The Value of Vulnerability (34 page)

“Why did they fight over a child—you were eight, right?—they didn’t care about?”

“Simply? They like to win. I was property, so they fought over me the same way they fought over the houses, the cars, the stocks.”

“Who won you?”

“Mother. But then I was sent away to private school and saw her perhaps a dozen times over the next few years.”

“Private school where?”

“Switzerland.” He shrugged. “Most of my parents’ circle did similarly with their offspring. My childhood was typical.”

“Summers in Rangoon? Luge lessons?”

She was rewarded with that radiant boyish grin. “Accusing me of attempting world domination?”

“Thinking about it. And your father? Surely you had a relationship with him. He retired to give you control of BHG.”

He was silent for some time. And then: “He did not give it. I took it.”

“How?”

His shoulders moved as if to shrug off the memory. “Essentially I bought up several companies I knew BHG had interest in buying, or were competitors. I negotiated deals to bring them under the BHG banner, trading for stock and still holding controlling interest in them. I then convinced my mother to sell me her stock—and she did it only to get back at him, not out of any sentiment for me. Added all together, I ended up with majority interest and forced my father out. I even kept him from holding a seat on the Board.”

“At twenty-nine!” She whistled softly. “Smooth.”

He grunted. “He has so many enemies, I practically had to beat takers off with a stick. They were lining up to help with the takeover. Make no mistake, I couldn’t have done it without that support. I was so young—too young, really, too inexperienced—to hold the CEO spot of a multinational company without some solid backers on the Board.”

“Well, that’s great that you had so many people believing in you!”

The look he shot her was indulgent and amused. “You are sweet. It was just to get rid of him. Without exception, they believed they would oust me easily afterwards. They were wrong. And now most of them are gone. Sitting on other boards. Retired. Dead. Who knows?”

She stared at him,
seeing again that scary son of a bitch. “You know,” she breathed.

“Mm. Yes. I keep track. Of them. Others. Enemies crawl out of the woodwork all the time. Like cockroaches.”

“And your father? Is he a cockroach?”

“Hard to say. He’s stayed under the woodwork so far. I’m sure he’s no fonder of me than he ever was. I certainly didn’t do anything to improve our relationship. Of course, we have no relationship.”

“You feel guilty about it.”
Open your heart. Tell me how you
feel
about events, not just the events themselves!

He rolled over to pin her down, laughing softly. “Now, why would I feel guilty about tossing out the bastard?”

Because he’s your father.

She said instead: “When we get back, I’m supposed to have a date with the girl-gang. Want to come along?”

“Which night?” His mouth found a sensitive spot, and she laughed and moaned at the same time.

“Wednesday.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m essentially flying through Toronto to drop you off. I have to be in Paris.” He flashed a grin. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Oh, Ford! I’d love that. But there’s no way. I’m really sorry.”

“Next time,” he said, and then he was kissing her as his hands moved over her body, and conversation ceased.

By the time they returned to Toronto, she almost regretted prying. There was a marked increase in the affection he showed her, but shutters had fallen over his gaze and she saw
only indulgent humour from him. Nothing
real
. And while dispensing with condoms added a complex level of spontaneity to their sexual relationship, the more sex they had, the more they laughed and played, the further away from him she felt.

***

The display on the BlackBerry read
Private Number
so she answered it excitedly, certain that whatever phone he used overseas would be as private as his Canadian one (which she was sure did not have a swappable SIM card, it was so basic)—and was not disappointed.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said.

“How is Paris? Is it beautiful?” she asked, muting the TV with a flick of the remote.

“Mostly I’ve been trapped in meetings, though I noted both rain and snow through windows. So, I have no empirical evidence on which to base categorical statements about the beauty of Paris this particular winter.”

“You could have just said ‘Yes.’ Or ‘Not really—crappy weather.’”

“No, I
am sure I could not. Where are you?”

“Home. It’s crappy weather here, too. Something falling out of the sky every day. Rain, snow, freezing rain.”

“What are you doing?”

“Um.” She licked greasy fingers. “Being very lazy as a reward. Eating salt-and-vinegar chips, watching a movie, and reading a graphic novel.”

“How graphic is this novel?”

“Well, it’s . . . Oh, no!”
She laughed. “It’s a
graphic
novel. A comic book. Sort of. About a futuristic dystopian society much improved by the appearance of zombies.”

“Ah. Sounds charming. What are you wearing?”

“Jammies.”

“The Christmas morning outfit?”

“Um, yeah, actually.”

“I never got to see that.”

“If you’d let me wear anything to bed, you would have.”

“That is a valid observation. No, not as anxious as I thought to see them.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s okay. I like you naked, too.”

“I’ll remember that. What did you do that you deserve a reward?”

“Made Xcess and Spence look a
ma
zing and rescued an account.”

“How did you accomplish these astounding feats?”

“Showed the client how he could expand his VPN as part of his downsize-strategy. Employees could work from home securely, he could rent a smaller space to reduce overhead—and still afford to keep most of his staff and Xcess on.”

“Aside from the fact that I have no idea what a VPN is, your story indicates the minimalism true brilliance requires and most do
not see.”

“How can anyone not know what a VPN is? And is there a compliment in there?”

He chuckled. “Very much so.”

“Well, thank you, then. Anyway, it
was
dead simple, and I have no idea why no one could see it. VPNs will be passé soon, but being something the client understood, made it easier to convince him. Baby steps. And I’m very convincing.”

“I do find you have very effective methods.”

“You do?”

“
Erin, I rode on a streetcar. With people. On it. Don’t tell me I’ve not been victim of your powers of persuasion.”

She laughed gaily. “That was over a month ago, Ford. Haven’t you recovered yet?”

“Not entirely. Do you have plans tonight?”

“No, I begged off after-work drinks with Steph. I’m going to crash early. Meeting first thing. What time is it there?”

A pause. A crackle on the line. “Sorry, Erin. It’s just after two in Paris.”

“Oh. You must be tired.” He’d probably want to get off the phone soon. “You’ll be home by the weekend, right?”

“Absolutely, I will be home for the weekend.”

“My parents want you to come for Sunday dinner. They’re dying to meet you.”

“Would you mind having dinner with just me? I’ve made reservations for us at Feodor’s for Sunday evening.”

“Really? Oh, that sounds awesome! We’ll go to the folks’ the next weekend.” A light rapping sounded on the door. “Someone’s at the door. I’m not expecting anyone. Hold on a second.”

“I will anxiously wait for you to answer it,” he said, but a little huffily.

Leaping up, keeping her phone to her ear, she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

“Hello,” Ford said, in her ear and to her face. He snapped his phone shut.

She leapt on him with a laugh of joy. “You’re home! You’re home.” Kisses scattered over his face, arms about his neck and legs about his waist, she hugged him with her whole body.

He laughed as he carried her back into the vestibule, kicking the door shut. “Surprise.”

“How did you get in?”

“Sweetheart, there is zero security in this building. All I had to do was wait at the entry for someone to come in and unlock the door for me.” Setting her down, he threw the deadbolt.

“Well, you don’t look dangerous,” she said, then bit her lip. “Well, not in the accepted sense.”

He grinned at that, very wolfishly.

***

Sunday came, and with it, dinner at the Feodor’s. Erin listened to the anecdote Ford was relating, finding him more relaxed than ever. And utterly charming.

She toyed with her BlackBerry, sending him a smile.

His cell rang as he finished his story and he dug into his pocket for it.

“Hey!” She pressed End on her phone. “I don’t have a special ringtone?”

His phone stopped ringing. “That was you?” he asked mildly.

“Yes. Why don’t I have a special ringtone?”

His gaze flicked away. “Do . . . Should . . . Well . . .”

“Yes, Ford?” Very sweetly spoken. “Someone does. The
Psycho
tone.”

He ahem’d. “Because the tone is a warning, letting me know not to bother interrupting what I’m doing to answer the call.”

“Huh.” She considered that. “But what if you wanted to know it was me so you could interrupt what you were doing to answer?”

He allowed a smile. “I usually check the display.”

“Mm. But if I had my own ringtone, and if I knew you were busy, I could call . . . let it ring a couple times, and hang up. You’d know it was me, and could look forward to calling me back.”

He sighed slightly. “Do you want me to give you your own ringtone, Erin?”

“Oh, well. Only if you want to.”

“I’ll assign a special tone for you,” he agreed, and flipped open the phone to scroll through options. Tested one. “How’s that?”

When there was no reply, he glanced up.

“Problem?”

“You’re going to give me a generic, OEM ringtone?”

“OEM?”

“Original equipment manufacturer. The stuff included in the box.”

Ahem’d again. “No, of course not. Just teasing you.”

“Okay,” she grinned. “You think of something and let me know.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’d like?” Stress underwrote his indulgent tone.

“Oh, no! It should be something you pick. Specially. That you like and associate with me.”

His expression suggested that this constituted writing all one’s finals in one afternoon.

Erin looked at the time, swearing aloud. Ford would be here any second, and she wasn’t quite ready. She grimaced at her hair. It would have to do. Seriously, she loved the places he took her—private clubs and exclusive restaurants—but curling up on the sofa with him was just as good, and involved far less getting-ready time, keeping her in the ponytail department.

The BlackBerry buzzed. She knew it was him, calling to say he was a block away. She answered sweetly and totally not freaking out. “Hello?”

“Erin. Apologies. Running late.”

He still didn’t recite niceties well, but it didn’t bother her. “What’s going on?” she asked, concerned
with his tone.

“Problems at the office. I’m still there, in fact.”

“That’s okay,” she assured. “Why don’t I meet you there? It’ll save you coming across town.”

“I don’t like to inconvenience you.”

“Oh, please,” she dismissed. “It’s no trouble. Unless you’d rather cancel?”

“No. I want to see you,” was the cool, almost bored, rejoinder.

She grinned broadly. “Ditto. I’ll be there soon.”

She was in a cab ten minutes later, and entering BHG Tower fifteen minutes after that, thanks to light traffic and speedy driving. The security guard greeted her by name and escorted her to the private elevator.

“Thanks, Jim,” she read his nametag, and was rewarded with a surprised look and a pleased:

“You’re welcome, Ms. Russell.”

Geez. What sort of treatment do Ford’s dates usually dole out to the guy?
Though more likely—since probably none had ever shown up here—Ford’s own negative attitudes about being friendly and appreciative made people think he would date similarly minded women.

I’m ruining his reputation
, she decided, amused, as the elevator deposited her in his office.

In a slate-grey suit, he sat behind his desk—the enormity of it not at all diminishing him—talking on the landline, tie loosened and cowlick flopping.