The Value of Vulnerability (3 page)

“No, you thought I was the receptionist,” she tossed back with a smile. Tugging at the cord of the iron, it came unplugged and she
set the unit on the ledge to cool. “I’m network support for client care. Is it really seven?”

“Well past, actually.”

“I’m very
late.” With a lithe movement, she bent at the waist to fasten the buckle on the shoe.

The
dress hem rose, revealing the lacy top of thigh-high hose and a good stretch of bare pale flesh above it.

Ford ran his hand over his jaw
. The cowlick flopped, ignored for the moment, over his forehead.

“Should have just done that in the first place!” she muttered, shaking back her tresses as she straightened, smoothing her hands over her hips and thighs, tugging at the skirt of the dress. Reaching over the ledge again, she produced a little black handbag, digging inside
to remove a lipstick tube. Hazel eyes ran over him in open admiration as she applied a fresh coat of dark pink to her generous mouth without benefit of a mirror. Pressing her lips together and releasing with a little
pop!
, she asked, “Okay?”

There was a curious lack of air in the room as she stepped closer for inspection. He breathed in her delicious scent
. No perfume, just soap-and-water clean, a hint of jasmine in her hair. “Hm? Oh, perfect.”

“Thanks!” She donned a black dress coat that swept to her ankles
, and wound around her throat a gauzy copper-coloured scarf that matched her filigree chandelier earrings. Lifting and releasing her hair, “Are you coming to the Christmas party?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know who I am.”

“Sure I do. You’re Ford.”

“
It’s like you have my CV.”

Again, that infectious laugh and smile came his way. “You’re Ford Howard
.” She summoned another elevator, the last one long gone. “I don’t live in a cave, you know.”

“Don’t you?”

“Oh, I would, but I never could spell spelunker, and thought it an unfortunate-sounding descriptor at any rate.” The elevator doors slid open and her slim fingers curled around his hand, giving a little tug. “You might as well come along and start scaring the crap—er, scaring everyone now.”

Allowing her to pull him along
: “What exactly do you think you know?”

“Oh, I don’t
know
anything,” she assured, releasing his hand and pressing the Lobby button. “But judging from the faces of the execs coming out of that meeting, and the security hovering around, I assume that come Monday everyone will be grovelling to Braxton Howard Group for their jobs.”

“Including you?” His fingers flexed a little, trying to rid himself of the lingering feel of her gentle grip. Not that he minded her touching him—in fact, later he would insist on it—but the sensation caused by that so innocent contact was excessive.

“Oh, I don’t grovel well
. Boss,” she added demurely, and entirely spoilt that tone with a wink.

“
Are
you worried?” Underlying this astonishing question was a twinge of errant emotion that felt suspiciously like concern.

Her eyes widened slightly.
“Is it true then? Xcess has been bought by BHG?”

“It
is
supposed to be on the hush for this evening,” he rebuked, slightly taken aback by his sudden inability to be economical with the truth.

What is wrong with you?

“Quiet as a mouse,” she promised. “So sweet of you to let the juniors enjoy the party without the fear of what happens on Monday.” Earnestly said, with not a hint of humour or sarcasm.

Thinking it had been a number of years since he had been called ‘sweet,’ if ever,
he asked, “What is your last name?”

“Russell.”

The name registered vaguely in his memory from his review of the staff manifest. Somewhere in the middle. A key position. “Why are you here so late?”

“This is
n’t
late
,” she said dryly. Her teeth caught her lower lip. “Say, I’ve work to do this weekend. Will I still be able to get in? Access the servers?”

“Yes. Client care goes on without a hitch.”

“Good, good.”

Stepping off the elevator and crossing the lobby with her,
he decided with mild cynicism that this was her form of grovelling. Or at least self-promotion.

Smoothly done
, though, with the correct amount of sincerity.

Yet even as he thought that, the building security guard greeted her by name, commenting on the early hour and the likelihood of seeing her the following day. Perhaps her self-promotion was justifiable after all.

“See?” she murmured.

“I am terribly transparent,”
he said, masking his surprise at her percipience.

She just laughed
. Again.

T
oo easily amused
, he assessed.
Perhaps faked, but it is a pleasant fakery.

“Are you coming to the party?” she asked as they stopped at the front doors.

Absolutely not.
But that did not mean he was letting her get away. “Do you want me to?”

“Oh, wel
l . . .”

F
or all of her outwardly flirtatious confidence, it was clear she was not entirely sure of herself. Never one to shy from pouncing on a weakness, he stepped closer to her. “Do you?” he repeated quietly, holding her wide gaze.

A mere dip of her chin
confirmed that. “I think your appearance would be interesting,” she said, and he subjected her features to intimate review.

Graced with only a hint of mascara, thick long lashes framed eyes that were both clear and
—he decided at last—intelligent, lacking coyness and pretence, and glimmering with humour undimmed by her brief nervousness. Delicately arched brows a shade or two darker than her hair were mobile and expressive. Her fine, straight nose bordered on aristocratic, balancing high cheekbones and a rather strong jaw. Bare of makeup, her skin was smooth and satiny, begging to be touched. Dark-pink lips parted slightly. He wanted to know how they would feel—and taste—under his.

A telltale flush crept over that skin, and he noted the slight throb in the hollow of her throat.

Beautiful women are a dime-a-dozen.

Yet
Erin’s energy and openness took her from everyday beauty to something far more appealing. He wanted her, far more than whoever that girl was this afternoon.

“Interesting for whom?” He heard the huskiness of his own voice, thickened with lust, the complement
to her evident desire.

She cleared her throat as if anticipating that her voice would reflect the hoarseness of his, and responded brightly. “Interesting for the execs, who’ll certainly try to curry favour. For the employees, who’ll wonder if you’re attached to the wild rumours.
Which I guess you are.”

“And you? Do you want me to go, just for you?”

“
Just
for me? Oh dear, that is a thought,” she chuckled, though with a little catch.

A cocked eyebrow demanded a clear response.

“It would give me someone to flirt with,” she teased. “If that would be all right. Boss.”

“I can’t think of anything better.”

“Can’t you?” she intoned, and promptly bit her lip in uneasy demonstration that she might have nudged the perimeter of the frying pan.

Deliberately lowering his
voice, he taunted: “Is that flirting? It sounded more like a proposition.”

“I was so sure I passed Flirtation 101
,” she tsked. The corners of her mouth tilted. “I must need practice.”

“And if I provide it?” he asked silkily.

It crossed all compartments of his ordered mind that he had utterly no business chasing this sort of woman.

She’s a nice girl. Step away.

It was not conscience. It was pragmatism. This sort of girl would cry in the aftermath.

But
Erin’s eyes glittered with a degree of wary humour. She was not without defenses. He was not pursuing an innocent, for all the girl-next-door manner she exuded.

“The chance to
practise
your
flirting skills,” she retorted. “Duh.”

He laughed with real pleasur
e. The cowlick fell again.

“Hells,” she breathed.

Erin thought her body had all but forgotten how to produce hormones. But, man, did it feel good to take them out for some exercise.

What a great day this was turning out to be!
Totally a banner day.

T
he fantastic man before her was icing on a chocolate-cake-of-a-day.

At first sight, her primary response (aside from those hormones leaping to life) was one of sheer admiration for the assemblage of his DNA. It took hearing his first name to put together where she had seen him before, and why he was in Xcess offices that time of night. She
occasionally read tabloid news (a guilty pleasure, like salt-and-vinegar chips and graphic novels), in which Ford’s image appeared often enough to make an impression. With all the rumours going round the office that Xcess was either going down or being sold—well, it wasn’t brain surgery to make the leap.

He was
n’t merely handsome. He was
beautiful
. Masculine, hard, and well assembled, with those glowing amber eyes that looked at her as if she were naked. Very good for the ego, that.

But when he laughed
, the well-delineated lips parted to reveal even white teeth, and a tiny dimple appeared in either cheek. The cool eyes took on warmth as they crinkled at the corners, and the lock of hair falling over his smooth forehead transformed the cynical veneer, making him look for one brief instant like a carefree young man, untouched by the harshness of life.

Behind the
boyishness—for that was the only description for it—was still the man, the elemental masculinity that spoke of the enjoyment of less juvenile pleasures of life: sex and sensuality.

And w
hen he laughed like that, her favourite idiom came unbidden: “Hells.”

The smile
retreated somewhat, and the cowlick was ruthlessly subdued. The veneer re-established itself effortlessly, and she didn’t trust that mask and the ease with which he donned it. It was as if he were two completely different people—unnerving, to say the least.

Her instincts told her this guy was dangerous in a way that she couldn’t comprehend. They didn’t tell her
to walk away. They told her to run. Run far. Run fast. And unlike the girl in the horror film,
do not look back!

“I’d better flag a cab.”
Outside, falling snow picked up speed and volume. “Are you coming to the party?” she asked again, with a shade less welcome.

“I thought you were impressed how sweet it was that I was playing the buyout on the down low. Showing up would only ruin that.”

She would never see him again. Since her instinct was towards relief, the accompanying disappointment was inexplicable. “If only there was a way around that.”

“The executive won’t comment, as they are legally bound not to,” he said. “As for your co-workers and so forth . . .”

“I could pass you off as some guy I picked up.”

“Do that sort of thing often?” he
asked. His voice had taken on a cool flatness, accentuated by tightness around his eyes.

Erin
laughed, thinking of the double standards of male chauvinism generally, and accusatory pots and kettles specifically.
Ford Howard
had the nerve to frown his contempt on
her
sexual practices? “I think it would shock the hell out of them.”

“We could pass on the party altogether.”

Tempting. And judging from the dilation of his pupils, he meant her to be tempted. “Oh, no. The whole purpose is that we get to flirt, not have sex,” she scolded. “You’re not having a very clever moment, are you?”

His responding laugh
—though quiet—was just this side of helpless, which was astounding from such a man, and she suspected he rather astounded himself in that moment. “Are you always like this?”

“Mostly
. I do have a bit of a temper though, when provoked,” she mused absently, still debating skipping the party.

But her work friends would be annoyed—or worse, worried—if she didn’t show, and while she didn’t plan to stay with the company even if she survived the buyout, it was politic to make a last appearance to her bosses. References mattered and IT’s a small world, after all.

“Okay, so party-wise, you can’t go and I can’t skip it. Come on, we’ll figure something out. Let’s get a cab.”

“I have a ride.” He indicated the Lincoln Town Car limousine
parked at the curb.