The Value of Vulnerability (24 page)

To his credit, he regained his amused façade fast. “Isn’t this the metaphor?”

“Why? Do you feel castrated? Honey, this is me being nice about it. I’m not your whore, to kick out of your bed when you’re done with me.”

Comprehension dawned.
“You mean . . . this morning.”

“Duh.”

“Erin, I honestly did not realise how you felt.”

She turned more fully toward him. “And now, not only about that.”

“What else, then?”

“You had left me with the impression that you had some plan for us today. Then you didn’t call until late, and it was only to spin some lie. Why? You could have told me you wanted to see your friends instead. I would have understood. Would have been completely fine with it.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Sorry
, but with no explanation. And flatly insincere.

“What good is ‘sorry’? I wanted to be with you, Ford. Willing to keep things between us limited to sex because that’s all you offered. Because I
liked
you. And stupidly hoped that you were not the sociopath all evidence suggests you are.”

His eyebrows shot up, then descended into a glower. “Sociopath?”

“You screwed up.”

“Then why did you come here? Why give me another chance? I’ll let you imagine the air quotes around that last bit. I’m not the sort to actually do air quotes.”

“Because I’m a happy, positive, and nice person!” she snapped.

“Clearly.”

She put a hand over his mouth. “Don’t smile like that when I’m giving you hell. And who said I was giving you another chance? I want to know why you treated me like that. I’m
sorry
,” she said sarcastically, “if I proved inadequate compared to the women you’ve been whoring around with. Maybe I was
boring.
But if you aren’t interested, cut me loose. Don’t—” Her voice hitched. “Don’t humiliate me. Don’t try to make me feel like dirt as a convenient way to either control me or get rid of me.”

“Is that what you think? That I found you inadequate?” he demanded incredulously.

“That’s not really the point of what I said. God! So obtuse.” Shaking her head, she reached for her wine, draining the glass and setting it firmly down.

He shifted in his chair. A heavy sigh left his body. “I am not a sociopath. I merely don’t care about people I don’t care about.”

“Great tautology,” she remarked.

That produced dimples. “I like that you surprise me. I like that your reactions are somewhat unpredictable. As for this morning . . .”

“Yes?”

Tawny eyes caught hers. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her tightly against him, forearm banding her shoulders, fingers curling in her hair to brush her neck. “It wasn’t because I found you
inadequate.
”

Judging from his expression, he was looking to negotiate and receive forgiveness.
If he is a sociopath—with no conscience, no empathy, and a drive to win—he’ll take advantage of it. Of you.
Here’s the demo.

It was then that she knew she was willing to give him another chance. If he got through this window of opportunity, though, was she willing to commit? Because there could be no half measures. She had to be all in or all out.

That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question, wasn’t it? How important was Ford to her? Were emotions to be spent rashly on him in hope? For the relationship to have at least a chance at succeeding, emotional economy must be shed. The risk? Emotional bankruptcy.  Pain.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t experienced those things. But having survived them before, she’d be sure to survive them again.

She needed to decide soon. Time—the thing she always queried because it meant so little to her—was now of the essence.

“Just to be absolutely clear, sex with you was more than adequate.” He bent his head to whisper against her ear, his voice rougher. “Remember our conversation about thoughtful passion? Like you said, skill implies thinking. Last night was wholly thoughtless, reckless, open. Who notices skill under those conditions? So, no. ‘Inadequate’ was not even close to the description I would make of it, or descriptor I would apply to you.”

“Okay.” She swallowed, eyes half closed as she listened to him, the impact of his words igniting afresh the embers of desire she tried to quash.

“You believe me?”

“Sure. Yes,” she amended more firmly. “Then why the dismissive attitude? Was it to force me to end things so you didn’t have to? Or are you so used to treating people like dirt, it’s a habit?”

His hand tightened almost painfully on her shoulder. Abruptly, he raised his head. “Neither. If I wish to terminate a relationship, I do so without excuse.”

“All right.”

“Further, I do not treat people like dirt. I am polite, well mannered, and generous.”

“Ohhh-kaaay.”
Sociopaths are delusional. Check.

“I am not, and never will be, a particularly open person. Nor am I often overt in my emotions.”

“Is this your campaign speech for Understatement of the Year Award?”

“What I’m trying to say,” he tilted her chin up, “is that on occasion, an emotion occurs that requires review. It was that need that led to my abrupt dismissal of you this morning.”

“What emotion?” she whispered.

Cupping her face in both hands, he held her tear-sheened gaze. “Erin, I discovered this morning that . . .” He swallowed, having difficulty with his confession.

“Yes?” she squeaked.

“That I like you.”

She blinked.

It sounded so coldly frank that she didn’t doubt it. It highlighted just how rare such an emotion was for him that it impacted his actions to such a degree and he took it so seriously.

So rather than laugh, which—
let’s face it
—was tempting, she said: “I like you, too, Ford.”

“You like everyone,” he scoffed.

“Not really. Well, okay, I’m pretty free with my likes.”

He was an enigma, but just the fact he could admit that much was an indicator that they had a chance together. Wasn’t it? He was wor
th a degree of risk. Wasn’t he?

“But you’re not easy to like, Ford. Especially when you pull crap like that.”

“How long will it take for you to let it go?”

T
he near petulance of that statement made him seem so
normal
for a second, which was endearing. As a bonus, there was little chance of that sort of
normal
popping up again anytime soon, as it would wear thin pretty fast.

“It’s let go,” she said soberly. “
I won’t mention it again.”

“Good.”
He pulled her hand into his lap to press it against his erection.

“Ford! We’re in public here.” Though the restaurant was mostly empty now and their table secluded.

“Glad my castration was metaphorical?” he asked heatedly.

“Oh, yeah.” She moaned softly and turned her face for his kiss. “Take me home.”

Decision made. She was investing in him. Heavily.

***

Hanging up their coats in the vestibule closet, she turned to him. “Would you like anything?”

“I’d like to look at you,” he stated flatly, a slight smile tilting his mouth. “Don’t you look lovely in that? Another red dress. Definitely your colour.” He spun her around so that the flouncy skirt of the dress swirled around her thighs. “You said you never dress up.”

“I’ve worn more dresses in the last couple of weeks than the previous six months combined.”

“As I said before, you should do it all the time.” He pulled her in for a heated kiss. “Bedroom,” he murmured into her mouth, and she vaguely tossed a hand in the general direction.

They kissed and stroked all the way down the short corridor to the small but cosy bedroom. He removed her dress and lingerie with gentle movements, spinning her as he did so, as if she were being unwrapped. Dizzy and laughing, she leaned against him, attempting to find equilibrium. He pushed her away with that wry half smile, spun her again, and let her fall on the bed. She gazed up at him as he removed his clothes with the stunning efficiency of all men about to have sex, his amber eyes glowing as they pinned her in place.

Stretching out beside her, he feathered light caresses that burned over her skin. She reached for him, but he caught her hands and held them, keeping her from further exploration.

“Do you forgive me?”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have you naked in my bed if I were still angry at you,” she chuckled, arching her back to wriggle against him.

A sudden and uncalculated grin splashed over his mouth. “Well, there’s much to be said for angry sex. I meant,” he said as she frowned, “that anger makes for as good an emotion as any.”

That was not what he meant. He meant he had had angry sex in the past, and it had been good. But she didn’t challenge him, not wanting to hear about his other women, nor have herself compared to them. “All right.”

“Where was I?” he demanded.

“Angry sex.”

“No. Forgiveness. But—”

“Before anything else, I have a condition,” she said, holding on to the tenuous threads of her control. A difficult task when his hands were stroking and teasing her flesh, and amber eyes were spilling hot flames all over her. But she caught one of those wandering hands, stilling him, and did her best to ignore his lust—which, in any event, receded with her statement.

“What sort of condition?” he asked levelly.

“You have to agree to answer the occasional personal question.” Then she corrected herself. “You don’t
have
to agree, but I’d like you to agree.”

He withdrew, physically and mentally, levering himself off her and subjecting her to a shuttered look. But he didn’t go far—just propped on an elbow beside her—and the still expression was balanced with a curious glint in those tawny eyes.

“And if I don’t agree?”

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t,” she retorted with a laugh. “I’m not asking for the moon. And it’s pretty standard when people are dating—or having a fling. Either.”

“What sort of personal questions?”

“Simple ones.”

“Example.”

She flashed a grin. “What’s your favourite colour?”

There was no response, but a small frown knitted his brows.

“Ford?”

“I’m thinking.” Then, “Black.”

“Seriously?”

He blinked. “Red?”

“Do you know?”

“Blue,” in a voice tinged with stress.

She laughed. “You don’t know your favourite colour?”

The sensual mouth compressed. “I’ve never thought about it.”

“So think about it.”

“I did. No one has ever asked me such a question.”

“Really?”

“I do not encourage personal examination.”

“You don’t say.”

“And whatever someone might care about from me, it has never included those details.”

God, that’s sad
.

“I choose strong colours in my wardrobe and decor. Predominant colours are black and grey.”

“So, no pastels or beiges or the like.”

Slightly horrified: “No.”

“Okay,” she chirped, and kissed him. “Thanks.”

“That’s the sort of thing you want to know?”

“Sure. Just normal, getting-to-know-you stuff.”

“Simple things.”

“Yeah,” she drawled, suppressing a laugh. “Simple.”

“I accept your condition,” he said curtly.

“Gosh, thanks.”

“Where was I?”

“Forgiveness.”

His expression softened with a hint of a smile and much lust. “Yes. But I must apologise first. Properly. May I?”

“If you insist.” She shivered in anticipation.

“Chilly?” he suggested, and she shook her head. “I didn’t think so.”

He proceeded to apologise to her, very thoroughly.

***

The ringing of a cell phone intruded on the still quiet of the bedroom.

“That’s mine.” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he
reached for his suit jacket.

She sat up behind him, her fingers trailing over his spine, exploring the smooth skin, counting each ridge of vertebrae. He would leave now. Phone calls in the middle of the night always meant something important and urgent.

“All right. Keep me posted,” he said, and disconnected.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

He shrugged, looking over his shoulder at her. “Hard to say. But I think I’ll be spending Christmas in India.”

“Really? That’s exciting. What’s in India?”

“Labour problems, politics, and trouble.” He lay back on the pillow, dragging her down to half sprawl over him. “It’s an exciting country. You’d love it.”