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 f**k?” (Cash)
“Language!” (Mrs. Truman)
“Would you care to explain why you’re in Abby’s house in the dead of night and what in f**king hell you’re doing?” (Cash)
“You’re early!” (Mrs. Truman)
“It’s f**king 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 f**k 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 f**k 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.
“Yes. You are correct,” Cash was enunciating his words with scary clarity. “Normally, it would be unacceptable. But you appear to have helped yourself to my girlfriend’s house to do…” he hesitated, cast an irate glance around the living room and continued, “whatever-the-fuck you’re doing and by the looks of it, it isn’t f**king good.”
Abby looked around and realised he wasn’t wrong.
Not only were there candles burning, there were heavy scarves thrown over the shades of her lamps, muting their brightness so much Abby didn’t notice until then they were switched on. More scarves of velvet and silk festooned the table in front of the couch, on which there was a variety of paraphernalia, including burning incense, more candles (dripping onto the cloth, by the way), bowls filled with dark liquid, a huge, clear, round ball on a poofy, tasselled, velvet pillow and what looked, distressingly, like the bones of a small animal (or an infant and, even though neither choice was good, Abby was hoping for the former).
“You weren’t supposed to be home until later,” Mrs. Truman stuck with her earlier theme.
Cash rocked back on his heels and sucked breath in through his nose in an obvious attempt at patience.
Jenny looked at her watch and hesitantly entered the fray.
“Um, Mrs. Truman, I think it is later,” she said.
Mrs. Truman looked at her own watch then up to Jenny and remarked sedately, “Oh, so it is.”
“Time flies when the spirits aren’t talking,” the Gypsy Queen put in.
Cash spoke again and this time he had his anger in check but you could tell, just barely.
“Let’s start this again,” he suggested. “What are you doing here?”
“Séance,” Mrs. Truman instantly replied as if this was an entirely natural thing to be doing in someone else’s living room or at all.
Cash’s eyes narrowed and Jenny and Fenella both took steps back. The Gypsy Queen crossed her arms on her chest, a small smile playing at her mouth and Mrs. Truman went into stare down mode with Cash.
“You’re having a séance,” Cash repeated in a way that said he not only couldn’t believe his ears, he didn’t want to.
“Yes,” Mrs. Truman replied calmly.
“In Abby’s living room,” Cash went on.
Mrs. Truman glanced at Jenny then back at Cash and explained, “It would upset my dogs if we did it at my house.”
“Kieran would totally freak if we did it at ours,” Jenny threw in.
Cash’s eyes cut to her and he gave her a look that said without words, “no f**king kidding?” therefore Jenny took another step back.
Bravely, Fenella spoke up, “And you know Alistair would have a fit if we tried something like this at the castle.”
Cash pinned Fenella with a look. “Would you like to explain why you’re here?”
Fenella’s glance darted around the room then she took in a deep breath and tried but failed to perform a nonchalant shrug. “Well, see, I was in Clevedon the other day, um…” she glanced at Jenny and then said, “shopping. And I thought I’d pop by and say hi to Abby. She wasn’t here because, you know, she was with you.”
When she stopped speaking, Cash prompted, “Yes. I know. Continue.”
Fenella’s mouth moved around like it had forgotten how to form words before she plucked up the courage to go on. “I was knocking on the door and waiting and Mrs. Truman came out and asked who I was. Then we got to chatting then she invited me to tea then she told me about the séance and invited me to come. I’d never been to one and well,” she hesitated before throwing her hands out at the sides and finishing in a voice that was several octaves higher than normal, “I’m here.”
Cash stared at Fenella and it was clear even to someone who hadn’t spent nearly every single day of two weeks with him that he didn’t believe a word she said or at least not the important ones.
Surprisingly, he let it go and turned to The Gypsy Queen. “And you are?”