Instead he went on, “You could get the same things you want without doing what you do to get them.”
Her body grew tight and her voice was cold when she asked, “And what, after knowing me all of perhaps thirty minutes, do you think I want?”
“You live in a three-quarters of a million pound house in an exclusive town, you wear five hundred pound shoes and you knew the value of my car just glancing at it,” he informed her and she had to admit she was shocked he knew these things. Though he didn’t know the state of her house, which likely would decrease its value, though its location would guarantee a very good asking price, still she was taken aback that he knew how expensive her shoes were, what man knew something like that?.
She kept silent and he continued. “And you know your value.”
“What does that mean?” she snapped, not knowing his inference but knowing she didn’t like it whatever it was.
“It means that you know a man would pay a great deal to possess you.”
She hadn’t known any such thing until he’d proved it yesterday.
Still, she replied swiftly, “That’s the point.”
His answer was soft. “Fucking hell,” he muttered and he sounded annoyed. “Abby, you’re a clever woman. You know you can sell yourself without having to sell yourself.”
“What I do with myself is no business of yours, Mr. Fraser,” she replied, her voice ice cold, the effect, even on her, was chilling.
They sat in the car staring at each other, Abby trying not to shiver. As each moment passed the air started to grow heavier and heavier.
Abby didn’t entirely understand it but she had the vague feeling he was angry and she couldn’t imagine why.
When she could stand no more, hiding the fear she had at what he might answer, she offered, “Would you like to back out of our arrangement?”
“Fuck no,” was his immediate if somewhat curt response and Abby felt herself relax.
Without delay, the edgy conversation obviously over, he turned and exited the car.
As he rounded the back to come to her door, she felt her relaxation disintegrate and got tense because she had the nagging suspicion that she’d hoped that would be his answer but not simply because she needed the money.
Which would indicate that she was failing, somewhat spectacularly, at keeping her head on straight.
And at this realisation, she thought, Oh, bloody hell.
* * * * *
“Our coats,” Cash commanded the waiter after he paid the bill.
“Of course, sir,” the waiter replied.
Cash’s eyes moved back to Abby who was sitting across from him, her elbow on the table, her head in her hand, her fingers had sifted into her thick hair at the side and her gaze was turned to the boats bobbing at their ropes on the river.
She, he thought, looked pensive.
He, Cash knew, was angry.
There were a variety of reasons for his anger.
First and foremost, he was angry because he’d agreed not to have her until three weeks later when they went to Penmort.
He couldn’t imagine, considering the price he was paying for her, what made him agree to that ludicrous caveat.
He wanted her tonight.
He was also angry because she was what she was.
When a woman looked like her, talked like her, smelled like her, dressed like her, had warm hazel eyes that contradicted her cool composure and hinted at something deeper and more intriguing and had wildly varying, easily readable, if puzzling reactions, that woman should not be a whore.
He was also angry because it was clear she intended to keep herself distant, which was likely a necessary professional detachment, when he wanted to know her story.
That wasn’t exactly true, he knew her story.
She’d given it away in the car with her reaction to what he thought at the time was a fabrication.
Abigail Butler, body for sale, had a dead husband named Benjamin who used to be a lobbyist. She used to work for the US Air Force. Now she lived in her grandmother’s home and sold herself to men who could afford to pay top price.
What Cash meant was he was angry that she kept herself distant when, for some baffling reason, he wanted her to share. He wanted her to admit her story and explain why a successful woman would turn to prostitution on the death of her husband.
This was not in his experience a normal reaction to grief.
He wanted to know why she would do such a remarkably stupid thing. He wanted to know why, when it was clear she could attract another man and live a very comfortable life, undoubtedly earning her keep on her back but at least not debasing herself in doing it.
Lastly, he was angry at himself for giving a f**k.
Abigail Butler had a purpose in his life for one month only.
She was going to cushion him from his uncle’s idiotic intentions while Cash extricated himself from that messy situation at the same time rubbing his uncle’s nose in his many failures and securing what was rightfully his.
And she was going to satisfy him in bed as many times as he could manage in the one week she was available to him.
And then she’d be gone.
Dinner, it went without saying, had not been enjoyable.
Not that the food wasn’t delicious, because it was.
Not that her company wasn’t enjoyable, because it was, both innately (she continued to be a bundle of contradictions, cold and unapproachable, mixed with warm and amusing), as well as conversationally (she was clearly well-read and well-travelled with a capacity to listen, actively, and share, if only superficially).
Not that she wasn’t earning her pay because no one in that restaurant, witnessing her behaviour (her soft, enticing smiles; the times she’d touch his hand while speaking; when she’d lean toward him with avid attention as if his terse, impatient responses to her soft conversation were utterly fascinating), would think she was anything less than a woman clearly smitten with her dinner partner.
He’d paid six thousand, six hundred and sixty six pounds for that night with her not including the exorbitant bill for dinner and she’d earned every penny.
The waiter came with their coats and Cash stood, relieving the waiter of his burden and throwing his overcoat on his chair. He shook out Abby’s cape and moved around her so she could remain where she was. Once behind her, he positioned the heavy garment on her shoulders as she moved slightly back into his body, getting closer to him. This was not to make his task easier but a show to those watching, including the three photographers he earlier saw positioning themselves outside, that this was an act of intimacy between a man and his lover, not one of chivalry.