Kristen Ashley: Penmort Castle

Abby could never, ever sell this house.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, feeling the tears pricking her eyes.

“No,” Jenny whispered back, “I don’t.” She paused and then sighed before speaking again. “But if this is what you’ve got to do, girlfriend, then this is what you’ve got to do.”

Abby swallowed back her tears and nodded her gratitude.

“I’m just not going to tell Kieran,” Jenny finished.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Abby agreed.

Jenny’s reaction had been dramatic enough.

Kieran would probably shout the roof down and Abby had just had it re-tiled.

An hour later, with both Pete and Jenny gone, Abby sat at her grandmother’s writing desk in the living room and stared at the transaction that beamed grand and glorious from her bank statement which was displayed on the computer screen.

Abby felt relief sweep through her.

All right, so she was a very highly paid prostitute.

But at least now she could pay off that unbelievably expensive outfit she wore today that maxed out credit card number two.

Her mobile on the desk sounded.

Abby picked it up and looked at the display, fear that word of her new job as whore had leaked out to Kieran and he was going to give her what for replaced the short-lived relief she’d felt the moment before.

The display said “Unknown Caller” and since Kieran was very known, Abby slid open her phone and put it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Abby.”

Oh dear Lord, it was Cash. She knew it immediately. She’d never forget his deep, rough voice with the more-than-subtle hint of Scottish burr.

What did she say? What did she do?

“Yes,” she replied.

“James explained your terms,” he told her, his voice just as deep, just as rough and just as sexy over the phone as it was when he leaned close and calmly asked how much it would cost to fuck her.

She’d never forget that either. She’d wanted to hit him when he’d done it.

She also had the very weird desire to kiss him.

She hadn’t had the desire to kiss anyone since Ben. It had been four years, four very long years.

Then again she’d never been your normal girl next door.

Abigail Butler had always been a little weird, a little headstrong, a little crazy and, more often than she cared to admit (like today), a lot stupid.

But there was also the fact that Cash Fraser was an unbelievably handsome, shockingly sexy man.

Abby’s eyes went to the computer screen. “I see he did.”

“You have the money?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Tomorrow night. Dinner. It won’t be casual dress.”

What did he mean, “It won’t be casual dress”? Did that mean formal? Did that mean evening gown? Or did that mean a nice pair of slacks?

Hell, she couldn’t ask . He thought she was an experienced escort. That was what Kieran said when he’d talked to James and she’d even lied to Cash herself that day that she had other clients. Any experienced escort to the rich and famous would know what to wear to dinner.

“Fine. What time?” she asked, sounding even to her own ears like she knew what she was doing. It appeared she was actually good at this stuff and she didn’t know if she should take that as a positive or negative sign.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Cash told her.

“No,” Abby replied immediately, luckily sounding brisk rather than panicked, “I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“You aren’t going to meet me at the restaurant,” he returned in a very firm voice.

The panic deepened but Abby fought it. “I’m sorry Cash. Part of the deal is you don’t get to know where I live.”

“You live at Number Twenty-two Eton Road.”

Oh dear Lord, how did he know that?

If James told him then James wasn’t being a very good business manager. He was only supposed to give him her phone number.

Now what did she do?

Time to put her foot down. “You aren’t coming here. I’ll meet you at your house.”

“I’ll be at your place at seven,” he repeated.

The panic was now full-blown.

How would she cope with Cash Fraser and his charismatic presence forcing his way into her home? She didn’t need memories of him here, he’d ruin everything.

She forced her voice to go cold. “You’ll not come to my house.”

“Seven,” was his reply, then he disconnected.

She slid her phone shut and whispered, “Bloody hell.”

Abby was already in the vestibule when the ancient bell in the door clanked discordantly as Cash Fraser turned it.

Not wanting to be taken unaware, nor give him any reason to enter her home, she’d been ready for half an hour.

She’d watched for his arrival at the window while alternately pacing the living room, all that time wondering if he could track her down if she took his money and escaped to the wilds of the Brazilian rainforest (and, as he was an industrial spy ring breaker, she figured he could).

On that dismal thought she’d seen his car pull in the drive. She watched his tall, powerful body knife out of the car as if he was being born anew from its sleek depths before she dropped the curtains she was peeking through. She took a long calming breath (which failed to calm her, incidentally) and she ran to the entry, the echo of her heels clattering against the large black and white diamond-tiled floor rang through the cavernous hall as she moved.

Her cat, aptly named Beelzebub (because the fluffy, black furball was a little devil), chased her, weaving around her high-heeled feet, nearly tripping her (part of the reason he was a little devil for he did this often and sometimes succeeded in his efforts).

She was wearing her grandmother’s clothes.

With only a day to prepare and her life in its usual, if quite a bit more dramatic turmoil, she hadn’t had time to shop for anything new.

However, for her first date as paid escort to Handsome Cash Fraser, she knew she needed something special, something she and Jenny would refer to as Clothing Courage.

And as ever, Gram, even dead for over a year, did not disappoint when her granddaughter was in need.

That day the plumber and electrician became a plumber, electrician and contractor because once the bathroom suite and tile were ripped out, the rotting floorboards had to be replaced and there was the small fact that two walls of plaster fell down. Therefore that day had been spent not at the mall but in the tile shop where she bought what seemed like, and cost as much as, acres of expensive replacement tile.

She’d also sent out cheques paying off her credit cards, she settled her debt with Pete and significantly drew down both of her loans. Lastly, she’d gone to the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army.

This final errand for some reason gave her a glorious sense of freedom.

She hadn’t been able to afford to go nuts at a grocery store or any store or in any way shape or form in so long, she forgot how it felt not to have to watch every single penny.

Knowing her day would be full, the night before Abby had gone rooting through her grandmother’s things to find something “not casual”.

Abby’s grandmother kept everything. There were four bedrooms in the house and when Gram died and Abby moved in, the wardrobes in all four, as well as boxes stuffed full in the loft, were filled with clothes from the many decades of her grandmother’s, and her mother’s (and her great grandmother’s), lives.

It was a veritable clothing museum and definitely any clotheshorse, girlie-girl’s dream.

Tonight Abby was wearing a dress she’d carefully unpacked, hand washed and allowed to drip dry overnight then that day she’d steam pressed it.