The Value of Vulnerability (8 page)

With the main lights dimmed, the area where they stood at the end of the bar was secluded and
discreet. Miniature white lights decorated the window seat, twisted around some charmingly tacky Christmas decorations. Snow drifted thickly down, sparkling in the streetlights, blanketing their world, adding to the intimacy.

The bar was nearly empty—odd for a Friday night in this part of the city, so presumably the weather had forced most people home. A couple sat cosily together near the service area, indulging in
quiet conversation over liqueurs, and the lone man she had noted earlier leaned against the wood at the midway point, sipping a pint as he continued chatting on his phone. Other than these three, she and Ford had the bar to themselves.

“What is this music?”
It did not suit the romantic setting.

“I think it’s the
Ferris Beuller
soundtrack.”

“We had Christmas music at the party. I think I heard four different versions of
The Christmas Song
, but not the famous one. Restaurant people must get sick of hearing seasonal music day-in and day-out,” she babbled.

“Hence Ferris once most customers are gone.”

“This is a night for jazz.” Of course, almost any night was a night for jazz.

He indicated another drink for himself to the bartender. “Another for you?”

She declined. She had barely touched hers.

The song changed.

“Dance with me.”

Her heart pounded.
“To this?”

“It’s
Danke Schoen
!” His dimples appeared as he took her hand and drew her away from the wood. “It’s danceable. And very romantic,” he grinned, spinning her easily before tugging her firmly against him.

“It’s actually
kind of sad.”

“But it sounds happy if you don’t pay too close attention to the lyrics.” His mouth brushed her cheek
, his voice husky in her ear. “Dance with me, Erin.”

The confident weight of his hand burned through the thin material of her dress.

“Most men don’t like to dance.”

“Most men are idiots. There is no quicker way to get a woman in
to your arms in public,” he murmured. “I’ve been dying to touch you for hours.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Have I mentioned that you’re tall?”

“Just about to say the same to you.”

He
led her like a dream on the impromptu dance floor.

The window behind them framed them in glowing light
. The snow fell, the music played, the hand she placed on his shoulder crept up to his neck, and she was not entirely in control of her fingers as they slithered into the silky black hair above his collar. If those fingers played and stroked just a little more than they should, she was not going to claim any responsibility.

In response,
he moved his hand to the small of her back, spreading boldly on her spine and down to rest on the crest of her butt, moulding her to his body.

“Mmmm.” She pressed against him, unable to contain the moan or the action, both of which signalled agreement to just about anything.

And hells, the man could bloody well dance. She hadn’t met a single man of her generation who could dance properly. Even as the tempo picked up, he guided her in perfect rhythm, whirling them round and round in the small space through the last bars until she was almost breathless, dizzy with wine, song, and man.

The song ended
, and he dipped her slightly.

Oh
, god.

The
dramatic violins of Billie Holiday’s
Don’t Explain
sounded.

“Someone overheard your jazz request,”
he whispered, slowly straightening.

Motionless in classic waltz stance, their eyes met and held through the
introduction.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

And again they danced, he leading her as gracefully as before, merely changing the pace and the rhythm. Briefly, the hand on her back came up to her ear, extracting the shepherd’s hook and dropping the earring into his pocket.

She pulled back slightly, sending him a quizzical look.

“I wanted to do this,” he told her, eyes flaring with dangerous enticement, and dipped his head to nip her earlobe before allowing the tip of his tongue to graze the shell.

Her breath left her on a shuddering sigh.

This has to stop.

But she ignored that unpopular voice and laid her
head against his chest, his heart beating steadily in her ear. Drawing their linked hands in closer, he rested his cheek on her hair, and they danced, though slowly . . . very slowly.

An index finger nudged her chin
. She tilted her head to look up at him, expecting a kiss . . .  but his mouth travelled lightly down her throat, measuring her erratic pulse. He tucked her more firmly against him, making her feel the hard length of his impressive erection. She was not the only one affected. Not the only one who felt this seductive, enveloping fire.

“Ford,” she sighed softly as his teeth, and then tongue, pressed against her skin.

A shudder ran through her. She cleared her throat and drew back as far as he would permit—which was not far—and met his glowing amber eyes. Her knees and resolve weakened. But not entirely.

“Yes?” he purred.

“My ice is melting.”

“Glad to hear it.”

She laughed helplessly, confusedly. “No, my drink. You’re making me crazy. Please give me reprieve.”

“A brief one
.” With some reluctance, he released her. Removing her earring from his pocket, he handed it back with a crooked smile. “Before I forget.”

It was a cynical yet automatic gesture, really, returning the earring. Lovers would not be allowed to leave things behind with him—he would
never, she was certain, risk the post-end-of-the-affair phone call to retrieve personal items.

Assuming lovers got the
top-secret number to that very exclusive phone. Which they almost certainly did not. Lovers would be filtered and screened like business communications.

Everything with him was so
premeditated, so deliberate. Thought through, analysed, assessed. With that approach . . .
He’s probably a rock star in the sack
.

He looked at her, a slight grin splitting his mouth, and she flushed as she realised she had said that aloud. “Why do you say?”

“Um, well. The studied thing. To be good at something, you have to think about what you’re doing. Pay attention to detail.”

“What an unromantic thing to say,” he chided with much amusement. “Here I thought you would subscribe to thoughtless passion as being the epitome of good sex.”

“It’s just a theory,” she muttered.

“It’s a good theory. Thoughtful passion,” he teased. “I’ll remember that.”

She huffed slightly, though in a good-humoured way, and was certain he had never in his life lost control—in or out of bed.

It would be something to see that facade gone. He was probably far more interesting without it. Not that he wasn’t fascinating. But her fascination was mostly due to hormones looking for outlet . . . and that elusive descriptor she still sought for him.

She sipped
her drink gratefully, though it was watery. How long had they been dancing? “What time is it?”

“Just past one.”

“I should—”

“Don’t.” The word left his
lips with soft urgency. “Not yet. Let me convince you not to go home alone.”

She shot him an amused look. “Good luck.”

He ordered her a fresh drink and the diluted GM was exchanged.

“Now, to convince you.” Reaching out, he took her hand in his. “I don’t think you want to be alone
tonight.”

She turned to face him fully, hearing the implicit challenge. “Why do you say?”

“Let’s review the evidence. Flushed skin,” finger brushed her cheek, “shallow breathing,” the fingertips outlined her softly parted lips, “and rapid pulse,” he trailed a path down her neck to the rapid tattoo in the hollow of her throat.

“Alcohol, asthma, and out of shape,” she retorted blithely.

Smiling at these quick lies, “Then, of course, there’s this. These.”

Her gaze fell to where his fingers traced—not touching, but hovering above—the pucker of material where her nipples, achingly aroused, pushed against her dress as if reaching for his fingertips.

She flushed. “I’m cold.”

“I will warm you.” He drew her closer, the dilated pupils making the amber eyes so incredibly feline. “I can ta
ke care of all of your symptoms.”

“I’m a big girl, Ford. I can take care of myself.”

Silence and a raised eyebrow followed his swiftly indrawn breath.

She laughed, her head
tilting back. “I did not necessarily mean
that
!” And simultaneously thought about her battery supply.

“Stop putting images in my head
.” He tossed a credit card on the bar. “I’ll take you home. I’ll even be good. If you want me to be.”

Oh, he’d be fantastic. “It’s good for your character to get turned down occasionally.”

“Is that why you’re refusing me? For the sake of my character?”

“No. I just haven’t had much casual sex in my life. Any, in fact.”

“Oh, it won’t be
casual.
” He sobered as she rolled her eyes. “I understand. But you shouldn’t writhe up so hard against a man if you’re going to turn him down.”

“It was a one-off,” she protested, blushing. “I didn’t expect this, that you would come here.” She placed a hand on his sleeve, flexing her fingers in the fine fabric (
dressed to strip
, she thought wildly), his muscles contracting in reaction. “If I thought that my one-off prompted you to more than a one-off of your own, I’d be tempted.”

“You mean, more than one night.” At her shrugging nod (for that was not exactly what she meant), he grunted disparagingly. “So you’re playing hard to get. Fine.”

She bit back an annoyed retort and said calmly, but firmly: “Don’t confuse playfulness with playing. I’d never play you. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Ford placed his hand over hers as she made to withdraw it. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. My apologies.”

The apology almost sounded honest—he probably hadn’t practised them often enough to make them polished. But in the event it
was
honest, she rewarded the attempt, turning her hand beneath his to hold it. “I’m not really asking for more, but I’m not sure that I’m ready for
less
than more. Do you know what I mean?”

The calculating look he bestowed on her seemed staggeringly blatant after all the glossy manipulation he had employed through the evening.
It was blank and frozen, much like his expression when she mentioned emotional economy.

But far more.
Far darker.

A
tremor of uneasiness ran down her spine. It was as if, for just a second, she had seen the real Ford Howard. And she wasn’t sure what she thought of him.

And then the frank expression was gone
.

“Why are you interested, Ford? Really. Why me?
In all seriousness—and this isn’t false modesty on my part—I’m not to your usual taste, am I?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t that,” she indicated his phone, “have some FWB number you can call?”

“FWB?”

“Friend with benefits.”

“No, it does not.”

Shocking. “Still . . . Why me?”

“You do not bore me.”

She might have laughed at this compliment, but it was delivered without charm, without the shtick, and with a hint of that dark frankness that she considered the real man.

It was true. Which, by comparison, meant that much of what he said tonight probably wasn’t.

Dangerous guy.

And incredibly interesting. He didn’t bore her, either.

She laughed then.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“Asking for instructions?”

A small grin flashed. “No. But everyone needs something.”

“What do you need?”

“What I meant was . . . For instance, if you wish to stay on with Xcess, I could arrange that.”

“I’m sure you could. But don’t. Thanks.”

Silence.

“Everyone has a problem that needs solving,” he said finally. “Most people are eager to share those issues.”

“With a man capable of solving them?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. All my problems are of the first-world sort.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“First-world problems. I have access to too much food, so have to go to my overpriced gym more often. I have a job, which means I have to haul myself out of bed to go to it. These are the sort of problems I have. Non-problems.” She cocked her head. “Do people ask you to solve their problems often?”