Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(15)
Author: Kristen Ashley

Across from the stairs and extending from the kitchen there was a modern, black-lacquered dining table that seated twelve that he sometimes wondered why he’d purchased because he’d never sat there.

There was a cloakroom under the stairs and the only interior door, off the dining area, led to a workout room with a rowing machine, elliptical machine, weights and weight bench that, outside of his bedroom, was the room he used most in the house.

The wall to the garden shared by the kitchen and seating area had been fitted almost entirely with floor-to-ceiling windows including a set of French doors.

Abby was lying on her stomach on his enormous, scarlet red couch.

She was, he was surprised to see, wearing a pair of bottom-hugging jeans, high-heeled shoes with what looked like a number of thin, sexy straps at the ankle and a taupe jumper woven in such a way that it was see-through and visible underneath was a creamy camisole.

Her back was to him and her hair was in a ponytail at the back of her head. She had her knees bent, ankles crossed, feet swaying in the air and she was flipping through the pages of a magazine.

She looked like the stereotypical American teenager and if he heard her snap some gum in her mouth, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

His hand went to the knot in his tie and pulled while he called, “Abby.”

He watched as her body jerked.

Then her head twisted around, ponytail flipping over her shoulder, and her eyes locked on him in stunned surprise.

She regarded him as if she was house sitting and expected him at that moment to be in a business meeting halfway around the world, not in his house as he told her he’d be.

“You’re home,” she announced unnecessarily.

“That and I’m starving,” he replied.

“You’re late,” she told him, not moving from her position.

“I called,” he informed her, yanking off his tie, walking deeper into the room and tossing it on the large grey chair that sat perpendicular to the couch.

“You called and said you’d be here at nine. It’s not nine. It’s after nine,” she returned.

Cash shrugged off his suit jacket, it joined his tie and he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt.

He was not in the mood for this.

He planned to have been there the last two and a quarter hours, eating the food she’d cooked for him and exploring the sexual boundaries of their arrangement.

He had not planned to be as tired as he was as hungry as he was and as late as he was. Further, he had not planned to come home to smell something nearly as enticing as her ass in those jeans, enter into a loud conversation with her so he could be heard over her music and have her behave like she was his actual girlfriend, something which, for many years, he avoided having.

This was one of the reasons he did not approach any of the women of his acquaintance to perform the duties he was paying Abby for as he had no desire to give them any ideas. And they’d get them, he was certain.

“Abby,” Cash stated wearily, “I’m shattered. I need a drink, food and bed in that order.”

She studied him calmly for a moment then put her hands in the couch and lifted in a push up, twisting her h*ps into a sitting position. She rose to her feet and went to the stereo, turning down the music to a decibel level that was almost, but not quite, normal.

“What do you drink?” she asked, her spiked heels sounding on the wood floors as she walked to the kitchen.

“Tonight, whisky,” he answered, watching her move through his house.

She went directly to the cabinet where his housekeeper stored the liquor and opened the door.

Obviously she’d become acquainted with his kitchen.

“Water?” she asked.

“No.”

“Ice?”

“No.”

“How many fingers?”

She was also obviously acquainted with whisky.

“Two,” he answered.

She took down the whisky and a squat glass and poured two fingers while he went to the stereo and turned the music down passed normal straight to old woman.

When he turned away from the stereo, she was in front of him with his glass.

“I think it might be illegal in a few countries to play Foreigner that low,” she declared in her soft voice.

“I doubt England is one of those countries,” Cash returned.

“I bet Scotland isn’t,” she replied and seeing her mischievous grin, suddenly, he wanted to kiss her.

Not touch his tongue briefly to hers but kiss her so hard, so long and so thoroughly he could smell her sex mingled with her perfume.

She didn’t read his mind instead, she went on to tease, “Though, considering your people brought us the Bay City Rollers, maybe not.”

It was deeply unfortunate, Cash thought, that she’d teased him.

That made him want to kiss her even more.

He didn’t because he knew if he did, at that moment, he might not be able to stop.

He took the whisky from her and lifted it to his lips, his eyes watching her over the rim of the glass. Even dressed casually with very little makeup, she was stunning.

Before taking a drink, he returned, “My people also brought you Nazareth.”

He watched her warm hazel eyes grow even warmer.

“Touché,” she replied softly.

Good Christ, he thought, taking in her warm eyes and soft tone and he found it took a supreme effort of will not to reach for her.

She seemed oblivious to his rampaging thoughts and turned, again heading toward the kitchen.

“I ate already,” she informed him as she moved and he followed.

This did not please him.

He didn’t respond. He leaned a hip against the counter and saw the kitchen was clean and tidy, only a glass half-filled with red wine sat on one of the counters.

Abby took down a plate.

“If I eat late, I don’t sleep. My body doesn’t like it,” she shared.

He knew she liked her sleep, she’d told him that morning when he’d woken her to hear her sweet, soft voice sounding husky, irate and adorable.

He watched her pull out cutlery and set it beside the plate she’d retrieved and while he did so he found that he didn’t like that he knew exactly eight pertinent facts about her. These being she sold her body for money, couldn’t sleep if she ate late, lived in her grandmother’s house, had a dead husband, liked loud music, red wine and sleep and, most importantly, she sounded unbelievably f**kable in the morning.

“I would have preferred you waited for me,” he told her honestly.

Her gaze shifted to him as she pulled on oven mitts.