The Value of Vulnerability (14 page)

The man pulled out the chair opposite, grinning as he intercepted Ford’s glance at the brunette. “I assume this will be a fast meeting?”

“I’m in no particular rush today.”

“You mean she’ll wait. They always do.” Cameron chuckled
. “Afternoon, Fitz,” he greeted the attentive waiter, ordering a Perrier and asking after Fitz’s family and chatting about the weather on this dismal Wednesday afternoon.

Ford looked to the brunette again, successfully dulling the sound of the unnecessary conversation, and the echo of Erin’s voice suggesting he ask about the lives of minions.

Minions. Do you hear yourself?

Perfectly.

Having a silent conversation with himself was not a good sign—though certainly not the first time—and did nothing to improve his mood.

“Our meeting,” he said aloud, interrupting the waiter’s recitation of something Christmas-cheer and family-gathering related.

Cameron grinned, unrepentant, and opened his menu. “What do you suggest today, Fitz?”

At last
—lunch ordered, the waiter gone, and the brunette still in sight—Ford cited the first of his lengthy list.

They did not have a personal relationship, he reflected. He liked (he supposed that was the correct word) Cameron Hastings.
In a certain context, Cameron was more successful than he, for the younger man had come from virtually nothing, building Hastings Sr.’s one-horse PI company into a successful private and corporate security firm. The professional relationship had begun five years previously, when issues inside BHG could not be trusted to in-house BHG security.

Cameron’s eagerness to expand Hastings Investigations had meant particular motivation to sign Ford as a client, and while some requests might have raised eyebrows over the years, so far there had been no refusals.

Not that Ford asked anything that wasn’t generally honest. But what was done with the information . . . Well, to date, Cameron had not commented, but recently there had been an air of resistance.

Something like nostalgia flashed over him as he recalled the circumstances of meeting Cameron,
two young men hovering on the brink of life-changing events. That moment seemed eons rather than a handful of years ago, and all the things that had happened since weighed on him. He felt tired. Old.

He has accumulated a massive file on my
interests—and presumably, my activities.

Perhaps it was time to find another investigative basket in which to store his
undertakings.

There were several reasons that was not practical, the most important being security.
The information they shared was currently secure: Ford kept his notes in his head; Cameron used indecipherable shorthand that kept the details of Ford’s instructions forever confidential. Between the two of them, there was no record of details, just hand-delivered packages with the results of the investigation, and undetailed invoices that were promptly paid by personal cheque.

Moreover, h
e had good instincts about people. All the nuances of human weaknesses. It was one of his greatest skills. Cameron had passed all the tests years ago. And so, Ford trusted him.

Usually they met in person—as now. Only in emergencies did they communicate by phone, as they had last week about Erin.

That was not an
emergency
, exactly.

Of course it was. That night of scattered thoughts.

What trigger that night had made him defensive? Unsure? Fumbling?

Whatever it was had brought him Erin.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered with her.

No business being with such a woman.

And yet he planned to make her his mistress.

He glanced at the brunette again.
A well-dressed, well-appointed pretty boy bearing the same air of boredom had joined her.

She looked
at Ford over Pretty Boy’s shoulder and winked surreptitiously.

He sent her his standard seducer’s smile, and saw her instant reaction.

“Anything else?” Cameron asked dryly.

“I’m thinking.”

“Always.”

Unfortunately, his thoughts were disorganised: his list for Hastings, the brunette, Erin, business minutiae, this afternoon’s press conference.
While indulging his dark mood was tempting, there was no time for it today. He needed to settle.

The only thing that
ever settled him was the life review.

He spun his phone.

People have always wanted things from you
, the process began
.

His parents wanted his silence when he was a boy, and so others raised him to keep him out from underfoot. Those who
were put in charge of him cared nothing for him, wanting only the improved luxury that taking care of the scion of the Howard clan could net them or the family dirt they could sell to scandal sheets—of which his parents provided ample fodder.

Then there was the divorce, through which
each parent sought to elicit his allegiance. Not his love, for they loved no one. Not each other. Not him.

And
with little guilt, he had resolved those old issues a few years back. A mere settling of accounts with the parents. Father, mostly, but Mother got her share. No, it hadn’t been
revenge
. It just looked that way from a casual observer’s point of view.

He flicked a glance at Cameron, who waited patiently, pen po
ised over notebook.

All his life he made friends very carefully, for people were weak and oft tempted by the easy path. Only one serious error there. But,
scratch, scratch
. Account settled.

That particular crisis had almost cost him his other friendships,
as the incident spawned general suspicion for all. While he came to trust his inner circle again, the openness he had once shared with those few never wholly returned.

And then
, there was a complicating matter of the wrong woman at the wrong time. Wasn’t it always the way for a young man?
Scratch
. Settled. Done. 

Settling those accounts—those three seminal accounts—occurred in the span of eleven months ending some four years ago. But he was tough—and a great deal tougher afterward—and he survived it. And if he survived it at the price of the softer emotions humans craved, needed, and expressed, then so be it. No new friends on the roster
, but many new women. And they still wanted things from him, such as gifts and connexions. They received those generously, but he kept his involvement to sex and wrapped things up quickly, sending them on their way with expectations on both sides filled.

He owed
nothing to anyone.

Really, his doubts about humanity were hardly his fault—though if pressed, he likely would have embraced the responsibility. No harm in taking credit for developing a reasonable response to his life’s little bumps. How else should he be? How else
could
he be?

So there
should not be confusion or remorse over the Erin Russell situation. It must be dealt with properly.

“Full background on Erin Russell’s family. Parents, siblings. Whomever.”

Cameron made a note, raised his eyebrows, and perhaps sighed slightly.

“Yes?”

“They aren’t all Dianes, Ford.”

“I’m aware. I’m more interested in—” He stopped abruptly.
Why was he explaining himself?

More to the point, he could not think of a reason to
dig deeper on her. There was nothing more to learn of Erin. Rather, no need to learn any more.

Yet, he needed to know more
before he committed to the mistress plan. Furthermore, maybe an investigation would reveal something that would help him understand her. No one, outside of his very few remaining close friends (they numbered three), had refused his assistance as Erin had. He assumed she would be pleased with his interference in her career. It was a simple thing to do: tell Spencer Ward to rearrange Erin’s meeting schedule and send her to assess BHG systems, thereby indicating clearly that she was someone to be favoured and promoted.

It had not received the appreciative response he had expected
.

He smothered the swell of humour, and glanced out the window, seeing the watery sun break through clouds to bring an illusion of warmth to the grey view.

Gazing upon Erin’s candid face as she
had chattered over lunch about Xcess and BHG servers, amusing him with her anecdotes, he knew he had made rash assumptions about her. She came across as easygoing, but there was a line of steel in her that advised caution.

There was a better than average chance that she would not respond well to an invitation to become his mistress.

I want to discover you on my own
, she had said. Those words whittled through a bit of uncured mortar in his emotional walls, casting a bright, pitiless light on the veiled corner in his brain. The truth? He could not afford another betrayal. It would make him a monster.

In that moment,
discovering that his cynicism and hardness were not entirely set, he had experienced the oddest emotion.

Hope.

Something akin to panic rushed through him.

Back up. Slow down. You’re being an idiot again.
He squelched all the flighty emotions—
seriously, hope?

“You okay, Ford?” Cameron asked.

“Yes. That’s all for now,” he said, and looked to the brunette again. The perfect companion with whom to kill the hours until the press conference.

He imperiously signalled the waiter.
In short order, the bill was paid.

“Monday delivery,” he said, rising.

“Probably. Most of it,” Cameron said, taking a sip of coffee, looking up at him with amused curiosity. And a bit of sympathy, perhaps.

Erin had looked at him like that.

“Problem?”
he asked coolly, adjusting his suit-jacket sleeves over exposed shirt cuffs.

The china cup clicked on the saucer as it was set down again. “Some of these items are complicated, Ford.”
He indicated his coded notes. “Three companies, several execs, financials, the usual dirt. Takes time. You know that.” His gaze flickered. “It’s not like you to be impatient.”

“
Mm. No, there is no rush. A thorough job is more important than a quick one.”

The brunette was ignoring
Pretty Boy, broadcasting her interest in Ford with blatant posturing.

“Thanks for lunch,” Cameron said.
“Merry Christmas, if I don’t see you before.”

Ford
did not respond, merely stepped away to cross the restaurant, holding the brunette’s gaze as he deftly navigated around tables.

“May I buy you a drink?” he plied his
practised charm.

Shtick
. But though the word annoyed, his mien didn’t falter.

“She’s got one
already,” Pretty Boy said.

Ford ignored
him.

“I’m
Ashley. I know you,” she said. “I mean, I know who you are.”

“I’m Brendan,”
Pretty Boy said.

“He’s just a friend,”
Ashley said, flipping her chin-length bob.

“Hey,” Brendan protested.

Ford said nothing. Merely held her gaze.

Her lips parted
. Arousal flushed the décolleté exposed by her couture outfit—a beautifully fitted grey suit with a short skirt.

Within a minute she was off the bar chair and next to him. Within ten, they were leaving together, her voice quavering as she absently bid Brendan goodbye.

No effort at all. In no way like Erin.

***

The mirror over the bureau reflected the hotel suite bedroom as Ford straightened the knot of his tie and smoothed the cowlick into place.

A soft feminine groan emerged from the tumbled sheets, and he flicked a glance
in the mirror at the naked girl’s ass before meeting his own gaze—and promptly adjusted his cold expression to bland normalcy, which by comparison was warm and friendly.

“You’re leaving?”
Ashley said as she rolled onto her back, her tone that of a sophisticated woman who knew the score but hoped overtime might garner a rematch.

He adjusted a cufflink, sending her a
slight smile, noting her smudgy makeup and tousled hair. “Unfortunately, my schedule is strict.”

“Mm. I guess so.” She sat up, stretching her limbs languorously, in an obvious—and mildly tempting—manner. “I suppose I imagined an entire evening. Champagne, room service, several more rounds of Ford Howard’s loving.”

“The room is yours until morning. Order whatever you like.” He turned to face her, flicking a slight gesture at the room service menu.