The Value of Vulnerability (37 page)

“That’s news,” she retorted dryly.

“It’s the only reason Ford speaks to me at all now. Some sense of obligation from back then. He hates the obligation. But still, on occasion, he asks for small social favours in exchange for financial compensation. He pays me for information,” she clarified.

Another, “Wow,” was all Erin could manage.
Nice family.

“I gather he is interested in you for something,” she waved a hand, “long-term-ish, but having trust issues, needs to test your . . . loyalty or reliability or something.”

Erin blinked. “Are you saying
Ford
set this up? Had you meet me and make that stupid offer?”

“Yes. I was singularly unimpressed, too. I suggested something of a more sexual nature—a young man you couldn’t resist, perhaps—but Ford chose this.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Immaterial. The point is, I’m to report back with your reaction. Such a simple test. His tests and schemes are usually far more . . . taxing. He’s obviously taken with you, giving you a test you can easily pass.”

“Why are you telling me?” she whispered, knowing somehow, it was true.

“You don’t know?” was the surprised retort.

“No. I really don’t.”

“Because you will, like all sweet ingénue types, be offended and break off your relationship. And that will hurt Ford more efficiently than I could ever manage on my own.”

“You’re a—a—you’re not a good mother,” she said idiotically, too flabbergasted to find a decent swearword to encompass everything this woman was.

Helen laughed. “And Ford is a terrible son. You know, when I called him to tell him Brett was
dying, he hung up on me. A week or two before Christmas. He claimed he was busy with a merger or buying up some little firm or another,” she waved her hand, “and wouldn’t listen to my plan.”

Dazed: “Plan?”

“Brett is dying.
Dying!
”

Erin half expected her to rub her hands together and go:
Bwahahaha
. “Who is Brett?”

Helen gave an exasperated sigh.
“Brett
Howard
. Ford’s father. My ex-husband.”

His father was dying, and he had never mentioned a word of it.
The room rocked slightly.

“There is the estate and holdings and . . . Well, when he’s dead, there will be an enormous scramble in the family for what he leaves. Though,”
Helen laughed again, “Ford did take most of it years back. Left Brett a broken—but not quite broke—man. Not that Brett didn’t deserve it. But now, all Ford needs to do is fake a reunion. A reconciliation. Brett would write him back into the will, I would get a commission for the tip, and everyone’s happy. Especially the dead-Brett part,” she said with such hatred that Erin got an inkling of why Helen had chosen that brief allegiance to her despised son over her ex-husband.

Still struggling with the concept that such people existed in the world, she asked: “Did you tell him? When you phoned him and he hung up. Did you tell him his father was dying?”

“Yes. Though Ford has his fingers in so many pies, I’m surprised he didn’t already know. But it was news to him.” She sighed as if nostalgic. “Brett always did hate doctors. I suppose he waited too long this time. He’s only expected to live a few more weeks, perhaps.”

“Excuse me, I have to—”
Erin waved vaguely as she lurched to her feet.

“I know it’s all terrible information, my dear. You go tell that son of mine to go to hell.” Helen raised her glass in a mock toast. “He’s sure to see his father again there.”

Dizzy, Erin swayed. A glimpse of red hair steadied her enough to move in that direction—to warmth and love and friendship. At last, she reached Brooke.

“Erin! Are you all right?” Brooke caught her arm.

Nodding, her eyes closed briefly. “Just learning some truths about the world.”

“How was the familial chat with Helen?”

Her eyes flew open. “You knew?”

“I didn’t really make the connexion until I saw you talking to her. Honey, I’m so sorry! If I’d paid attention, I could have warned you that she would be here.” Brooke smiled encouragingly. “Was it friendly?”

“No. No, not even a little.”

“God, I’m sorry. Come on. Let’s get you a drink.”

“No, thanks. I’m driving.” She attempted a smile. “I’m okay. Just . . . say something nice. Talk about pleasant things. Like decent humans and stuff.”

“Um
.” Brooke chuckled. “You look fantastically beautiful. You’re one of the most decent humans I know—”

Erin laughed, genuinely now. “I didn’t mean about
me
, but thanks. I’ll take it anyway.”

“Okay, you’re better then. So tell me about New York. Was it the most wonderful, romantic time of your life?”

“It was nice. After the whole thing with Joe, Ford was intent on spoiling me.”

“When do we all get to meet Ford? We’re all dying to.”

“Soon. He’s always busy. Bad timing with our get-togethers and his schedule.”

Brooke’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Well, that explains that. We kind of thought he was avoiding meeting us.”

Her lips parted to protest the ridiculousness of that, and then it hit her. That was exactly what was going on.

Oh, god. She was an idiot.

“You know, I’m not feeling great, Brooke. Do you need anything else from me tonight?”

Assured that everything was fine, and thanked for her assistance, she left the ballroom as quickly as possible without running . . . and screaming.

Giving her keys to the valet, she waited, shivering a little from reaction and a little from the cold. She was so angry with and sad for Ford, she didn’t know where to turn. So much—too much—to digest from the night.

One thing was clear. She had only ever known love
, while Ford only knew some twisted abomination of exploitation and hatred.

Digging into her handbag for a tip, she smiled half-heartedly at the valet as he alighted from her car. “Thank you.”

“Ms. Russell? A man in the lot asked me to give this to you,” he told her, giving her a brown envelope.

Puzzled, she absently thanked the valet again as she slid behind the wheel, tossing her handbag and the envelope on the seat beside her. Her eyes kept drifting to it as she drove for home.

Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore, pulling to the curb and tearing the envelope open.

Removing and unfolding the single sheet of paper it contained, she caught the photographs that slithered out. Her breath caught sharply as she flipped through them in the glow of the streetlamp spilling through the front windshield.

She and Ford at Feodor’s, she smiling like an idiot as she gazed at his beautiful face. Sharing a kiss as he took an envelope from her hand in Liberty Village. Others, from around the city, different restaurants, clubs—romantic, intimate moments. To date, thanks to Ford’s clever handling of where they went when going out, their relationship had stayed off
The Daily
’s Page Six, so these photos—well, where had they come from?

She scanned the photos again. And stopped breathing as she concentrated on two. Dancing with Ford the night of the Xcess Christmas party and later, when he kissed her in the vestibule of her building. Both from the night they had met.

That guy at the bar. On his cell phone.

And then she remembered the man she had run into at Song’s. Realised why he had looked so familiar—he was the cell phone guy.

Ford had been followed and ‘they’—whoever ‘they’ were—latched onto her almost from the beginning.

One last photo was taped to the paper.

Taken from outside her apartment building, it showed her and Joe in the vestibule, looking very intimate as he had her backed up against the glass, his head bent as he attempted to kiss her. Her own face did not show up very well, but her expression appeared neutral at best.

“Hells!” she breathed. How many
pictures had been taken of that ugly scene? How many discards, leaving only this vaguely suggestive photo? And if things had gone badly, would her shadow have come to her assistance or allowed her to be raped?

There was a note on the paper.

Does the boyfriend know? You have access to data and the man himself. Expect contact soon.

“Lame!” she decried. It was a statement on how clean and upright her life was that the best thing an extortionist could garner was a not-terribly incriminating photo from a sexual assault. Glancing around her, ignoring the swoop of traffic to focus on parked cars behind her, she wondered if the shadow were near her now.

What did it all mean? Was she in danger?

Reaching for her phone, she dialled Ford’s cell. “Where are you?” she asked
abruptly.

“At home. Is everything all right?”

“Peachy. May I see you?”

“I’d love that, sweetheart. How was the charity thing?”

“Peachy,” she said again. Hells, she had that setup with Helen to deal with, too. Ford’s little test. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

She did not bother watching for a tail, merely headed uptown to Ford’s neighbourhood.

Barton welcomed her warmly as she stepped off the elevator, telling her that, “Mr. Howard is taking cognac in the lounge.”

Thanking him, she
marched through determinedly to find a fire cheerily burning in the grate and Ford seated on a sofa, a snifter in his fist. As he smiled at her, all anger fell away, leaving instead sorrow and compassion. The poor bastard!

She was not good at holding onto anger. That was clear. Normally, it was a good thing, but tonight, she would have appreciated being a shade less
easy
about things.

She gasped in shock as Barton spoke behind her. “Cognac for you, Miss Erin?”

“Sorry, Barton. You scared me. Stress response. No, I’m fine thanks.”

Ford studied her for a moment and then, “That will be all, Barton.”

The man left them.

“What’s wrong,
Erin?” Ford asked softly, setting his drink aside and making to rise.

She sat down beside him before he gained his feet, and he uttered a pleased laugh as she wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Ford,” she whispered. “You have so many enemies.”

“I do?” He chuckled. “I do,” he repeated wryly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Really? Where do I start?” Pulling away, she opened her handbag and withdrew the crumpled note and photographs stuffed inside the small confines. “I was given this tonight.”

Shoving the pieces into his hand, she rose to stand in front of the fireplace, staring blankly into the flames.

Behind her, he swore viciously.
It was the angriest—most genuinely emotional—response she’d ever heard from him.

She sensed rather than saw him stand, but found herself dragged back into his arms. Instantly, her hands went to grip his where they splayed on her belly. “Erin, don’t worry. Don’t be afraid.”

“I don’t want to be, but someone is gunning for you. For us. I’m obviously being followed. And you, too. That photo from the night we met—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, good. That’s so . . . reassuring.” Sarcasm overlaid her words.

He released her, setting the photos of them on the mantle while tossing the note and the photo
with Joe onto the fire. He reached for the phone.

She gasped. “You destroyed it! How will you find out who it is?”

He did not look at her. “Let me make a call, Erin. I have people to handle this sort of thing.”

“It’ll wait. We need to talk.”

Brushing her aside, he lifted the phone. “We’ll talk in a minute. First things first.”

First things first
. Would she ever be first with him? Sure, he was worried about her safety, but it was business, wasn’t it? She listened as he gave instructions to his security chief.

“Great,” she mumbled as he replaced the receiver. “Now I’ll have two tails.”

“Only until I’m certain you’re safe. One more call.” This call, he made from his cell rather than the landline, and left a mere: “Call me,” message, and disconnected.

And then there was silence.

At last, he gathered her resisting body to his. “Thank you for bringing this to me, Erin.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”
She pulled away. “Obviously, you know me as well as my stalker does.”

Ford did not respond to that, and she peripherally saw him move to the sideboard to refresh his cognac. “Drink?” he offered evenly, tilting the bottle at her.

She shook her head.

Silence dragged and distance settled. She stared into the fire, thoughts swirling. At last, she retrieved the photos and rifled through them, each one of those happy moments now
blemished in an irrevocable way.

*

Swallowing a large portion of cognac, Ford’s gaze sharpened on her, seeing her shoulders slump, as if defeat weighted her. He fought the desire to go to her.