Penmort Castle

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Cash Fraser sat in the back corner of the pub. A small cranberry red bottle of sparkling water was on the table in front of him, a glass of ice beside it.

He hadn’t yet bothered to pour.

He was considering leaving.

His being there he knew was a ridiculous idea. How he’d let James talk him into it, he couldn’t fathom.

But he had.

And now he was there.

And she was late.

Cash didn’t have a great deal of patience for anything including, and perhaps especially, waiting.

He’d made the decision to leave when the door opened but he hesitated at what he saw. He knew it was her the minute his eyes hit her. He knew this because James had exquisite taste.

And she was definitely exquisite.

She was wearing winter white. A loosely-knitted, woollen, white beret was pulled down low over her head covering her ears. She was wrapped in a white, well-tailored, wool overcoat that was nipped in at the waist. You could see the winter white turtleneck hugging her throat through the soft, white pashmina tucked stylishly in the lapel of her coat. She was wearing a chic pair of very high, dangerously thin spike-heeled, snakeskin boots and on her hands were grey leather gloves. The strap of a slim, sleek, expensive bag in matching snakeskin was on her shoulder, the bag tucked under her arm.

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