The Value of Vulnerability (7 page)

Erin lifted her shoulders. “You’re coming to the Russell Boxing Day Bash, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Why? Are you ditching
my
parents’ party? You can’t! Mom was so impressed last year with the number of latkes you can eat!”

“I hurt for days afterward and swore I’d never eat another, so yes, I’m in.
Honest!”

“My brothers will be very happy to hear it! About that meeting—”
Not distracted, Stephanie carried on relentlessly. “Do you know who that babe was?”

“I wasn’t
in there. Hey, where’s your phone? Selfie us.”

The demanded selfie was taken, laughingly approved by both of them, and instantly posted—but
ever the consummate multitasker, Stephanie continued the interrogation even as she keyed a status to accompany the image on her timeline.

“You would have seen them come out. Didn’t you?” When
she nodded, Stephanie prompted again: “So, who was the babe? Real squee. Black hair, groovy eyes, real tall, and dressed to strip.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Obviously not, but she was doing her best not to lie outright to one of her best friends.
But she couldn’t resist: “Dressed to strip?”

“You know
—expensive clothes that feel good in your hands while you take them off him.”

“
Omigod, Steph! You’re ridiculous. Hey, I think I left your curling iron out. It was still hot.”

“
No problem. Speaking of hot . . .” She waggled her eyebrows. “He looked familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen him. D’you think movie stars need IT? He has movie-star qualities.”

“
True. Thanks for letting me raid your desk,” she said, still trying to change the subject.

Whether or not it worked, Stephanie caught the eye of an analyst across the table, and went
on her effervescent way, mingling steadily as she moved from one table to the next.

Though rather well done, the post-dinner speeches the executives made came through as ironic, words of holiday cheer and a bright future ahead in the New Year. With little trepidation creeping through, the speeches encouraged the properly liquored and unconcerned employees to both cheers and good-natured heckling. Erin applauded when expected, but otherwise kept quiet.

As speeches wrapped up, she turned to comment on something to Cathy, and the amused quip died in her throat. “Are you feeling all right? You look peaked.”

“A bit tired.”

“Joe!” She snapped at him, concerned by Cathy’s pallor.

“Sweetie!” He put his arm around his wife. “Let’s go home. You look beat.”

“Just what a wife wants to hear,” Cathy said.

The party was breaking up in any event
as rumours swept the room that the winter storm was worsening, and Erin went to the main bar area to fetch Joe and Cathy’s coats from the coat check.

Waiting patiently while they were located, a
strange, unfocused mood swept her, as if her mind was dodging something. The snow falling furiously outside caught her attention, hypnotising her, and she allowed her thoughts to drift. She did not want to go home to an empty bed. Maybe that’s all this mood was—missing a warm body, an attentive lover.

But she had the weird feeling she was being watched. Glancing around, she noted one of the bar patrons looking in her general direction as he spoke into a cell, but his attention moved on.

Stupid paranoia. Have to stop watching serial-killer shows.

The attendant passed her the coats. With a smile, she shoved a tip in the jar. “I’ll be back for mine in a minute.”

Or ten . . .

Or twenty . . .

Wrangling Joe out of boisterous conversation, and keeping herself from such entanglements proved challenging. After nearly half an hour and numerous gentle reminders that his wife really needed to go (because happily married men were strangely obtuse), Erin walked them out, bidding them goodnight before she retrieved her own coat.

She
made no attempt to get a cab, letting others go first, and thought again of that limo ride.

“Miss Russell? Phone call for you.”
The waiter who spoke pointed to the service end of the expansive bar. “You can pick it up there.”

“Thank you,” she replied as she crossed to the wood, trying to sort out who knew she was here
. Everyone she could think of had her cell number. Maybe it had died. Always forgetting to recharge it. But no, she confirmed when she checked, it was almost fully charged.

She smiled at the bartender. “You have a call for Erin Russell?”

“Right.” He handed her the receiver from the phone on his side of the wood. “Go ahead,” he said, pressing the line for her.

“Erin Russell,” she said.

“Look to your left.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look. To. Your. Left.”

She looked to her left
down the length of the wood. Her breath caught.

“That was the reaction I wanted,” Ford’s voice rumbled in her ear. “Come here and let me buy you a drink.”

Thoroughly dumbfounded, she wordlessly handed the receiver back to the bartender and walked towards Ford, standing at the far end of the bar where it turned to run parallel to the front windows. He snapped his cellphone shut and set it on the wood as she approached.

His amber eyes swept fire over her. “Did you follow my advice?”

“Which advice was that?” she asked dazedly, stopping at the corner, keeping her distance.

“Not to drink too much.”

She laughed slightly, recalling. “Actually, yes. Surprisingly. I was all ready to get a bit tipsy since I was cabbing it anyway. And, well, my celebratory mood. But it didn’t work out that way.”

“Good.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why are you all the way over there?”

She dropped her coat and scarf on the nearest bar stool and rounded the corner as if in a trance.

“Stand on this side,” he urged,
stepping back for her to pass in front of him. “Stragglers,” he said, jerking his head towards the Xcess party room.

She watched, fascinated, as he smoothed the cowlick. “What are you
doing
here?”

“Buying you a drink.” He turned towards her as he leaned an arm on the wood,
the width of his shoulders and additional height effectively shielding her from errant straggler eyes. Indicating the bartender who hovered, “What are you having?”

“GM on the rocks, please. In a rock glass
, not a snifter.”

“Make it a double,” Ford suggested
to the man. “Saves you trips.”

The bartender grinned knowingly, but waited for Erin’s nodding agreement before following Ford’s instructions.

She closed her eyes briefly, repeating: “What are you
doing
here?”

“You can’t honestly say you’re surprised.”

“I’m way beyond that. At the border checkpoint of Shocked Land.”

A coaster and generous double Grand Marnier appeared on the glossy wood in front of her
. She sipped the sweet liqueur, keeping her eyes down as she gathered her freshly scattered thoughts, almost afraid to look at Ford for fear he would disappear along with the dream she was sure this had to be.

“Erin
.” The silence stretched, the intimate glow of his eyes preamble to his next words. “You can’t tell a man that you imagined having sex with him up against a wall and not expect him to follow up.”

“I
only
admitted it because I didn’t think I’d see you again.” As he queried that with a complicated and cynical expression, she chided indulgently: “It isn’t as if we move in the same circles. And you’ll never be seen at Xcess, whether or not I have a job there.”

“Are you worried about being let go?”

“Not at all. I have other options, trust me. Don’t you worry.” Not that he would.

“How did your co
workers react to news of the buyout?” he asked.

“I didn’t say anything about it. I promised you I wouldn’t.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Honestly, Erin.”

“Honestly, Ford,” she aped his drawl. “My, aren’t we suspicious.” Another swig of her drink, and her random thoughts settled. “So,
did I check out?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can just see it.” Picking up his cell phone, she opened it to hold it to her ear. In a growling voice, she mimicked a call. “Hey, Bruno. Run the numbers on Erin Russell, will ya? Thanks.” Closing it with a snap, she set it down.

“His name is not ‘Bruno,’” Ford said loftily. “And I do not
speak like that.” He spun the phone on the wood, his gaze focusing on the movement. “How did you know?”

“You kidding? I would if I were you. You’re someone and I’m no one.
I mean, no one by your, um, high standards. What’d you find out?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “You have a very ordinary life, don’t you?” He spun the phone again.

“I really do,” she assured, almost apologetic. “Just an ordinary girl accidentally caught in your headlights. But at the risk of being rude: aside from following up on a mental picture that I shouldn’t have shared, and have no intention of following up on myself, I have no idea why you’re here. Much as I’m blown out of the water that you
are
here.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” he rebuked, his mouth quirking.

She chuckled. “Harsh.”

“
Stop saying you don’t know. It’s . . . idiotic.” Shifting closer to her, he leaned in to murmur in her ear. “You’re beautiful, sexy, funny, and weird. I wanted to see you again.”

“How am I weird?” she demanded. “Thanks for the other bits, though.”

“
You’re weird—” He shook his head, obviously self-editing. “I have never had a woman come on to me like that.”

“I was not coming on
—! Well, I suppose I can’t legitimately protest that,” she amended. “But it wasn’t exactly something new for you, was it? Run of the mill, I’d think.”

“Finding you on your knees behind a reception desk asking about stilettos and thigh-highs, only to deny me a few innocent kisses when opportunity presented itself? Believe me
. That was new—and very provocative.”

“
Innocent
kisses?”

“Or not,” he conceded
. “And it is not often I get accused of being a pretentious pickup artist. Nor am I accused of being boring while doing it.”

She grinned. “Sorry. I’m having a cocky sort of day.”

“Now that’s flirting,” he said, and winked.

“Are you seeing someone for all these personalities you keep trotting out?”

“You caught me off guard tonight,” he said with a shrug.

Erin sensed the
truth behind those words, and she wondered about the real man. Not the business magnate or gossip-column favourite or the revolving faces of the skilled manipulator, but Ford Howard, Human Being.

Then he spoil
t it.

“You come across as sexually confident, but are you?”
He swept her with a look meant to intimidate.

Soft laughter left her throat. “I’m a reasonably confident person in most things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t make a regular ass of myself.”

“Knowing one’s flaws is a powerful thing.” He sipped his rye. “Helps one land on one’s feet.”

“What are your flaws?”

“Too many to list,” he said, giving the distinct impression that he knew his own flaws intimately and regarded them as qualities.

“Do you always land on your feet?”

“In the long run? Always.” Those feline eyes travelled her length, pouring desire all over her like thick syrup. “Metaphorically speaking.”

She
swallowed dryly—
more bed metaphors!
—and took a hasty drink.

“Do you really have no intention of following up with that mental picture?” he asked.

Her physical response was somewhat twitchy as she attempted to nod and shake her head at the same time, finally settling on a shoulder shrug. “I don’t know. That’s a pretty ghetto phone, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The phone spun again on the wood, and she wondered if the action was an outlet for nerves—though he seemed
to be completely without those. “This phone is essentially secure, avoiding security compromises and hacking. I have people to field and filter business communications. This is my personal phone, rarely used, and only a handful of people have the number.”

Made sense. But underscored a kind of odd lack of a personal life. Her BlackBerry was chock full of both business and personal contacts.
Everybody
in her life had her number.

Turning
away, trying to give her out-of-practice hormones some relief, she gazed out the multi-paned front window a few feet away.