The Value of Vulnerability (22 page)

Staying in their current position was the height of impracticality, however, and they unwound, his arms trembling as he lowered her, her legs nearly buckling as they took her weight again. He caught her as she swayed.

“Is that what you saw?” he asked.

She shook her head. She nodded. She laughed. “Even my imagination isn’t that good.”

His smile gained a degree of satisfaction. “Good.”

“And you, Ford? Was it better than what you imagined?”

“I was just following instructions,” he claimed with mock surprise before kissing her with an urgency that belied his innocence. “Let’s get back to bed, and see how you follow instruction.”

“Oh, hells!” she groaned, her body protesting the thought of any more attention. “Can’t we just cuddle?”

He grinned—dimples and boyishness at full wattage—and gathered her very gently to him. “That was my planned instruction.”

This magnanimous fib
was so damned sweet, she just knew there was hope of a future.

“Seven-ten,” Ford murmured in her ear as she awoke. “Do you have to work today?”

She turned to him, seeking his mouth and finding it.
Fingers threaded through his hair, she held his head as she retreated enough to study him in the shadowy light, seeing the guarded expression of his eyes. She would bet everything she owned that he already knew her schedule.

“No,” she said at last. “I
booked it off. Pulling some lieu time a couple days this week to get my Christmas shopping done.” She stretched lazily, arching against him. “Next week, we start semi-shutdown with a skeleton crew until after New Year’s, though technically I’m on call for the days I’m not in. But what with the raft of disasters going on and the fact that the crew’s already skeletal at full complement, I’ll likely go in every day.”

“You’re free then, today?”

She grinned at this one-track focus. “Mostly. I have an errand to run this afternoon.”

“What?”

“Does it matter?” Her errand would make her sound like a better person than she was. “What’s
your
schedule for the day?”

“Meetings.” He dipped his head to kiss her. “Sex with Erin Russell.”

She chuckled, then moaned as his hands explored. “Is that scheduled?”

“Not officially, no. Later, though,” he laughed softly against her skin
as his mouth found and nuzzled sensitive pulse points. “I think we both need some recovery time.”

True. Though they were b
oth aroused already. But she
was
sore. Definitely, they both needed more sleep at the very least.

“What is your errand?
” He raised his head. “Seeing a friend?”

“Sort of.” She frowned sharply at the sudden grimness of his expression. “I promised a friend
—Brooke—that I would help her do deliveries. She volunteers for a charity, but she’s between cars.”

His features relaxed.
“What sort of charity?”

“Toys for underprivileged kids. For Christmas.”

“Generous of you.”

“Not really.
Brooke does all the work. I get to feel as if I’m contributing when I’m really not doing much.”

“How long will that take?”

“Three, maybe four hours or so.” She threaded her fingers through his hair again, playing with the silky strands, a smile—very likely a dreamy and idiotic smile—on her mouth.

He studied her with intimate scrutiny, and she tried to identify the thoughts that flickered through his eyes. Shuttering completely, he slid his gaze and body away from her.

“My driver will take you home.”

In d
isbelieving silence, she watched the surreal events unfold as he called to arrange the car and, without so much as a perfunctory kiss, disappeared into the en suite.

This is what bad behaviour from Ford Howard looks like.

In less than three minutes, he had gone from kisses and caresses to dismissing her as if she were a servant.

Or the village wench.

Village whore.

***

The cellphone spun on the tablecloth, Ford watching the movement as he pretended to listen to the conversation of his friends.

He could still feel the silk of Erin’s skin, the texture of her hair in his hands, the moistness of her mouth against his body.

He had been with far more beautiful women. Far more skilled women.

And yet . . .
Never had a sexual experience stayed in his head so long after the fact.

He could, for instance, still remember what she looked like.

Her lovemaking had been instinctive rather than experienced. His experience, which was not trivial, was almost trampled by her wantonness. Physically, they had both let go.

H
e wanted more of it. Repeatedly. His brain told his body it should be sated after that marathon—it definitely ached in places—but the admonition was falling on deaf everything.

Hadn’t he considered her for long term?
Then why was he balking at seeing her again? Eventually the fires would fade—usually, they faded instantly—and he should be enjoying this time while the flames were high. But this morning, her sweet pliant body scented with the afterglow of that insane night while she modestly protested her contribution to the charity, her wide eyes shimmered, obviously thrilled at the prospect of seeing him again . . .

It had struck him in that moment that he had literally not slept with anyone since Diane. And abruptly,
every barricade on his emotions went up, entirely unbidden, as if some self-defence mechanism had built itself inside him without his knowledge.

Not surprising
, he reflected, that cultivated control had led to automation. But it was all a reaction to Erin. That saucy, sexy, strange woman. She made him feel—what was that feeling?

D
efenceless.

“Ford, what the hell?”

He looked up, his gaze switching between his friends. “What?”

Nick exchang
ed a glance with Conor. “Who is she?”

“Who’s who?”

“The woman who has reduced you to silence,” Conor backed Nick up.

He
straightened in his chair. “No one important.”

Nick cleared his throat, trying not to laugh. “Give us a name, or we’ll
have to refer to her as ‘Ford’s girl,’ which I’m sure would offend her.”

“Erin,” he said abruptly, thinking that might not offend her in the least
, were it true.

“Why are you out with us rather than with Erin?”

“Why didn’t you have anything better to do than have dinner with me?”

“That’s a good question
.” Conor rocked back in his chair, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “Someone we know? Is she from a good family? We all know your success there.”

“Not the way you would mean
.” Ford sent him a narrow glance.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he protested, and looked to Nick for help.

“She’s not moneyed or connected,” Nick said. “Just an ordinary woman swept up in the Braxton Howard Universe. Right?”

“Right.” Though
ordinary
was not exactly the word for Erin Russell. She was ordinary, in a sense. Just your average girl-next-door. But that was not all she was.

“You shouldn’t tell them who you are,” Conor derided. “I tell them I’m in imports
. They think I mean suits or dollar-store knickknacks. They’re unimpressed, so sex remains sex.”

“You’re a bastard,” Ford told him, smiling at this rampant display of cynicism that gave his a run for the money. “She knew who I was from the outset.”

“And she still went out with you?” Nick tsked. “Poor kid.”

“We
had drinks one night. Lunch twice. Dinner at the condo.”

They
stared. “What?” Conor asked.

“We had dinner at the condo,” he repeated succinctly. “After which, she spent the night.”

“Is that a first?” Conor asked Nick, who shrugged.

“Since Diane? Probably. Damned near.”

Ford continued. “Now you know. Where is Alex tonight?” he asked of his third and absent friend. But the question elicited no interest as interest was focused on Erin.

“How long have you, er, not been seeing her?” Nick asked.

“Better than a week. Can we talk about something else?” He spun the phone.

“She’s waiting for your call, isn’t she?”

“What did you do?” Conor asked. “You have guilt written all over you.”

“Nothing
. And I do not feel guilty.”

“
He cut her loose,” Conor said knowledgeably to Nick.

“Dismissed her, more like,” Nick corrected, doing a face palm. “
Ford, you can’t do that to every woman who comes along and expect to keep any worth keeping.”

“Who wants to keep ’em?” Conor chuckled.

They were near opposites. Nick—a diehard romantic, always on the lookout for the woman he’d make his wife—played it cool most of the time, as the goal of finding that perfect partner made him notoriously scrupulous about the feminine company he kept. Conor usually came across as warm, at least in front of women, but was even more cynical than Ford himself. And would make a play for anything in a skirt.

“Are we having dinner or not?” Conor
asked, looking round for the waiter.

Nick staved off the waiter’s approach. “Ford has to make a call.”

Ford picked up the phone and dialled Erin’s home while Nick and Conor debated—with a great deal of laughter—whether his use of speed dial was an indicator of Erin’s importance or his bad memory.

He ignored them and waited for her to
answer, which she did, breathlessly, after several rings.

“Hello,” he greeted, not having decided quite what he was going to say.

There was a pause. “My landline. Background checks come in handy, don’t they?” Her voice was cool but not cold.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I have a meeting that’s running late. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You do that,” she returned.

He should have disconnected immediately, but did not.
He didn’t say anything either.

“Was there something else?”

“No. Goodnight.” He disconnected the line.

“Well don
e, Ford!” Conor said.

“You shouldn’t have lied,” Nick rebuked. “Women have a nasty habit of telling when men lie to them.”

“I did not lie. Aren’t we having a meeting?”

But a black mood descended on him
. It was one thing to exact revenge on enemies, but Erin had done nothing to deserve such harsh treatment.

It occurred to him that she might be angry about it
.

For some reason, that nauseated him a little.

***

Rather than hurling it as she wanted, Erin set the
portable gently in its cradle.

T
his lie on top of what he had done that morning . . . There were not words invented yet to express how she felt, so she practised some old-school curses instead.

It had started as simple and devastating h
umiliation, being left to don her rumpled clothes, leaving his bedroom to find Barton waiting to fetch her coat and hustle her out—all very politely, mind. As the day progressed, the humiliation refined into pure anger.

Not without some bumps.
Deflated confidence allowed her skewered ego to whisper all kinds of nonsense to her:

Getting a man aroused isn’t brain surgery
. Men hover on sexual arousal as a matter of course. I felt powerful, but really, I could’ve been anybody. Maybe his standards on good sex were higher. Maybe I was inadequate.

That last thought s
traightened her out a good deal, and she recouped her anger.

Despite her best intentions, it was a one-night stand after all. No one was allowed to make her feel unworthy, not even Ford Braxton Howard. Possibly his other women accepted it, but she would not.

Her friends were right. Liana was right. Seeing Ford at all was a mistake.

Swearing impatiently, she threw herself into the chair in front of her computer, eying the screen indecisively.
She didn’t want to know anything else about him. She had all she needed.

But at last she caved and, clicking on the Internet icon, keyed
Ford Braxton Howard
in the Google toolbar. Her pinkie finger rested on the Enter key, but she didn’t press it.

The worst part was that she had been wai
ting for him to call to make new plans, so that she could execute
her
Plan.

Hell or high water, she was going to tell him off. And the only way to tell off an asshole was
face-to-face and to look fantastic doing it. So, here she was, with perfect makeup, hair done in a riot of waves that had taken a ridiculously long time to create, and a brand new
screw you and the horse you rode in on
dress laid out on her bed.