The Value of Vulnerability (23 page)

She had pretty lingerie
on, too, under her robe, but that was for her benefit. Not his. He would never see her lingerie again.

Now, she was pretty certain there would be no more calls from Ford Howard, and she would never get to tell him off. Which made her regret the exorbitant sum she had paid out for that dress.

Her finger caressed the key.

Press it
.

The phone rang and she picked it up. “Hello?”

“Erin.”

Lips pressed together
to contain both bitter words and a triumphant shout. “Yes, Ford?”

“My meeting wrapped up suddenly. Would you like to join me for dinner? With my friends.”

His
friends
? That wasn’t part of her Plan. “I don’t know. You should—”

“Don’t be angry,” he said softly. “I’ll send a car for you.”

His friends. Much as it was hard to imagine such a man having any, curiosity undercut her anger. What were they like? And was his invitation to meet them his way of apologising?

Not that it was sufficient, but when viewed in light of his guardedness, his intense privacy, and need for control, it was . . . downright
weird.

More importantly, if she turned him down, she might not get another chance to tell him off.
And all that money on the dress would be wasted.

“I’ll take a cab. Where are you?”

“Weimar. Just west of Avenue—”

“I know where it is.” Thank
god her Plan necessitated that dress. “I suppose jeans are out.”

“Personally, I approve, but the maitre d’ might have a heart attack,” he chuckled.

“Well, we mustn’t have that.” She closed her eyes, gathering her will. “I’ll be there shortly.”

There was a pause. “Thank you, Erin.”

Astounded, she stared at the receiver. Ford Howard had expressed gratitude. And had said it with relief.

This might prove very interesting,
she decided as she dialled for a cab.
You know. Not boring.

***

Erin looked askance at the people who rushed to serve her once she stated the name of her party. The haughty maître d’ snapped to attention, the coat-check attendant spoke respectfully while taking her inadequate coat, and the sycophantic host escorted her to the table where Ford sat with his friends.

The men rose as she approached (
okay, so it’s still kind of impressive, these manners
), and she plastered a smile on her face. Ford’s friends weren’t likely to be overly friendly—didn’t one surround oneself with likeminded people?—and surely, she had been invited on spec.

It’s a test. Little does he know, it’s all over.

Fortunately for him, Ford made no move to touch her in any way. “Erin Russell,” he introduced, “Nick Kristopoulos and Conor Delaney.”

“Gentlemen,” she exaggerated.

Nick smiled
warmly enough. Conor gave her a slow appraisal, with head tilted, leaning slightly to make sure he saw as much as possible. She returned the thorough survey, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“All right?” she asked.

He grinned. “Spectacular.”

“Ignore him,” Ford dismissed with a growl. “He’s a bastard.”

“I recognised him instantly,” she assured, and sat in the chair Ford held, beside him and opposite his friends.

The men sat again. There were visual exchanges, and Conor looked ready to bust a gut.

The head waiter materialised next to her, filling a crystal goblet with still mineral water and a Bordeaux glass from a bottle that looked old, French, and expensive. Succulent dishes were pointed out to her on a menu that lacked prices.

“Bet she orders salad,” Conor said.

“No. Lamb. Extra rare,” Nick said, and shot a not-sympathetic look at Ford.

Truth was, she was tired of the overindulgence of the season and couldn’t wait for it to be over. Salad was a good ide
a, and she loved lamb. She ordered grilled salmon with steamed veg, refusing to give anyone else at the table the satisfaction of being right.

“What do you do, Nick?” she asked, eying him over the rim of her wine glass.

“I run KCL.”

“Ah, construction. I’ve seen the signs on hoarding everywhere. And you, Conor?”

“I’m in imports.”

“How vague. Are you a smuggler? Bringing cheap cigarettes over the border?”

The man grinned. “My company is Delaney & Co.”

“Never heard of it.”

Ford chuckled. She ignored him.

“It’s an appraisal firm
,” Conor clarified.

“You appraise your cigarette shipments?”

“Why do I think you’re being deliberately obtuse?”

“Because I am. I’ve spent the last week talking about myself, and would like to hear something new.”

“Do not get him started on himself, Erin,” Ford said. “Dead boring.”

“I’m fascinating.” Conor propped an elbow, leaning toward her. “I appraise art and historical documents. Confirm provenance . . . Do you know what that is?”

“Not really. Something about proving the history of ownership of paintings.”

“Yes, essentially. And other items.”

“Is there much call for that?”

“Rich people collect things. They want to know they don’t have forgeries.”

“So you ensure genuineness for the pretentious?”

Conor laughed, and glanced at Ford. “She’s funny.” He looked at her again. “Ford’s women usually bore us.”

“Do they last long enough to accomplish that?”

“Ouch,” Nick said.

“How do you know Ford?” she asked Conor.

“School.”

“Like . . . grade school? High school? The Learning Annex?”

“University. London School of Economics.”

“When was that?”

“More than ten years now.”

“And you, Nick? Where did you meet Ford?”

“KCL built the new BHG Tower. We met about five years ago.”

“Did you become friends right away? Or was there an extended probationary period while he ran background checks on you?”

Nick looked at Ford. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Of course I did,” Ford replied evenly. “Erin expected it.” He spun his phone.

Her hand came down on the phone, stopping it abruptly. She put it out of his reach. “No toys at the table.”

“What about that?” Conor pointed at her BlackBerry between her place setting and his.

“That is not a toy, but an electronic communication device.
In case I have to call a cab to make a quick exit. You know. If I get bored. We all know how terrible it is to be bored. Though I think the Pet Shop Boys had a song back in the day with some good advice. So, Nick. Your friendship with Ford?”

Nick and Conor both shifted in their chairs and traded an amused glance. Ford didn’t move, and she didn’t look at him to judge his reaction.

Soon, she was supplied with anecdotes of their relationships with Ford. Stories of women, parties, business deals, and other friends and acquaintances, all delivered with a degree of schadenfreude.

The picture they drew of him was somewhat different than that she had seen, of a man who enjoyed jokes but not pranks. A man who took pleasure in the finer things of life, but preferred simplicity and quiet times with
carefully selected and rare friends. A man who for whom no one else mattered.

It wasn’t what was said, but
how
it was said, that created an image of a cool and sombre personality that had, like a demarcation line dating from around the time Nick had met him, become colder, darker, and impenetrable.

For Nick’s stories were more serious than Conor’s. Conor, whose veneer of outright rake and charming cad slipped badly, told bawdy and riotous tales that made her laugh, most from university days. 

Yet there was reticence in the telling. They betrayed no confidences, skimming over details. She respected it even while it disappointed her. They were protective of him.

That such a man as Ford engendered protectiveness intrigued her. And for Ford to have such friends indicated that he had redeeming qualities—even when they weren’t obvious.

In short, she liked his friends, and her irrepressible sunniness started leaking out.

Naturally, there were allusions to gold diggers. Ford’s wealth didn’t interest her as much as intimidate her. But he must be a target for unscrupulous people, and how could he know she would be any different?

Handouts. Hand ups. Goes with the territory.

Maybe that was his problem—he wasn’t a sociopath, but just a cynic of the highest order.

That should have been comforting. Problem was: she couldn’t be certain it was true.

***

They like her.

It pleased Ford how Erin presented herself, reflecting well on him.

While she had paid little attention to him through dinner, he had paid close attention to her, admiring the line of her profile, the movement of her mouth as she spoke and flashed that stunning smile. It boded well that she was not angry about the events of the morning, as a mistress would have to contend with much worse than that.

He ignored again the prick of conscience and the nausea it engendered
, but was able for the first time to connect it to the panicked sensation he had been experiencing.

The hem of her dress had ridden up on her crossed thighs and he ran a fingertip along the groove where her quad met her hamstring.

And got his hand smacked.

His friends laughed, possibly more at his astonishment than her action.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Erin said, and they all rose as she took her leave. Ford watched her go, enjoying the view of her delectable ass swaying as she headed for the restroom.

“As soon as she gets back,” Nick said to Conor as they sat again, “we’re leaving.”

“Aw, come on! I want to watch.”

“Watch what?” Ford asked.

They ignored him, talking instead about where they would go after this.

Ford frowned, sifting through details of the evening’s conversation. “What was that reference to the Pet Shop Boys?” he asked.

“
We were never being bored, ’cause we were never being boring,
” Nick quoted the lyrics.

He thought about that. “Good advice,” he decided.

“We like her,” Conor said. “Don’t screw it up.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Everything is fine between us.”

They stared at him.

Then Conor burst out: “Come
on
, Nick! I gotta see this.”

Nick laughed. “It won’t happen while we’re here, anyway.”

“What won’t happen?” Ford asked.

“It’ll look better if you insist we go,” Nick went on to Conor. “You come across as more spontaneous than I do. You good with that?”

“Sure.”

“What?” Ford snapped.

Conor looked across the room. “Here she comes. Take it like a man, Ford.”

*

Within moments of her sitting again, Conor began persuading Nick to accompany him to a private club where he was certain “women with almost enough wit to tolerate for a few hours,” would be anxiously awaiting such handsome specimens.

“Where do you find such marvels?” she demanded of Conor as they stood to leave.

“Tonight? Requiem,” he named the club as he kissed her hand. “Any other night? Just about anywhere.” He patted her cheek. “You’re a rare creature, Erin. Don’t forget it.”

He slid an assessing look at Ford, and she couldn’t help but think that Conor’s newly discovered protective nature came as a shocking revelation to everyone at the table, including Conor himself.

Nick winked at her and the men left together, swapping insults.

Lingering over exquisite coffee and fine Ontario ice wine, Ford finally spoke. “Thank you for joining us. You were quite charming. My friends liked you.”

Lashes lowered, she toyed with her wine, her fingertips stroking the long stem of the crystal Reidel glass, perfectly designed for the nectar it held.

“You are very beautiful tonight,”
he said, fingers combing through the tips of her hair.

“Ford?”

“Yes?”

She turned her head to look at him directly for the first time that evening, and found his expression smug, as if he were rather pleased with himself.

“If you ever—
ever
—treat me with such contempt again, I will cut out your heart with this butter knife. Actually, maybe not your heart. I’m sure you put greater value on other parts of your anatomy.”

His hand stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“So you should,” she retorted, deliberately misunderstanding. Judging from his stunned look, no one had ever spoken to him like that before. “I mean it, Ford. At least, metaphorically.”