The Value of Vulnerability (30 page)

For a woman who couldn’t keep the time straight in her head, it was quite a triumph.

He had done nothing—not one damned thing—to deserve such effort and attention.

Playful and loving, intelligent (though not terribly well informed in some areas—he was still inwardly chuckling over the McLuhan assessment), and highly sexed, Erin was a dream companion.

I could do this every day
.

Yes, she was going to be an excellent mistress. No woman in his past had given so much of herself, put so much thought into a gift (hell, none had ever even
purchased
him a gift, let alone thought of one so marvellous), or so openly cared about him.

All he had to do now was broach the subject of when she would resign her job, to free up her time for him alone. A mistress had to be available twenty-four/seven.

He idly wondered where she would like to live. Most likely in her current and excellent neighbourhood—but he would install her in a far superior apartment. Perhaps move her to the west end, to a place nearer his office. Liberty Village? That would suit him better, and she seemed to like the area.

As they shared delicious bulgogi beef and a pitcher of icy beer, she rattling on about friends and family while gesticulating with wooden chopsticks, a feeling of ease settled over him. Followed rapidly by alarm.

Bloody hell
, he thought with amused terror.
She’s my girlfriend.

How had that happened? Amusement faded to leave simple dread. This was far more serious than making her his mistress. It implied all sorts of things. Family gatherings and  . . . and . . . and whatever hell else couples did. It implied a future. Openness. Sharing.

As his
girlfriend
, Erin would expect him to fulfil all of the implicit duties of a
boyfriend
—all the attendant obligations of such a relationship. Somehow, some way, he had to lower her expectations without losing her.

But he couldn’t make her his mistress. He struggled to remember why he had once thought it such a brilliant idea. Never mind that such a situation would be insulting to her—she would simply refuse him. Then it would be over. All of it. She would be gone.

That scenario, he found, excruciating to contemplate.

***

Beer bottles, an empty popcorn bowl, and half-eaten bag of salt-and-vinegar chips littered Erin’s coffee table.

Ford looked from the TV, to her, and back again. “That was the most idiotic movie
in existence.”

“It was sweet and romantic.”

He looked askance at her as she dashed a hand over her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “The end always gets me. Where she’s already rescued herself when he shows up to rescue her—it’s the best.”

“Yes, who could have seen that coming?” He rolled his eyes. “Regardless, the Mona Lisa is not on canvas.”

“It’s not?”

“It’s painted on wood. So the entire premise of the movie—”

“That was a subplot.”

“Not to mention that the so-called prince was apparently Henry II of France, who married Catherine de’ Medici, not some provincial rube of dubious background.”

“Provincial rube?”

Dimples ghosted at her offended tone. “It’s a very silly movie, Erin.”

“
Ever After
is a very
fun
movie. It was my favourite when I was little.”

“How old
is
it?”

“Ninety-nine, I think.”

“So, you were thirteen? Fourteen? I have it on your authority that you were no longer
little
by that age.”

“You’re a riot.”

“And you exaggerate.”

“Anyway, n
ow when I watch it, I always feel,” she sighed dreamily, “like having sex.”

He tilted his head at her. “Actually, the movie did have some fine production values. And quite good performances. Solid post-feminist sentiments.”

“Didn’t I tell you you’d like it?” And gave a throaty, satisfied laugh as he pressed her back on the sofa cushions.

But then she pushed against his chest, gasping slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, giving her space.

“I’m fine. Just . . .” She drew a breath and felt better. “I have a bit of claustrophobia.”

He sat up abruptly, his expression a combination of shock and horror—it made her laugh, and she hugged him, trying to comfort him.

“It’s okay! I’m fine. It was just a glitchy moment.” She kissed his cheek. “It almost never happens, honest. Can we have sex now?”

He said nothing.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Apology accepted, but it’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to kill the moment.”

“Why hasn’t it happened before with me? During sex?”

“Because it almost never happens,” she iterated. “I need water. Want some?”

“Yes.” As she got to her feet, “Please.”

She ruffled his hair and went into the kitchen, glancing back at him over the dividing island. “I developed claustrophobia when I was a teen. It’s a guilt response, we think.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“My family.”

“Guilt for what?”

She poured water from the filter pitcher in the fridge and brought the glasses to the living room. “I had a grandmother who was a real witch—”

“As in a practising Wiccan, or you would say ‘bitch’, but won’t because she was a relation?”

“The bitch version,” she chuckled. “Just before I turned sixteen, my dad got the call that his mother had died. No one was particularly upset, but I applauded. Literally.”

“I do not believe it.”

“All true.” She cozied up to him and his arms went around her
, though loosely. “When I was little—before I started school—she used to babysit me a couple days a week. And, well, babysitting meant locking me in a closet for hours.”

The arms around her tightened.

“She liked to drink. She wasn’t a drunk—just liked to have a couple of glasses of wine while she watched soap operas and daytime talk shows. And she hated kids.”

“How could your parents allow it?”

“They didn’t know. They didn’t find out until I cheered and applauded her death.” She laughed. “See, when I was little, Dad was in the process of trying to repair his relationship with his mother, and when she volunteered to babysit me on occasion, he and Mom took it as a sign that Grandma Russell was becoming a decent human. They were wrong. I think she just wanted a new kid to torture.”

“You
never told them? When they asked you, ‘How was your day, Erin?’ you did not say you had spent it in a closet?”

“That’s how child abusers can get away with so much for so long. Kids don’t volunteer much information when they’re traumatised. They try to sort it out in their own heads. And of course, she told me they’d never believe me, and she only did it because I was bad, and they’d punish me worse, and yada yada. Classic manipulation.
”

A faint smile appeared. “Is that why you are so hard to manipulate now? Experience?”

She laughed. “Maybe. In any case, it all came out when she died.”

“How did your parents react?”

“They were horrified! Lots of tears and apologies. My
dad
cried. You don’t know him, but the only person in the world I can less imagine crying would be you.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

“You would. In any case, I got some groovy presents for my sweet sixteen, that’s for sure. But it wasn’t until then that my claustrophobia made an appearance. So, probably a guilt response to being thrilled that she was dead. Guilty that I hadn’t told the Parents before. Guilty that I made my dad cry.”

“Why did it happen now?”

“Don’t know. It doesn’t have a specific trigger. It wasn’t anything you did. And as I get older, it happens less and less. Maybe—maybe if I had suffered it from the get-go, from when I was little. I mean,
really
little. Like when she was actually locking me up. If I had suffered the claustrophobia then, it’d make more sense. It’s
nothing.
A first-world problem.”

He eased her away from him, studying her. “How is it that you’re not a complete mess?”

“Good family. Good support system. And honestly, her abuse could have been much worse.”

“That is not an explanation. Were you in therapy?”

“Nah. My therapists are my family. And I have a naturally positive outlook, so I tend to handle damages well.”

“That is—judging from the evidence—a gross understatement.”

“I’m not saying it was easy. But,” she shrugged, “I’m just lucky.”

She kissed him, inhaling the scent of him.

He kissed her back.

“Now can we have sex?” she asked plaintively.

He slipped the buttons on her shirt, pushing the lapels back to reveal her lacy bra. “Yes,” he said, touching fingertips to the buttons of her nipples. “Most definitely.”

When he made love to her, there was honesty in his gentle handling of her. And real respect.

***

A week later, she was treated to what he alleged was one of his favourite films,
The Seventh Seal.
Curled against the arm of the sofa in the media room at his condo, Erin breathed a sigh of relief when the screen went dark.

She sat up
, stretching. She finished the wine in her glass, looking anywhere but at him.

“Well?” he demanded from the opposite end of the sofa.

“Um. The whole playing chess with Death thing is kind of cliché.”

“This film is the paradigm of the cliché.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. Scratched a little behind her ear where the post of her earring had irritated. “The subtitles were easy to read. Good, clean font.”

He sighed.

“Well, Ford! I’m sorry, but confessing his game strategy to Death? That was stupid.”

“He did not know it was Death to whom he was confessing.”

“I know, but he should have seen it coming. A smart man keeps quiet about his schemes.”

“True,” was the amused agreement.

“And at the end, whatshisname’s vision of that stupid
danse macabre
—”

“You know what a
danse macabre
is?”

“Hey, I read! Not a lot. Not as much as I’d like. But it comes up.”

“I’m sure,” was the grave response. “So you hated the film.”

“Well, it’s interesting how this is a
film
whereas my selection was a
movie
.” She grinned. “It’s kind of artsier than I expected from you.”

“What did you expect?”

“A dry documentary or big blow-’em-up, kick-their-asses actioner. Jason Statham or Jet Li.”

“I assume the latter was your hope rather than expectation.”

“Well . . .” she drawled. She gestured at the darkened TV. “The themes aren’t exactly what I’d suspect you of subscribing to. Self-sacrifice and questioning of faith.”

He huffed. “It’s a classic.”

“Ah. Barton puts out a better spread than I do,” she admired the fine wine and artisanal cheese selection. She looked to Ford, lounging in the corner of the deep sofa they shared, eying her with frustrated amusement. “The
film
was very interesting. Lots of death and weird crap.”

“Did you know many men equate orgasm with death?”

“So you’re turned on?”

“Come here and find out.”

She jumped up and shimmied out of her tee. Then paused, shirt dangling from her fingertips.

“Don’t stop now,” Ford instructed hoarsely.

“Sure Barton won’t come in?”

“If he does, he probably won’t stay to watch.”

“
Probably?
”

“Why, Erin Russell,” he drawled. “I believe the idea of getting caught turns you on.”

“It does not!”

“Yes, it does.” He shifted his position slightly. “Drop the shirt,” he ordered.

She obeyed.

“Jeans next.”

“Not this?” She cupped a silk-covered breast while mocking a shy and innocent look, biting her lower lip.

Ford didn’t answer for a moment. He cleared his throat. “No, Erin. The jeans.”

She didn’t move.

“Damn. Fine. The bra. Take it off.”

But she didn’t. “I’m very shy.”

“My ass, you’re shy. Do it.” He palmed his face, almost certainly to suppress that errantly boyish smile that she had been treated to many times this last week. “Shall I do it for you?”

“Wouldn’t that spoil stripping for you?” She played with strands of hair.