The Value of Vulnerability (18 page)

Her laugh, branded with her infectiousness, attracted the interest of other diners. “Having sex on the third date is not a given, Ford. I know almost nothing of you. Well, other than you allegedly eat out a lot. And allegedly, were first kissed when you were twelve and lost your virginity at fifteen.”

Allegedly?

“Let’s see how the fourth date goes,” she said. Then she was extracting herself, gathering her things, rising.

He stood also, assisting her with her coat, still uncertain how he had misplayed her.

As he wrapped the woolen hound’s-tooth scarf about her throat, he tugged her closer, his other hand sliding into her coat to rest on her hip. “Erin. Did I not tell you that you did not bore me? That is the evidence. That I would rather hear about you than talk of myself.”

“You are sweet to say so,” she assured.

If she is still thinking you ‘sweet,’ she is well suited to your plans.

“You don’t have to tell me what you think I want to hear. I’m not looking for flawless,” she said, eyes wide and earnest. Her slim hand ran over his bicep as if in comfort. “Everybody’s flawed. You mustn’t be afraid to open up. Not with me.”

She thought he was afraid! Of her! Ah, perfect.

Less perfect was her ability to poke peepholes through his impenetrable veneer.

Hidden from interested eyes by her coat, he slid his thumb down the fly of her jeans, stroking and probing over the swell of her mound, her heat beckoning. “I will remember that.”

“Ford!” she hissed, the hand on his arm gripping fiercely. Planting a quick peck on his cheek, she stepped back, out of his reach. “Thanks for lunch. Call me. About the Spielmann party.”

With a little excited shiver and a grin, she backed up another step. Spun away, moved fluidly though the restaurant, and was gone.

Ford sat again, picking up his coffee cup, unaware that his public face had taken on a smile tinged with intrigue.

Erin went to the Hanukkah party without Ford, as he didn’t call as she hoped.

Even still, it
was a huge success. She laughingly rebuffed the Spielmann brothers’ advances, drank some very excellent wine, ate more latkes and brisket than she should have, and sat around until the wee hours, talking and sharing stories. Exhausted, but emotionally and physically replete by the time a taxi dropped her at home, she crawled into her bed and was instantly asleep.

The BlackBerry on her bedside table rang too soon, and she answered it
dopily. “’Lo?”

“Good morning.”

She rolled onto her back, sweeping her hair out of her eyes. “Morning, Ford. What time is it?”

“Six-thirty or so. Have breakfast with me
.”

She groaned, her eyes closing
again. “It is not nice to call someone so early on a Sunday, especially when you know she was out the night before. And I can’t even think of food right now,” she groaned again, rubbing a hand over her belly.

A long pause. Finally:
“Is that a ‘no’?”

Her mouth quirked at the subdued note of astonishment colour
ing his dry tone. “It’s a ‘No, thank you.’ Not this morning.” It was on the edge of her tongue to suggest lunch instead, but it occurred to her that he was neither used to issuing invitations, nor having them declined. She would leave the ball in his court.

“Dinner, then.”

“Stop making everything sound like a command.”

An annoyed sigh. Then, “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Marginally better,” she said gravely, then laughed. “Yes, I’d love that.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Go back to sleep.” He h
ung up.

She glared at the darkened phone. “Seriously,” she said in disbelief, and laughed helplessly.
Despite her insistence that she wanted the real person beneath the façade, she almost missed his semi-charming but fake shtick.

Setting the phone aside, she snuggled into the soft bed.
But sleep eluded her.

The other night, while eating pizza and drinking wine, it had seemed so easy to debate pros and cons, admit to attraction, wonder about the practical matters of a casual fling.

How stupid.

At the sound of his voice,
levelheadedness died. As in, was skewered through. All she could think about was his gorgeous self, the weight of his hands on her, the taste of his mouth. That slightly raspy tongue.

And yet,
his complete lack of niceties—
Hello. Looking forward to our date. Goodbye
—engendered the exact opposite of those good feelings. She was turned off and on at the same time.

She was a fool to get mixed up with him.

“Don’t break my heart, Ford,” she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.

But her heart was her own responsibility, and she was unsure how to protect it, never having tried. With those close to her, she was emotionally open, and had no experience—or desire to gain any—in keeping distant.

Um, did we forget the last months of ditching friends and family?

Littl
e bit. But that was an anomaly and she hadn’t been keeping emotional distance as much as physical. Emotional economy, yes—but not a fire sale on it!

Seeing as Ford was offering a crazy fling, not an affair of the heart, emotional economy (with chance of fire sale) might prove useful—if she were so determined to proceed on his terms. That
ran against everything she was, so she might as well undergo a complete re-jigging of what she deemed suitable behaviour for herself.

She rolled over and drifted into uneasy sleep.

***

“Mr. Howard was delayed.”

Erin nodded to the umbrella-bearing driver who escorted her through the drizzle, and climbed into the limo alone. Even though the temperature was above freezing, her dress coat was light on this damp night, but it looked better than her melton cloth, and vanity was going to win every time. Beneath it, she wore her best dress—amber silk, short and sleeveless—and hoped it would suffice for wherever they were going. She should have asked.

B
eneath the dress was new lingerie, purchased just for this moment in the hope it would be to Ford’s liking. Oh, yeah. She planned on him seeing it.

Her palms started to sweat, and she removed her gloves.

Dinner was to be at Ford’s home, the driver informed her as he closed the door.

“Nothing like cutting to the chase,” she muttered amusedly, though she wondered if Ford did not want to be seen with her in public. Her cheeks flushed at this
half-angry thought, but she shoved the notion down. God knew a few weeks off the gossip page might do him some good. How would it feel to have one’s personal life under constant scrutiny? In any event, if she wanted the affair with the powerful high-society man, she’d have to take him on his terms.

For now
, her little voice whispered.

Not in the least surprised that he made his home in The Bridle Path
—a neighbourhood known for its multimillion-dollar estates—she was startled to find that he lived in a palatial luxury condominium building rather than a mansion.

At least there’s no backyard for him to bury me in.

Garnering her name, the concierge escorted her to yet another private elevator. A pass card determined the floor at which the elevator would stop and, setting it, the concierge withdrew. She went on alone, nervous and tense.

A valet
—or was he a butler? She had no idea—met her as she came off the elevator, and she greeted him evenly, glad her voice did not crack as she expected it to under nervous pressure.

Introducing himself as “Barton,” he took her coat and opened the anteroom doors, leading her through a gorgeous foyer of limestone and hardwood where an impressive sculpture dominated
. (It looked like something out of
Beetlejuice
. She loved it immediately.)

“Louis Archambault, Miss Russell,” Barton informed her when she asked about the sculptor.

Never heard of him. Good stuff though.

Out of the foyer and into a lounge,
she followed, where a real wood fire burned in a large black marble fireplace. Her wowed eyes could not take in everything at once. The sheer lavishness was beyond description, and yet there was an uncluttered, airy quality about the place. It was not overdone.

“Mr. Howard will be with you momentarily,” Barton told her. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

What was she supposed to request? Right now, she would like a shot of Jack Daniel’s—several shots.

Sensing her reticence, Barton offered, “I have champagne chilled if you like, Miss Russell.”

“Oh, thank you. That sounds lovely.” And decadent. And celebratory. She felt all of those things, even the lovely part. Besides, alcohol wouldn’t hurt the nerves, would it?

He gave a quick bow of assent. The sparkling wine poured into a crystal flute, he left her alone, indicating the service bell to summon him should she require.

She wandered about, hoping the meandering style would disguise the fact she was pacing.

She studied a painting of a woman. Bold colours. Erotic. The signature: Gvstav Klimt.
Gustav
, she supposed that was.
Sounded familiar. An original? Probably.

Generally speaking, she enjoyed art without troubling herself too much about it. Couldn’t tell a . . . a . . . Hells, she couldn’t even think of two
other artists for comparison! A Rembrandt from a Picasso! There. Got two.

She really liked the Klimt in any case.

Trailing a hand over a glossy table, she frowned at the faint trails that marked the polished wood after. Perhaps it would be best if she didn’t touch anything. She wished her dress had sleeves so she could wipe away her fingerprints. Biting her lip, she improvised, rubbing the evidence away with the short hem of her dress.

Okay, that’s better.
Now, step away from the shiny table!

And promptly bumped a floor lamp, only narrowly catching it before it toppled.

Moving into the centre of the lounge, she stood stock-still.

Perhaps she should sit. It was a lounge
. She should lounge—and had a mental image of herself reclining, sexily and relax-i-ly, champagne in hand and the epitome of not-even-a-bit-nervous.

But the pale fabric on the sofa and matching chairs looked far too delicate—maybe it was a lounge for show, and that rich people never actually sat. Besides, she was terrified of spilling her champagne on something priceless.

She would just move there, near the wall. Maybe lean a little, casually, as if she were not intimidated in the least, as if butterflies were not swooping relentlessly through her belly.

Settled as planned, she waited.

Barton appeared. “Yes, Miss Russell?”

“Yes?” she returned, confused.

“You rang for me.”

“No, I—” She was ready to protest when she realised she had leant on the service bell. “I’m sorry,” she began, blushing furiously. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Quite all right. Is everything fine, then?”

Not really.

“Quite,” she agreed dryly, and somehow, from somewhere, her humour reasserted itself. She laughed. “Everything’s fine,” she assured again. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

Barton nodded formally as he left her again.

“What are you doing to
my staff?” Ford’s voice cut over her irresistible chuckling.

She turned to face him, relief and pleasure spilling
through her. Ford’s eyes widened slightly.

“Terrorizing them with fingerprints and bell ringing. Hi,” she breathed as he crossed to her, and she slid an arm around his neck, her mouth fastening to his.

He held her against his body, awakening every nerve ending as he responded easily—as if he couldn’t help it—to her kiss.

“Is everything
all right?” he asked huskily at last, noting her lingering blush.

She nodded. “Now it is.”

“I’m sorry that dinner is here tonight,” he said. “I planned to take you out, but a long-winded conference call ruined the schedule.”

“Anywhere is fine.” And suddenly, that was true.

He held her at arm’s length. “You look spectacular.”

“Thank you.” She took in his grey silk dress shirt and black silk trousers. “Nice to see you out of a suit,”
she said, and then blushed furiously all over again.

A cool kiss soothed her hot cheek. “Why are you blushing so much tonight?”

“One of those days. I’m really nervous,” she confessed.

“Don’t be. Just relax.”
He took her hand and led her to the dining room, glancing back at her with an intimate, sexy look.

“I’ll try
.” She noted the members of his house staff waiting in attendance, and took another gulp of champagne.

“Not too much of that,” he laughed softly, waving the hovering Barton away to hold a chair for her himself. As she sat, he bent to murmur in her ear. “I want us to keep our heads clear, no matter what.” His hands slid over her shoulders and bare arms as his breath caressed her neck. “Agreed?”