The Value of Vulnerability (5 page)

“Yes, you’re very casual and informal.
I’m surprised, actually.”

“About my education?”

“No, about you. Your shtick. I didn’t expect it to be so, I don’t know, obvious.”

“I am
obvious
?”

“Well, not
obvious
-obvious, but it’s pretty fake. Like you’re bored with it. As if you’re used to tossing off a couple of lines and women fall into your bed. Which, considering your looks, wouldn’t surprise me much.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“Perhaps you are simply more difficult a person.”

“I mean, how am I supposed
to have fun with the resisting if you’re not even trying? Surely you have more to offer.” She huffed. “You’re coming across like that old saying.”

“What old saying?”

“That when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”

A short bark of laughter greeted that, and perhaps a bit of chagrin.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” she asked.

“I go out.”

“Yes, I’ve seen you in
The Daily
.”

“Oh, god
.”

“But I meant
out
. As in
outside
. Where real people are. The workaday sort. Wander down to the mailroom at BHG to say ‘hi’ to the sorters or ask your waiter at Nott’s Gate how his wife and kids are doing.”

“What would be the purpose?”

“You’re kidding, right? Hells. You know, I’ll bet you’re the sort to end up like . . . like Howard Hughes. Appropriate considering the name. A germaphobe trapped in sterile existence!”

“
The proper word is mysophobe.”

“Ooh, and Howie Mandel! But he goes outside. Interacts with people despite the germ thing.”

“I am neither mysophobe nor germaphobe.”

“M
isanthrope, then?”

Blink.
Hesitation. “This is not at all the flirtatious conversation you promised.”

“Sure it is. I’m interested in you, so I ask about you. Rather than talk about myself.”

“Oh, is that how it’s done?”

S
he grinned, despite the condescension. “Yes, Ford. That’s how it’s done.”

“You are quite confident of your successful resistance.”

“Uh huh. But you know that saying—”

“More sayings,” he breathed on a vexed note.

“What
is it? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?”

“You’ve read Nietzsche?” he asked, amused
again.

“
Nietzsche! Right. But no, just that line. At the beginning of
Conan
. The Barbarian, not the talk show host.” Legs crossed, she idly swung the upper one. “So . . . you read Nietzsche?”

“I have done.”

“Subscribe to that philosophy?”

“That particular line or nihilism in general?”

“Um, I think I’ll go with the line.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then it won’t kill you to make an effort, but might make you better at it. Strengthen your flirting skills. You know. For us difficult women.”

He held her gaze in the dim light
, a hint of fresh interest replacing the air of boredom she had glimpsed earlier. Maybe he was bored with his life. Not too challenging, she supposed, being rich and handed everything. She’d likely be bored, too.

He palmed her knee, fingers pointed down to apply slight pressure to her shin. “Be still.”

His touch was electric. She suppressed a shiver. And was still.

Reclaiming the strand of hair he had let slip through his fingers, h
e closed the slight distance between them. “You are certainly the most interesting woman I’ve met in sometime.” He inhaled, as if taking in her scent. “When was the last time you had sex?”

A
n admittance of a year’s abstinence would not impress him, and was a bit embarrassing. “I’d have to check my BlackBerry. You?”

“Tuesday past,” was the prompt response
.

Sh
e laughed, though she didn’t believe him, exactly. “Memorable, then. What was her name?”

A blank expression
flashed, and was gone. “I don’t want to talk about other women,” he said at last. “I only want to talk about you.”

“You don’t remember her name! You should have made one up.”

“Mary.”

She
groaned at this fabrication. “Ford!”

“What was the name of the last man you slept with?”

“Anthony,” she answered immediately.

“A pick-up?”
he asked with mild scorn.

“No, boyfriend of three years. And you’re a fine one to criticise, Mr. I-
Can’t-Remember-Tuesday’s-Treat’s-Name.”

He
laughed—a short but sincere chuckle—surprising both of them. “When did that end?”

“Um, Tuesday past?
A while ago,” she amended.

His gaze sharpened, even as his voice dropped to a murmur in a really good imitation of sympathy.
“You were hurt.”

“Who hasn’t been hurt?” was her smiling retort. “We’re all part of the walking wounded. But I agree with your earlier statement. This is getting more personal than flirting demands.”

“But you are the one who wanted to fence,” he said.

Still holding the lock of her hair, his other hand came up to brush lightly over the planes of her face.
Erin concentrated on breathing, ignoring as much as she could the desire curling scrumptiously in her belly.

He
drew her lower lip down, revealing the row of teeth, and stroked the soft inner flesh with the tip of his finger.

It was as if he had kissed her. She inhaled swiftly, her breath hitching.

Amber eyes fastened on hers. Releasing her lip, he bent his head, his mouth hovering over hers. “How old were you when you were first kissed?”

“Seven. It was the first time I had my heart broken, too. He did it on a dare
.” She pouted, trying to remain playful when all she wanted to do was close that tiny space separating their lips.

He cupped her jaw, his thumb rubbing gently over her skin. “Are you going to dare me?”

“I don’t dare do that.”

“How old were you when you first had sex?” Their breaths fanned each other, mouths close, but not touching
. Intimate and sexy but not yet sexual.

“Twenty.”

“Late bloomer.”

“Quite the opposite
. I’ve pretty much looked like this since I was thirteen.”

E
yebrows shot up. “You must have left a trail of tears. Did you tease the boys in high school or disdain them?”

“It probably looked like dis
dain, but really I was terrified of them.” At his sound of disbelief, she wrinkled her nose. “Well, the second time I was kissed was a nasty experience. Wet and messy with much groping. The longest ten seconds of my life. Left almost permanent scars on my psyche.”

She studied his face as he chuckled, admiring the fine texture of his skin, the thick lashes surrounding his almost feline eyes. It was so tempting to close the distance and find out if that mouth—that sensual, beautiful mouth—tasted as good as it looked. All she had to do was tilt her chin ever so slightly.

But she refused to do so. This was fun. To change it up would be to remove the mischievousness, and certainly, a man like Ford Howard—a predator if she had ever seen one—would take advantage of any weakness. With every word and move cynically calculated to achieve one single goal. She was glad she had called him on it.

And just because she could
still see it didn’t make it any less effective. Especially now.

“How old were you when you were first kissed?” she asked breathlessly.

“Twelve. She was much older.” At her inquiring glance, he flashed a devastating grin. “Fourteen.”

“
Wow. You should smile more. Works for you. How was that? The first kiss thing?”

“Wet and messy with much groping. And I don’t mean on my part.”

“In other words, you loved it. And virginity surrendered when?” She bit her lip, amused, and his gaze shifted to the gesture. “Same day?”

“No. Fifteen.”

“Yoikes. I was kidding about twelve!
That’s still young.”

“
Perhaps.” His hand came between their faces to run a fingertip caresses down her nose and across her cheek. “Soft skin.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, very aware of the weight of his other hand on her leg, now shifted higher to rest above her knee, under
the parted halves of her coat.

“
When we were inside, you said you were thinking about sex.”

That was a lot truer now, even.
Her insides felt extraordinarily soft and malleable, preparing for hard, masculine invasion. Physiological response with a hefty psychological impact. Ever so slightly, her body undulated against the leather.

Amber eyes flared as she unsuccessfully tried to quell the squirminess.

A fingertip traced her lips. His gaze followed the movement, then flicked over her face, intent and compelling. He slid his fingers into her thick hair, applying gentle, pressuring encouragement to the base of her skull.

“Tell me what you saw,” he breathed into her mouth. “Describe how you saw us together.”

This wasn’t fencing. This was wrestling. But she could not deny that desire was overrunning everything, including arbitrary sports metaphors . . . and her resistance.

“Tell me,” he repeated, now far more demanding
, as if he knew time was short.

The car stopped
. The engine cut.

“We’re here,” she said with relief.

“If I kissed you now, would you resist still? Would you win this game of one-upmanship?”

She couldn’t say for certain—and challenging him with a defiant ‘yes’
might take things too far to get a ‘no’ out later, when an invitation to some hotel was iterated. Her mouth could almost taste the idea of his kiss. Her mind again etched the vision of him pressing her up against a wall. And while imagination was probably better than reality, it was best not to run that risk.

“I don’t . . .” She hesitated. “Maybe we should call it even.”

“Even.” Amusement and chagrin again mingled in his expression. His mouth brushed her cheek as he continued to hold her still, one hand at her nape, the other on her thigh. “Since I disappointed you at the beginning of the game, it is fair that you disappoint me now.”

With that, h
e released her with apparent regret.

“
But,” he said wryly, “I should have given instructions to keep driving until further notice.”

She relaxed. There was no point in starting something that would get her all heated up with nowhere to cool down . . . though it was a little late now.

Correction: much too late.

“I’d better go in.”

The chauffeur did not intrude—evidently, she was not the first to get the Ford Howard City Tour. She was not a special case. In fact, she was certain that there was no such thing as special in Ford’s world.

That was pretty damned sad.

Their eyes met. Judging from his expression, which abruptly lost the intensity if not the entirety of sexual interest, her sympathy must have shown. But his reaction was curious and puzzled, as if he hadn’t ever seen such a look before.

M
aybe those glimpses of bemusement were a put on. All part of the role he played. Though when he put his mind to it, he really got into character.

He slid away from her to open the door, climbing out and offering her a hand that she took
gratefully, for she found her knees lacking solidity.

“Thank you, Ford.” She fluffed her hair in a self-conscious gesture.
And then she said in a voice that was friendly but firmly distancing: “It was great meeting you. I know we won’t see each other again, but that was the best time I’ve had in—well, a long time.”

Which was a sad statement on her social life!

She smiled and shivered as he raised her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Your hands are cold. Where are your gloves?”

It wasn’t even a little true
. Not a bit of her body was cold. It was somewhat disappointing to see the return of his seducer’s persona. Making conventional observations of any possible distress on the part of the damsel.

To make her feel as if she couldn’t possibly handle herself.
Reduce her. Weaken her.

Hell of a technique.
Maybe it would work on some women.

You’re a damsel!
Who knew? Needlessly rescued by a . . . a . . .
But she didn’t have a good descriptor for him yet, and certainly,
knight in shining armour
was not appropriate.