The Value of Vulnerability (36 page)

He should be calling Cameron, whom he used when inside security wouldn’t suffice. But the woman in front of him was far too tempting.

Hands skimming up her thighs to burrow under the frothy skirt, he eased her onto the front edge of the desk. “Can dinner wait another few minutes?”

“Pretty sure it can,” she agreed, instantly and effortlessly focused on him.

As he was on her.

***

Two days later, Ford braced himself as he wandered into unfamiliar territory. He drew a breath and stepped through the IT department doorway just in time to see a hail of Nerf darts shoot over cubicles. A Nerf war zone.

Bloody hell.
He cleared his throat.

A young man’s face poked over a cubicle wall. “Hey!” he greeted with shocking informality. “What’s up?”

“I require assistance.”

Another voice from an unseen speaker said, very hushed: “Dude. That’s Ford Howard.”

The visible person’s jaw dropped. “Hey, Mr. Howard. Sorry. Hello. Um. I’m Manvir. Manny. Um. What can I help you with? Sir.”

Ford didn’t often feel idiotic, but between his archaic phone and lack of knowledge of popular music, the day hadn’t been going well. “Ringtones.”

“Well, you can download—”

“I’m aware.”

“Sure, sure. Can be tricky.”

Ignoring just how patronising that was, he glanced at his watch. Bad timing. Presumably lunch was on the schedule once a truce was called in the war. “I can return later. This afternoon.”

“No, man! We can totally help out,” Manny insisted. “Slow day. We’re usually, um,” he gestured with the Nerf rifle in his hand, then hastily set it aside, the plastic clattering on the desk. “Usually busier than this. A lot of our work is waiting, y’know.”

“I did
not, but IT’s reputation is quite sound.” It was true. There was never any push back from the department when it came to tech support.  “And I believe you were helpful in that recent virus incident on my server.”

“Yeah. That was me. Happy to help, man. Er, Mr. Howard.”

Damn. What would Erin do?

Ford
cleared his throat again. “It’s noon. We’ll order in lunch. On the company. Pizzas?” he suggested, not really sure if that was the route to go. Certainly wouldn’t have been his choice.

But a whoop sounded from another hidden person, and Manny grinned. “Sounds great, Mr. Howard. Let me see your phone.” And grimaced when he saw it.

“I have previously loaded,”
was that the right word?
“personalised ringtones, but it’s been some time and aside from having forgotten how I did it, there is little technical support for that model to relearn.”

“No problem,” Manny assured. “We got this.”

***

“Call me,” Ford ordered, plumping a pillow and settling it behind him as he lounged against the headboard of Erin’s bed.

Grinning, she reached for her BlackBerry and dialled his number.

And burst out laughing when the theme from
Wonder Woman
sounded from his phone on the bedside table.

“Like it?”

“I love the thought.” She chuckled. “Inspired by the spinning incident?”

“Partly.” He assumed a bored look. “It’s a techno remix.”

Her lips parted in astonishment. “A what?”

“A techno remix. It’s a—”

“I know what it is. What were you doing today?”

“Having pizza with the guys in IT.”

Both the activity and how he phrased it rendered her speechless. She climbed on top of him, staring wide-eyed at his bland expression. “Is that really what you chose for me?”

“When I told IT you read comics, they came up with that. But no. It was to amuse you. Can you reach my phone? Thanks, sweetheart.” He scrolled through. “All right. Dial again.”

She complied. And his phone sounded Madonna’s
Hung Up
.

Hazel eyes glowed with laughter and pleased pride. “Are you? Hung up on me?”

“It is not a man singing that,” he mocked. Then the man was overridden by boyish amusement. “You’re the one hung up.”

“Uh huh. Sure am
.” She chuckled and kissed him. “I love that CD. Great memories of being nineteen. You couldn’t have picked better.”

“Good.” He kissed her back. “What would mine be?” he asked curiously.

Her attention was on her phone screen as she scrolled through missed messages, so she answered somewhat absently. “I can’t assign one for you because it’s a private number.”

“What would it be?” he insisted.

“
Sympathy for the Devil
,” she responded without hesitation.

He swore under his breath and palmed his face.

Brooke Langford of the girl-gang was almost hopping with excitement at seeing Erin. “Thank you for helping me out!”

“How’d you end up in charge of this soiree?” Erin eyed the ballroom of Hotel Castlefield. The first glittering guests were just arriving, accepting champagne and hors d’oeuvres from flocking wait staff.

“My boss’s pet charity,” the redhead muttered. “And because I’m her favourite employee, I got the honour. I do more for the Carter Foundation than I do for Carter Industries.”

“Congratulations,” she
said wryly, noting her friend’s harassed look. “What do you need me to do? Cocktails? Food?”

“The Klutz of Thornhill? I don’t think so
.” Brooke laughed. “Gorgeous dress, by the way.”

“Thanks. I got it in New York.”

“When were you in New York?”

“Weekend after Valentine’s.”

“I’ve seen you since.”

“Yeah, forgot to mention it. It was amazing!”

“But you went to New York without me! You wench.”

“I went with Ford. And no offense: I love you, but.”

“Forgiven. Anyway,” Brooke refocused on the task at hand, “help me greet the crowd and schmooze. Make sure everyone’s happy. You’re good at that.”

After
a few more instructions, Erin draped the lanyard with her nametag—identifying her as charity staff—around her neck, and went about the business of ensuring that the wealthy attendees were well watered and in generous frames of mind. Familiar with the mission of the charity, she worked the room, introducing benefactors to the few representative beneficiaries, knowing pockets opened wider when a human face and name were attached to the munificence.

As the evening wore on, she became aware of—and grew uneasy under—the near-constant scrutiny of a woman attending the dinner. Perhaps in her mid-fifties, beautifully dressed and coifed, the woman was elegant, tall and straight, with the loveliest skin.

Eventually, the woman crossed the room to her.

“Are you Erin Russell?” the woman asked, sweeping her with a cool gaze.

Yep. Just like it says on the nametag in gigantic letters,
she thought with a degree of bitchiness. But odds were, she excused, that after all that speculative staring, this woman wasn’t after a friendly chitchat. “Yes. May I help you?”

“I am Helen Braxton-Howard.”

Her jaw dropped. “Mrs. Howard. Er. Ms. Braxton-Howard. Er. Sorry. You’re Ford’s mom?” she finally managed.

The woman raised an
amusedly incensed eyebrow, perhaps at such a warm word as ‘mom’ being applied to her. “Yes. You are his mistress, I understand?”

Her face flushed. “I am not,” she denied. “I’m his girlfriend.”

That earned an eye roll. “However you choose to phrase it, Ms. Russell.”

“How do you know me? I mean, of me?” Before she could stop herself, she said cuttingly, “It isn’t like Ford has much to do with his parents.”

“Very few secrets in this town, believe me,” Helen conceded grudgingly. Feline amber eyes, much like Ford’s, glinted at her. “You aren’t expecting him to marry you, are you?”

I would rather she had slapped me.

Barely containing her anger and humiliation, she retorted, “My relationship with Ford and my expectations regarding it are none of your business. If your son wants to tell you anything, I’m sure he will. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Perhaps we can both get what we want,” Helen stopped her.

Against her better judgment, she waited.

Those amber eyes glittered again with something akin to triumph. “I would like to be closer to my son. We’ve grown apart in recent years.”

Recent?

“Would you help me get closer to him?”

“How?” Erin asked coolly. “No, don’t answer that. Tell me why.”

“But I’ve said. Because he’s my son, of course.”

Like her son, Helen Braxton-Howard did not have the wherewithal to carry the innocent tone.

“Pony up with a bit of truth, Helen,” Erin suggested.

“Hah!” The laughing bark seemed to catch Helen by surprise. She glanced around. “Come. Let’s talk.”

She
urged Erin in the direction of a cosy alcove and a waiter promptly brought wine to them.

“It’s all about money,” the woman said as they settled at a table. “I respect Ford’s judgment when it comes to making it. I’m even starting to respect his judgment when choosing, er, girlfriends.”

Oh, that was smooth, Helen.
Erin smiled, genuinely amused now. “Go on.”

“Now, you come from a nice family, don’t you? Close and loving and all that? Don’t you want that for Ford? If I could repair my relationship with him, he might soften his anti-marriage and anti-family views. He might want to settle down, make you his wife instead of his mis—sorry, girlfriend.”

Haven’t you thought along those lines a bazillion times?
Though in her reasoning, it would be through meeting
her
loving family, not running repairs with his.

“All I want from you is some harmless information.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, his schedule. Social schedule, only,” Helen added. “You see, my dear, if I know to what restaurant or event he is taking you, I could show up and—and open a dialogue with him. You and I would be friendly. He would see that, and perhaps he would be more inclined to respond positively in my attempts to reach him. Is that not a reasonable, noble, and harmless request?”

Erin drew a breath, wanting to say much, but had to remain polite for the sake of the charity. “Helen, I would love if Ford had a fonder opinion of the nicer things in life, but for his own sake, not mine. That said, I have no interest in scheming against him, even for his own good. I will happily suggest to him that he keep the lines of communication open, but I’ll not go behind his back. I’ll let him know you asked after him. Now,” she made to rise, “if you’ll excuse me—”

“I would pay you, of course.”

She settled back in the chair, staring in wide-eyed astonishment at Helen.

The older woman’s face was a picture of amused cynicism at this assumed capitulation.

“What kind of bull is this? No offense. Actually, I don’t care if you’re offended. This is bull.”

“Very crude, my dear. But how so?”

“Please stop calling me ‘my dear.’ It’s pretentious and condescending and, even as old as you are, predates you by a generation. Be honest with me, and I just might be honest with you.”

“You don’t seem to struggle in the honesty department.”

“Not often. So. Money. I assume you have lots. Why do you need more?”

“My dear—Apologies. Erin, there is no such thing as enough money. Ford has a Midas touch. But he is parsimonious with the financial advice he gives me. I call. Sometimes he ignores, and sometimes he answers. But I want more of it, more often, and am certain you can get it for me. I would pay you a commission.”

“Sweet.”

“Then it’s a bargain?”

She laughed. “No. Because I don’t care about money. I mean, if I didn’t have any,
maybe
it’d be a temptation. But I care about Ford—”

“If you think he’ll marry you and you’ll get his money that way, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Wow,” she marvelled. She sipped her wine, just to prove to herself that she had the furious quaking under control. “Anywho, as I was saying, I don’t care about money. I make a lot of money at my job. And while my family isn’t important and elite and old money, we are not poor. Anyway you cut it, I’m not even vaguely tempted to help you out. I don’t care how much money you want, or have.” She leaned forward. “But that’s not the bullshit part, Helen. The BS is in this lame offer. Somebody set me up. Set us up. Who pointed me out to you? Who set this up?”

Helen stared at her for several moments in complete, unblinking silence, eerily reminiscent of Ford whenever Erin had posed ‘simple’ questions to him.

And then: “Who would benefit from setting up this meeting, Erin?”

“No one I can think of.”

Helen looked off across the ballroom, her face still, but the skin around her eyes tightening—and then sagging as she sighed, relaxing somewhat. “Ford is very much like his father. Handsome and intelligent beyond measure. Cold and manipulative. They despise each other, and always have. They despise me, too.” She chuckled, now studying her wine glass. “But much less than each other. Ford ruined him, you know, with my help. When Ford asked for my assistance, I had to think hard about which of them I disliked least. And chose Ford.” She looked at Erin then, offering a faint smile. “We aren’t very nice people.”