The Value of Vulnerability (33 page)

*

In the hallway, Ford pressed a hand flatly to the door, his head bent as he silently mouthed her name. Crushing pain assaulted his temples as he fought his demons—he was ill equipped to help her.
He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but who was he to provide solace? That was entirely Erin’s skillset. And not even a bit of his.

Accounts must be settled
with Woods, but the normal scorched-earth approach wouldn’t do—Woods could not be destroyed without hurting the presumably blameless wife. Erin wouldn’t approve.

Wherever the germ of conscience had come from, its timing couldn’t be worse. Woods was going to get away with this unscathed. He’d find another job. His wife would never find out. Life would go on.

With an impotent sigh, Ford walked to the elevator, pressing the button and shoving his hands in his pockets.

No, damn it. It wasn’t conscience. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Cathy Woods. Screw her and her bad taste in husbands.

The sole concern was that Erin might discover his hand in whatever revenge he meted out. So far, he had successfully kept his darker nature hidden from her, and could not risk her discovering it. He enjoyed having her in his life. Emotionally, he couldn’t offer her much, but he could protect her, even if that protection was from Ford himself.

There was no doubt that she would end everything if she knew him better.

There’s something you can do.

He dialled Cameron.

***

“About Joe Woods.”

Cameron stirred sugar into his coffee. “What about him? I swear, there’s nothing on the guy.”

“There is now. And—” He hesitated. Then: “I need a favour.”

The spoon clattered in the saucer as the investigator eyed him coolly. “We’ve never specifically discussed this, but let’s be clear now. I get information for you, and nothing else.”

“I’m not asking you to cross any line.” Ford leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, assuming a casual demeanour. “The favour involves a white lie. Not even. A slight exaggeration of the truth.”

“Slippery slope,” Cameron muttered. He took a gulp of scalding coffee, then swore, putting the back of his hand to his mouth. “All right. Pitch it. But, Ford? No reprisals on me if I refuse. I make a good friend. A great business associate. But you don’t want me for an enemy any more than I want you for one.”

“Being enemies would serve neither of us well, and yes, I’m aware that you have more than enough information on me to do some damage.”

Cameron laughed, shaking his head. “Cynical bastard. Not what I meant at all. But forget it and tell me what you want.”

“I want Woods’ wife to be informed of his recent activities.”

“Which are?”

“The attempted rape of a co-worker.”

“What? Ford, that’s a call to the cops.”

“The victim is making little of the event and refuses to involve the authorities.”

Cameron stared at him. Then: “Shit. Holy shit. It was Erin Russell, wasn’t it? Is she all right?”

“She seems fine. Very
. . . resilient.”

“
No one’s that resilient. You should be with her right now. Supporting her. Not running around on a search-and-destroy mission.”

While that was most likely true, it was not actually possible. He shrugged.
“I am dissatisfied with Woods merely losing his job.”

“And you can’t do too much to him without Erin knowing.”

That Cameron Hastings understood him so well shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. He merely nodded. “If Woods’ wife were to learn that her husband was subject to an investigation—”

“Which is unofficially true.”

“—because of a prior complaint of sexual harassment and assault—”

“There’s the lie.”

“—and were she were told of current events, then Woods’ life would unravel all on its own.”

“And you want me to make sure Mrs. Woods gets this information.”

“Yes.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Problem? Moral certitude getting in the way?”

“Ford, it’s bad form to sneer at the morals of someone you’re asking to bend them. But consider it done.” He lifted a shoulder, gesturing with the coffee cup. “While I can argue that Woods hasn’t been convicted of anything, and legally, it’s shaky ground, I trust you.”

“You do?”

“Not generally, but as far as Erin Russell goes? You’ve got a thing for her. Didn’t know you had it in you, but it’s making you almost human.”

“Perish the thought,” Ford retorted.

Reviewing the event through the day, Erin knew she had escaped lightly. Though she still felt Joe had not been a serious threat, he could have been had he used more force. While there was no excuse for what he had done, she truly believed rape was not his intent. It really had been a clumsy, blind, and immature seduction attempt.

And whether or not that was true—she wasn’t entirely convincing even to herself—it made her feel less victimised.

Still, she could not imagine how an actual rape victim would cope. She added a rape crisis centre to her list of volunteer work that very day.

Cathy phoned her late that afternoon. The poor woman was a mess and, to Erin’s shock, could not stop apologising to her.

“I was jealous,” Cathy told her. “I suspected Joe imagined himself in love with you. At the Christmas party, you said about how I stood you up all of the time, but Joe never told me of those plans. I—almost hated you. If I had known what a bastard . . .”

This attitude would shift, Erin suspected. Overwhelmed by it all, Cathy would lay blame on different doorsteps through the process—including hers.

“I can’t believe he confessed,” was all she could say.

“
Not willingly. I got a call from someone—a cop or—I don’t know. Someone investigating a sexual harassment complaint against Joe. Alleged sexual assault. And another incident from last night. When I asked him about it, he said you—he used your name—were lying. That he hadn’t touched you.” She hiccupped a sob. “So I got it out of him.”

“I’d
no idea he was under investigation,” she said. Wouldn’t that have popped up in Ford’s investigation?

She listened as Cathy outpoured vitriol about divorce lawyers and how at least she’d never had the son-of-a-bitch’s child. But as the conversation wound up, Erin knew the friendship was already essentially over. She would always be a reminder to Cathy of this time.

Reasonable . . . but depressing as hell.

A quick call to Liana with a very hesitant explanation of events brought the girl-gang to her apartment that night
(Stephanie beside herself for having invited Joe into the cab), and by the end of wine and pizza and ice cream, and in-depth support, she almost felt herself again.

As the days passed, she shed the emotional burden of the assault with relative ease for, when compared to what she saw at the crisis centre, her minor trauma did not bear mentioning. But it had refreshed the memory of Anthony—the feelings were similar, discovering that someone she thought she knew so well was a complete unknown.

Exactly what Ford hadn’t wanted for her.

But she better understood now what he had gone through with Diane. And who knew how many other people? There was a lack of singularity in Ford’s experiences, as if he couldn’t just cite one incident as demonstrative for a particular lesson
. As if he had been taught them over and over again. Maybe that was why he didn’t talk about his life—the fear that rehashing events would add to his pain rather than diminish it.

Broaching this idea took a backseat, though, as things had changed between them.

It was the final straw, having him add physical distance to the emotional.

“Are we through?” she asked bluntly, one night in her apartment after a rather quiet and stilted dinner. So much for Valentine’s Day. He had not so much as held her hand let alone initiated sex.

His responding expression was a kind of still wariness. “Do you want us to be?”

“Hells, no, Ford!
No!
” She pressed her palm against her forehead, struggling to keep her temper under control. “Why can’t you just say things to me?” she muttered. “Tell me what you’re thinking?”

“I think you’re still in shock, Erin.”

“It’s been over a week. You haven’t touched me.”

Rare temper flared in his eyes. “You think it’s because I don’t want to? I want to be sure you’re ready. You haven’t come near me either.”

“
Oh!
” She threw herself into his arms, raining kisses on his hard face. “I’m sorry! All I could think about is how you despised him, how revolted you were that he even touched my hand. I was afraid that you—that I revolted you. I let it go too long. Started thinking you’d reject me.”

In answer, he captured her head in both his hands and pulled her in for his kiss. “Crazy weird girl,” he muttered against her mouth.

In her bedroom much later, limbs entwined as they floated down from the zenith, she murmured with sleepy satisfaction: “This is why couples talk, you know. To avoid these misunderstandings.”

*

He stared at the ceiling in silence, concerned that if he started to speak, the floodgates would open, and he would give himself to her, heart, mind, and soul. Even he was not rich enough to afford that. He wasn’t even sure he had a heart. Or a soul, for that matter.

He had figured out in the short term how not to lose her: giving her surface affection and fitting her into his busy schedule with more generosity than he had for anyone else before. So far, she had accepted it at face value.

He needed a new plan: a way of keeping her without surrendering to her. And without her learning anything about who he really was.

***

The Parents Russell listened to the (edited) tale of Joe’s ‘pass’ with incredulous spluttering and anger. But they didn’t dwell on it, latching on instead to all the information they could gather about Ford. They wanted to meet him, soon, and wondered aloud that anyone could be so busy that a pleasant Sunday dinner couldn’t be managed.

But Ford was very busy, she assured, and balancing her family and friends’ schedules with his hadn’t worked out so far. It would soon, she promised, and left it at that.

Just when she was issuing an invitation for the following Sunday to him and he was agreeing, he sprung a surprise on her to make up the Valentine’s Day Bust in a big way: he took her on a BHG jet to New York for the weekend. A whirlwind of museum and gallery tours—and he even managed not to look too pained over suffering through a Broadway musical. Not to mention shopping—she finally had to put her foot down, very uncomfortable with the expense he laid out on her behalf.

It was in New York that they stopped using condoms. It stepped up the intimacy factor dramatically. And yet . . .

Lying beside him in the huge bed of the luxury suite, lethargy weighting her body as she stroked his chest, the sounds of Manhattan muffled but ever-present, she pondered how to move them forward as a couple. She was not such a fool to mistake his casual affection and intense lovemaking for love. She, on the other hand, had surrendered all but a small part of herself to loving him, knowing that time was ticking by rapidly and something had to change soon in the relationship—for good or bad—as she could not hold out forever. The hope that he would let her into his heart was fading fast. The harder she tried, the further away she seemed.

Oh, it was fine when they talked of other things, sharing anecdotes, arguing politics, teaching things the other knew well. Like today, for instance. Up in Harlem at The Cloisters, she told him all about how the medieval museum came to be (thanks to a website she quickly scanned)
, and once inside, he told her all about medieval art. It was a beautiful balance in their relationship, having similar interests, but different knowledge.

Okay, so he had a whole lot more knowledge, and interests far ranging beyond hers, but the point was still valid.

Only when they tread on personal ground—
Ford
’s personal ground—did the going get rough. Or rather, the road emptied. Sure, he made her laugh with how he struggled with her ‘simple questions.’ But she had more complex questions she wanted to ask.

“Ford? Do you ever see your parents?”

“No. Well, my mother on occasion.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “Why are you asking?”

“You never mention them even in passing.”

Silence greeted that. She closed her eyes, frustrated.

“I can count on one hand the number of times either parent spoke to me before they divorced,” he said finally.

She raised her head, giving him quizzical smile. “You’re not serious.”

“I was raised by nannies and governesses. My earliest memories of my mother are of her coming to the nursery to give instructions to the staff. She rarely even looked at me.”

“Maybe because you’re too beautiful.” Playfulness was an effective approach with him.

“That must have been it,” he agreed, sending her a laughing glance. “
When they divorced, they couldn’t get enough of me. Fought for custody. I’m sure I still bear the scratches,” he said with such casual deprecation that she knew the scratches were real in his heart.