Not even that he liked his stepdaughters and wanted them to make an excellent match. He didn’t hate them. They could be tolerable some of the time. However most of the time they were wholly annoying and he had no problems telling them so and explaining exactly and in some detail how they were.
No, he needed Fraser’s money.
And that reminder put Alistair in an even worse mood.
* * * * *
The ghost of Vivianna Wainwright floated two inches from the high ceiling directly over the cluttered table, not, for now, allowing her presence to be seen or felt.
She looked down at the picture in the paper and her spectral eyes moved lovingly over the tall, dark man.
They grew hard as they shifted over the cool, blonde woman.
Vivianna’s mood was not bad.
It was murderous.
Chapter Four
The Phone Call and the Picture
Abby heard the phone on her bedside table ring, ripping her from a deep, fitful sleep and Zee made a mew of disapproval as he stretched his four legs out, arching his back into Abby’s belly.
She peered at the clock and saw it was just after eight in the morning.
Cash had her home before ten with no necking, likely much to the disappointment of Mrs. Truman who Abby saw peering through her draperies at them when they arrived. Though he walked her to the door, he didn’t attempt to come in, didn’t attempt to give her a goodnight kiss but also didn’t leave until she’d made her way safely inside, closed the door and had turned on the light in her bedroom.
Still, even though she was in bed early, she didn’t get to sleep until the wee hours.
This was because she spent hours tossing and turning with the realisation that she’d, again, done something thoroughly and completely stupid.
Although there were other stupid things she’d done in the last thirty hours (many, many of them), her Latest Stupid Abby Act Obsession currently centred around that kiss.
When she’d kissed him the day before at the pub it had been to make a point and it was under her control.
However, wiping her lip gloss from his mouth had been habitual. It was something she’d done for Ben countless times. She was, of course, a girl who liked her lip gloss.
She didn’t know why she did it to Cash. She just had and she’d kicked herself for it before burying the memory deep in the recesses of her mind.
But she couldn’t bury that kiss. It was right at the surface.
The smell of Cash, the feel of his body against hers, his hard mouth and, finally, the sweet touch of his tongue.
He tasted of brandy which he’d drunk after dinner. Brandy and the rich chocolate torte with clotted cream he’d had for dessert.
Good God, but he tasted good.
She’d felt the touch of his tongue from her mouth, through her body, to the tips of her curled toes.
She’d never felt anything that luscious or that strong.
Not even with Ben and Ben had been a fabulous kisser.
And that meant her exasperation with herself was mingled with the guilt she felt at betraying her dead husband.
She shoved these thoughts aside. These weren’t waking-up thoughts. These were beating-yourself-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night thoughts and she reached to the phone and pulled it out of its receiver.
She was not big on mornings, though she was usually up well before now. Exacerbating her usual morning mood was the weight of her current predicament.
Therefore, when she said, “Hello?” into the receiver, her fresh-from-sleep voice sounded peeved.
“Abby.”
It was Cash.
What was with this guy?
Could he not leave her alone for even a moment?
“Cash,” she said, her voice sounding breathy.
There was heavy silence before he said softly, his burr trilling deliciously in her ear sending an uncontrollable shiver down her spine, “I’ve woken you.”
She tried (and failed) to ignore the shiver and then tried to decide what to say.
She couldn’t tell him she had trouble sleeping that would expose too much.
She also couldn’t lie and say she hadn’t been asleep, her voice made it obvious.
“I like my sleep,” she said instead, something which was not a lie.
There was more silence and this was heavier.
When he didn’t break it, she called, “Cash? Is there something you want?”
“Yes,” came his immediate reply.
She got up on an elbow and Zee looked up at her, blinking (Zee, being feline, liked his sleep too).
When Cash didn’t expand on his answer, Abby was forced to ask, “Well? What is it?”
There was a hesitation, then, “Do you cook?”
She blinked at Zee and repeated stupidly, “Cook?”
“Yes. Pots. Pans. Spoons. Ovens. Cook,” he spoke in one word sentences, sounding like he was trying not to laugh.
Abby felt her blood pressure rising.
This was not because he seemed to be amused at her expense.
This was because him seeming amused made her feel funny and not in a bad way. It was a good way. It was a way that put her vow to be faithful to her dead husband in heart, mind and soul (if not in deed, obviously) until the she day she died in peril.
With effort she controlled it. She knew she let on way too much last night. Somehow she had to keep her distance without being unfriendly.
How she was going to manage that, though, she had no earthly clue.
“I know what cooking is,” Abby answered. “What I’d like to know is, why are you calling me at eight o’clock in the morning and asking me if I know how to do it?”
“Because, if you do, you’re cooking for me tonight at my place,” he replied.
Abby’s heart lurched at the very idea of cooking a meal for him at his home. The lurch was both fear and excitement, something else with effort she controlled.
“I fail to see how that’s going to get our picture in the paper,” she returned.
“What will be seen, and perhaps photographed, is you coming in my front door,” Cash explained, though she could tell he was no longer amused but attempting to be patient.
She had to admit he was right and Abby pushed up to rest her back against the headboard as Zee got to his feet and stretched.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we went out?” she queried.
“Abby, if we always go out, they’re going to think we’re dating. If you’re at my place, they’re going to think we’re together. The object of this is to make them think they missed the first part and that we’re well into the second part,” he informed her and again, annoyingly, he was right. He went on, “Now, do you cook?”