the police?” she tried.
He dismissed her suggestion by lifting his hand to the lock while he said, “Stay here.”
“Cash!” Abby protested but under her breath so the bad guys wouldn’t hear.
Cash inserted the key into the lock but he looked over his shoulder and down at her, his eyes serious, his face hard. “Stay. Fucking. Here.”
All right then.
He was using the f-word.
Abby decided it was time to back down.
However, she also decided not to give in gracefully.
So she crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a glare.
He completely ignored her, opened the door and silently entered her house.
Abby waited.
Then she waited some more.
Then she heard several female shrieks ending with Mrs. Truman shouting, “Dear Lord, what are you doing here?”
Abby grabbed the bags Cash left outside, rushed in, dropped them in the entry, closed the door, pulled off her coat and threw it on the coat stand all the while hearing Cash and Mrs. Truman’s loud conversation.
“What the fuck?” (Cash)
“Language!” (Mrs. Truman)
“Would you care to explain why you’re in Abby’s house in the dead of night and what in fucking hell you’re doing?” (Cash)
“You’re early!” (Mrs. Truman)
“It’s fucking midnight!” (Cash)
By this time Abby made it to her living room only to see it wasn’t one candle lit, but at least two dozen of them.
And it wasn’t Mrs. Truman alone who was enjoying a dead-of-night, candlelit, clandestine moment in Abby’s living room but Jenny was there, to her confusion, for some reason Fenella was there too, as was some woman Abby had never seen.
The woman was dark-haired, dark-eyed, curvaceous and either around five years older than Abby or she was ten and hid it well. She was wearing stylish, hip-hugging, faded, boot-cut jeans over high-heeled boots with a cool, heavy-buckled belt Abby would kill for, all this topped with a snug-fitting turtleneck.
Oddly, she was also wearing a silk scarf wrapped around her head, the faded, fringed ends tangled in her long hair and a webby shawl was thrown over her shoulders.
It wasn’t a look Abby would be able to pull off (or, in all honesty, would want to) but the lady did so, brilliantly. She looked like a Rock ‘n’ Roll Gypsy.
Abby had a sinking feeling she knew what this was about.
But what was Fenella doing there?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Cash asked, as if in Abby’s brain, his angry gaze had swung to Fenella then it moved to The Gypsy Queen. “And who the fuck are you?”
Abby put her hand up, wrapped her fingers around Cash’s bicep, leaned into his side and in the hopes of calming him, said softly, “Cash.”
“Really,” Mrs. Truman scolded, foiling Abby’s calming attempt, “your language is unacceptable, Cash Fraser.”
Cash’s furious eyes sliced to Mrs. Truman and Abby was treated to proof positive that the older woman had nerves of steel when she didn’t even flinch.