Read Online Penmort Castle by Kristen Ashley - Free Book Online Page A

steel,
state-of-the-art kitchen that several women he’d brought to his
home had been in gales of ecstasy about but Cash, himself, rarely
used.
    At the foot of
the stairs separated from the kitchen area by a wide counter with
tall stools was a comfortable seating area he never used.
    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 hips 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?”