The Value of Vulnerability

By Roberta Pearce

Caught in a moment . . . sociopath meets good girl.

Maybe he’s not entirely a sociopath. And maybe she’s not as nice as she seems. Still, Ford Howard is not the sort of man a smart girl plays with. But Erin Russell rediscovers her long-absent playful side right about the time she meets him . . . so challenges the sexy, beautiful man to a one-up flirtation in the back of his limo.

Her mistake is immediately obvious. What is meant to be a lighthearted lark reveals a man with a complicated and fractured personality born of many painful experiences. She’s not sure she likes him at all . . . and when he pursues her, she knows it’s a mistake to let him catch her.

Whatever it is about Erin that draws him, Ford doesn’t know. He doesn’t lack for female companionship. But after that limo ride, he knows one thing: Erin is the only woman brave enough to call him out on his practised veneer.

She’s a relationship sort of woman, and Ford is a one-night stand sort of man. But already Erin is chipping away his carefully constructed persona. He needs to figure out a way to keep her without her learning who he really is.

But Erin knows—to get everything you want, you’ve got to be vulnerable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberta Pearce
• Release date: Jun 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310523540

Roberta Pearce

Roberta Pearce’s relationship with romance novels began when she fell into a box of her aunt’s dog-eared treasures that miraculously opened at the most interesting bits. All through post-secondary adventures – Russian Lit: good; torrid love scenes: better – this amour de HEA took her, though it goes without saying that she failed French. One day, she decided to make a useful contribution to society and write HEAs rather than just reading them, and still seeks one for herself in real life.First-time participant and winner of 2013 NaNoWriMo, Pearce is still waiting for her cheque. Her influences include Fyodor Dostoyevsky [his dreamy side], Douglas Adams, Rupert Brooke, Emma Darcy, and Omar Khayyam. While she currently has no pets, she once had a pair of Siamese fighting fish named Pat and Mike, whose ghosts appear occasionally in her novels. Her imaginary hobbies include climbing Kilimanjaro and enjoying lofty literature. Her real hobbies include drinking copious bottles of wine with good friends while discussing anything that pops to mind.

Book preview

The Value of Vulnerability

a romance

Roberta Pearce

SMASHWORDS EDITION

***

PUBLISHED BY:

Roberta Pearce on Smashwords

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The Value of Vulnerability

Copyright © 2014 by Roberta Pearce

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All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Adult Reading Material

The Value of Vulnerability

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Other Books by Roberta Pearce

Connect with Roberta Pearce

Chapter One

The slither and slap of a silk tie sounded in the quiet of the hotel room as deft masculine fingers contorted charcoal-grey stripes on dark amber into a perfect half-Windsor, snugging the knot between crisp white lapels.

The man reached for his suit jacket with one hand, the other smoothing back his cowlick, still damp from the shower.

The scent of sex lingered in the room, concentrated around the limp, spent, naked woman, and wafted off the tangled bed sheets. He spared her a glance, both annoyed and pleased that she still slept. He needed her awake before he left, but he’d rather not listen to her talk while he dressed. She had a decent ass. But a grating voice.

A check of his watch confirmed it was time to go.

Wake her and get out.

Yet he hesitated. Something bothered him. Something in his periphery . . . Ah. There.

A Coach-knockoff handbag in retina-burning pink lay on the plush cushion of an armchair, the latch unfastened, and a smartphone peeking out of it.

With a hard look at the sleeping girl, he picked up the phone to scroll through recent media.

Several photos of him, mostly with the room service waiter while signing for the champagne. No video. A selection of audio clips that, according to the time stamps, were recorded that afternoon.

Sneaky bitch.

Moving to the side of the bed, he adjusted his expression and touched a fingertip to her shoulder. What is her name again? Wake up.

She sighed, writhing against the pillows as she stretched. Eyes fluttered open. Hey, she greeted, her voice raspy with sleep. She cast a look at the window. When did it get dark?

When the sun set.

The brief curve of her lips faded as she took in his state of dress. You’re leaving?

He withdrew his gold-and-ebony money clip, removing a few bills and tossing them on the bedside table. The room is yours until morning.

She sat straight up. What do you think I am? A hooker?

You could do well in that profession. You are an incredibly sensual woman. I would hate to think it was all going to waste.

The woman—what the hell was her name?—flushed. Gee. Thanks.

You mentioned having difficulty with some finances. Now you have fewer.

She licked her lips, staring at the scattered hundreds with an expression he had seen dozens of times: greed combined with humiliation, and underwritten with gratitude.

Tossing a twenty into the collection: Extra. For this. He popped the microSD card out of her cell and pocketed it, tossing the phone on the mattress beside her.

Blood suffused her face and just as rapidly drained away. I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted a memento. Of screwing Ford Howard. My friends would never believe me otherwise. Catching her lip between her teeth, she asked, You mad?

Were any data uploaded?

No! No, I couldn’t get a connexion here. It’s a dead zone. Look! Scrambling, she showed him the phone, the Wi-Fi symbol greyed out.

He had just become a regular client for this hotel. I’m not at all angry. He allowed a slight smile. As for mementos, you are sporting a bite mark on your ass. Will that do?

Another flush, this one coupled with relief. Sure, Ford. You . . . um, have a reputation for being a bit ruthless.

Dryly, You don’t say.

But a hell of a lover. Her gaze lingered on the fallen cowlick, her eyes darkening. It was typical of women to react to the boyish air the cowlick lent him. He had a boyish smile, too, he had been told, but had more control over it than his hair, and only employed it when necessary. His capacity for boyish manifestation smoothed out ruffled feelings in these situations. Sure you have to go?

Yes.

He turned away to check his reflection in the mirror over the desk. He straightened the knot of his tie, smoothed his cowlick into place again, and adjusted his expression, this time to that which came most naturally: cool blandness.

Call me? she invited.

Ford picked up his overcoat and scarf. No.

The door clicked closed behind him and he donned his coat en route to the elevators, digging for his gloves. Remembering the microSD card, he removed it from his suit-jacket pocket and snapped it in half, dropping the pieces through the gap into elevator shaft as he stepped on a car.

The chilling sound of Psycho’s violins played, echoing off the glass and polished wood of the elevator’s interior. He debated ignoring the call even as he pulled out his old-style clamshell cellphone and—making subtle adjustments to his mindset—answered. Yes?

I have news.

That is ever your claim, he said.

I’d like to see you.

I am unavailable. In the midst of a takeover of a small IT firm. Is this news worth anything?

It is. A feminine chuckle—a cackle, more like. Brett’s dying.

Ford went perfectly still, for a moment disarmed. What would you have me do about it?

Play it.

Exasperation saturated his tone. I played it for all it was worth, literally, years ago.

He still has money—

If you have no better information than news of the impending death of a broke and broken man, do not bother calling.

He shut the phone and leaned his hips on the mid-height handrail, dropping his eyes to the intricate pattern of the carpeted floor.

Brett’s dying.

A normal person would feel something as an appropriate response.

He did feel something. But did not know what it was. An odd, unsettled, unfocused sensation.

Sir? Are you all right, sir?

He looked up. The elevator had stopped, doors open on the Lobby. A bellhop with a loaded luggage trolley smiled with the polite Will you hurry the hell up? I’m busy, attitude of people who worked for a living.

Ford straightened and stepped into the tastefully appointed Lobby, crossing to the exit.

Goodnight, Mr. Howard. Have a nice evening, the doorman bid with professional cheer suitable to the occupation.

Ford tipped him as reply.

Thank you, Mr. Howard. Merry Christmas.

An agonizingly long season—service people had been wishing him happy tidings all week. And the actual holiday was still more than two weeks away.

His limo waited curbside, the driver opening the rear door as Ford crossed pavement wet from earlier rain. City lights reflected off sullen grey clouds, and the air smelled of exhaust and the threat of snow.

Meeting still on, sir? the driver asked.

Nodding, he settled into the leather seat, immediately reaching for his laptop as the door closed to shut out the world and secure him in his mobile office.

Brett’s dying.

He stared blindly through the glazed window as the limo moved over slick streets.

Shake it off.

He turned his attention back to the laptop, that edgy feeling fading as he reviewed his notes for the meeting, scanning again the executive and staff manifests. By Monday morning, the information would no longer be correct. Complete house cleaning to instantly improve the bottom line, as was the procedure when buying such a company.

It was a short journey to College Park, and the Braxton Howard Group security chief, Mr. Aquino, met Ford in the office tower lobby. Aquino, well used to Ford’s habits and preferences, greeted him with no seasonal salutation, merely a brief assurance that the security team would be in place at the appointed time. They rode the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor in silence.

A subordinate should be overseeing the takeover in his stead. Sheer boredom brought Ford here to do the task himself. How he fitted ennui into such a full schedule was a minor mystery, but reality nonetheless. Boredom broken up by mergers and acquisitions and sex with strangers.

The downside to conducting the takeover in person was dealing with the existing personnel.

The doors opened on a spacious and unoccupied reception area, and Aquino pointed the way to the boardroom. A petite dark-haired beauty passed them in the corridor, and Ford glanced back at her, not surprised to find her doing the same to him. Women liked him—his looks and money—and were remarkably forgiving of his shoddy treatment of them. Not that lack of forgiveness ever modified his behaviour at all.

And his treatment of women was not shoddy, per se. Women wanted sex. Men wanted sex. All very reasonable that they meet and satisfy mutual need. Hardly his problem if some had greater expectations. They got what they came for, and a little more. He owed nothing to anyone.

The boardroom door was ajar, raised voices inside broadcasting everything from mild trepidation to downright fear. Ford jerked his chin at Aquino, and the security chief backed off, leaving Ford alone.

Ford listened.

We should just go, a woman was saying. Enjoy the Christmas party. Jarrell screwed up the meeting time. Wouldn’t be the first time. How a man who owns an IT company can’t manage an electronic calendar is sad.

I’m telling you, we’ve been sold! A very stressed man.

Another woman replied. That rumour’s been going around for months. There’s nothing to it.

Another man: I heard BHG was sniffing around.

The stressed man swore. Braxton Howard Group? Well, that’s it then. For all of us. Ford-effing-Howard. Sociopath.

The second woman iterated: It’s just a rumour.

What? That Jarrell sold the company? Or that Ford Howard is a sociopath?

Some nervous titters. Both.

Sociopath? Was that how the world saw him?

Brett’s dying.

Still, not an inkling of an emotion the world would deem appropriate.

Just because Howard buys up small companies to shred them doesn’t mean he’s a sociopath, one of other men objected.

I wouldn’t mind if he showed up, a woman chuckled. Sociopath. Predator. Don’t care. I’ve seen his picture. He’s eye candy.

More laughter. More relaxed this time.

"Someone would have told us something, one of the men said. We run this damn’ company!"

Xcess is doing great.

Xcess Technologies—the little IT company that could, but couldn’t anymore—would be a subsidiary to Braxton Howard Group in less than ten minutes. ‘Excess’ would be a more appropriate spelling, as that was what its previous owner, Jarrell, had been guilty of, both personally and professionally. Ford’s more generous offer several months ago should have been accepted then. But Jarrell, holding out for a sweeter deal, had misjudged his team, his company, the market, and—most notably and foolishly—Ford.

I can assure you it isn’t, retorted a different woman, echoing Ford’s thoughts. And if BHG has bought us, we’re all done. Jarrell left us to run his baby while he spent the proceeds on women, cars, and coke. We’ve done a bad job of it.

Smartest person in the room.

Ford Howard is not going to walk through that door, the man arguing the point said.

So Ford did.

***

There was much forced joviality. Most of these people would be lucky to retain their positions let alone their humour in the storm that was to come. Ford wouldn’t be there to see it, of course, and did not care one way or another.

Idly, he spun his cellphone on the table, and straightened a little in his chair. All right. To iterate the detail in the NDAs you have all signed: no announcements until Monday. No point ruining the holiday party for the staff.

While he voiced this observation for the appearances of kindness, it was in fact mere practicality. Security shifts would rotate over the weekend to ensure that soon-to-be-former executives did not raid or sabotage files, but there was no point in making things harder than necessary through a general announcement.

Will you join us tonight? one of the Xcess VPs asked with overblown welcome.

What part of ‘no announcements’ did they miss? He couldn’t be seen there.

Idiots.

Never mind that he had no interest in holiday parties or crowds or people in general.

But all he said was, I think not.

He rose, signalling the end, and out they went, with shuffling feet and nervously exchanged glances. Alone, he stood at the window to gaze across Toronto’s downtown core, the south view dazzling from this elevation on the lower edge of College Park. Condominium and office towers, stadiums and busy streets, innumerable cranes marking the ceaseless building boom, and the CN Tower upstaging all else—a bold, brightly lit testimony to engineering brilliance, despite its age.

The vision blurred as snow started and his focus softened. Sighing ever so slightly . . . it was a disagreeable venting, as in the same moment he wished his conquest netted something more, he knew his nature disallowed more than a frustrating sense of mere satisfaction.

Nothing wrong with being satisfied.

True. Besides, Xcess Technologies was a minor conquest, barely worthy of acknowledgement let alone something more.

What’s wrong with you?

Now, there was a question.

Something was off.

He looked around the boardroom, but there was nothing to account for his unsettled thoughts.

Still on the table, his cell emitted the strains of Psycho’s violins. The habitual grimace deepened as he stared at the phone.

Brett’s dying.

The violins stopped. He waited with detached curiosity . . . No signalling beep of voicemail.

Catching up both phone and overcoat, he subdued his morose thoughts with the same practised ease with which he tamed his cowlick, knowing there would always be the need to repeat the action. Yes, he was disparaging and dismissive of simple joys. Completely reasonable, considering the experiences behind his thirty-three years. Typical stuff. Textbook, really. Three seminal moments . . .

Well, that was exceedingly cliché. Things were always in threes. Three acts to a story, three wishes from a genie, three characters in a joke.

Three seminal moments walk into a bar . . .

Of course, it was more than just those moments. It was the lack of positivity in almost every aspect of his life’s history—optimistic and cheerful times that would have eased the impact of those events. No, those three seminal moments had occurred in a fertile environment of dismay on which to rest, survive, and thrive. The agar of his life story.

Dear lord. His life was not a Petri dish. Was it?

People have always wanted things from you, his mental litany began. It was a rare but superficial life review that occupied him whenever he felt unsettled, as he did tonight. Clear reminders of why he was the way he was, and why it was utterly reasonable.

At any rate, exercising emotional economy—is that what we’re calling it these days?—served a purpose. He could never be taken in again.

There should be comfort in that thought. He could not fathom why solace eluded him.

Solace.

The word shook him as it flew through his mind, shattering the amused and practised superficiality of his life’s review, disturbing dusty recesses where shrouded emotions lay dormant, where discontent and fear—yes, fear—and other flotsam was quietly veiled. But that veil stirred now under the force of that word. And in that dark corner in his mind, he glimpsed the real problem for the first time:

His discontent stemmed from dislike rather than appreciation for the hardness growing in him, and the fear that in another ten years he would not recognise himself. The fear that in another twenty, he would not even remember that any doubt had disturbed him. And that in some distant future, age and death would find him—the first person in history to utter on his deathbed: I wish I’d spent more time at the office.

Full stop. An arm through one coat sleeve.

The hem of the long coat puddled on the carpet tiles as Ford halted all movement.

Damn. Surely it’s not as bleak as all that!

Then why the mental shudder, as if it were the worst possible outcome? Bloody hell. It were as if he was having Stephen King ghostwrite his autobiography.

Well, not quite as terrifying—as dark—as Poe, he supposed.

Enough. For whatever reason, he was having a peculiar night, feeling somehow exposed. Raw. With nothing to account for it. But his mood would settle. It always did.

He exited the boardroom, speaking briefly to his chief of security before pushing through the door that led to the elevators. As it swung shut behind him, the lock clicked and the light on the security pad turned red.

He surveyed the space that main reception occupied. The modern and open layout was unremarkable, though the desk was impressive. Boasting a high front ledge, its imposing bulk squatted before the bank of elevators, immediately intimidating visitors. Ford genuinely admired it. He venerated anything that could intimidate.

Accounts for my expansive ego.

The amused intent of that fell flat.

He glanced at the cell, thinking of the news it had brought. There was no guarantee it was true, at any rate. As for her, while he might not answer many of her calls, he had unambiguous apathy about the entire relationship.

He hadn’t assigned her the Psycho ringtone because it was a good relationship.

Phone pocketed, he waited for an elevator, pensively studying the modish Xcess Technologies logo that graced the front of the desk.

Hells! a disembodied feminine voice muttered distinctly.

Ford looked up sharply. Hello?

A tiny gasp. A thud, like a head striking wood, and then, Er, hello.

He peered over the ledge, and a face popped into view, poking up from beneath the work-surface edge of the desk. Struck at once by the humour dancing across her features, Ford would later note the large hazel eyes and sensual mouth, but for now, the genial good nature of the woman was the overwhelming characteristic.

Wow, she said, staring. Just . . . wow.

Ignoring the implied compliment: Are you alone down there?

So far, she grinned.

It was infectious, that grin, but Ford suppressed the urge to respond in kind. What are you doing?

It’s terribly embarrassing to tell a stranger, she demurred.

He placed a hand on his chest and bowed slightly. Ford.

Rheum, rheum, she mimicked a revving engine, and very sexily, too.

He bit the inside of his lower lip. And you are?

Erin.

Now we’re not strangers anymore.

Thanks, Forrest Gump. She laughed. I’m having difficulty.

Anything I can help with? he ungrammatically turned on the charm.

How are you with stilettos and thigh-highs?

He rubbed a fingertip over his dark eyebrow. On or off?

Oh, the off was a given, she said, gaze flicking over his face and shoulders—all she could see of him from her position—appreciatively. I rarely dress up, and was trying to keep things to an uncomplicated minimum, but I’m resigned to just not being girly.

As she pushed herself to her feet in a lissom movement and stepped around the desk, giving him a full view, Ford could not disagree more.

Tall, even without the stilettos, the ankle strap of one unfastened, the woman was the embodiment of what Ford considered feminine. Dark-blonde hair with paler highlights fell in semi-curled waves over her soft shoulders and down her back in long layers, the curling tips brushing toned bare arms. The supple material of her dark-red dress clung to and plunged between full—luxuriantly full, bury-my-face-in delicious—breasts, skimmed a narrow waist and flared hips, ending mid-thigh on long, slim legs made, in his opinion, to wrap around and squeeze a man.

His eyes travelled slowly back up, stopping briefly at each of the most interesting points. Perhaps ‘girly’ is not so inaccurate a term as you think.

Ah, you are too kind. Except that you’re staring.

"I’m not likely to apologise for that any time soon. What were you doing on the floor?"

Just trying to hurry. More haste, less something else. There’s a saying.

Speed.

Sorry?

More haste, less speed. He inventoried her assets again, dispassionately categorising them as all physical. Not that it posed a problem. When it came to choosing women, brains were not high on his list of necessities.

Right. That’s it. Your encyclopedic knowledge of, um, sayings, must come in handy. Like at parties.

Startled, he met the amused hazel eyes that taunted him ever so slightly. He wasn’t hiding his admiration for her physicality, but perhaps he was being more obvious than usual.

I’m having the greatest day. She chuckled, grinning widely. Anyway, I fell off the chair trying to do up my shoes, and stayed there. Reaching over the ledge, she retrieved a curling iron.

Do you always fix yourself at your station at seven in the evening?

Oh, it’s not my station. I wanted to borrow Steph’s iron. She wound a lock of hair around the shaft, held for a moment, and released it into a pretty ringlet. Promptly, she raked her nails through her hair and the ringlet broke apart to disappear into the mass of waves.

What do you do here?

IT. Another lock received treatment similar to the last.

I gathered that, being an IT company.

No, you thought I was the receptionist, she tossed back with a smile. Tugging at the cord of the iron, it came unplugged and she set the unit on the ledge to cool. I’m network support for client care. Is it really seven?

Well past, actually.

I’m very late. With a lithe movement, she bent at the waist to fasten the buckle on the shoe.

The dress hem rose, revealing the lacy top of thigh-high hose and a good stretch of bare pale flesh above it.

Ford ran his hand over his jaw. The cowlick flopped, ignored for the moment, over his forehead.

Should have just done that in the first place! she muttered, shaking back her tresses as she straightened, smoothing her hands over her hips and thighs, tugging at the skirt of the dress. Reaching over the ledge again, she produced a little black handbag, digging inside to remove a lipstick tube. Hazel eyes ran over him in open admiration as she applied a fresh coat of dark pink to her generous mouth without benefit of a mirror. Pressing her lips together and releasing with a little pop!, she asked, Okay?

There was a curious lack of air in the room as she stepped closer for inspection. He breathed in her delicious scent. No perfume, just soap-and-water clean, a hint of jasmine in her hair. Hm? Oh, perfect.

Thanks! She donned a black dress coat that swept to her ankles, and wound around her throat a gauzy copper-coloured scarf that matched her filigree chandelier earrings. Lifting and releasing her hair, Are you coming to the Christmas party?

He raised an eyebrow. You don’t even know who I am.

Sure I do. You’re Ford.

It’s like you have my CV.

Again, that infectious laugh and smile came his way. You’re Ford Howard. She summoned another elevator, the last one long gone. I don’t live in a cave, you know.

Don’t you?

Oh, I would, but I never could spell spelunker, and thought it an unfortunate-sounding descriptor at any rate. The elevator doors slid open and her slim fingers curled around his hand, giving a little tug. You might as well come along and start scaring the crap—er, scaring everyone now.

Allowing her to pull him along: What exactly do you think you know?

"Oh, I don’t know anything, she assured, releasing his hand and pressing the Lobby button. But judging from the faces of the execs coming out of that meeting, and the security hovering around, I assume that come Monday everyone will be grovelling to Braxton Howard Group for their jobs."

Including you? His fingers flexed a little, trying to rid himself of the lingering feel of her gentle grip. Not that he minded her touching him—in fact, later he would insist on it—but the sensation caused by that so innocent contact was excessive.

Oh, I don’t grovel well. Boss, she added demurely, and entirely spoilt that tone with a wink.

"Are you worried?" Underlying this astonishing question was a twinge of errant emotion that felt suspiciously like concern.

Her eyes widened slightly. Is it true then? Xcess has been bought by BHG?

"It is supposed to be on the hush for this evening," he rebuked, slightly taken aback by his sudden inability to be economical with the truth.

What is wrong with you?

Quiet as a mouse, she promised. So sweet of you to let the juniors enjoy the party without the fear of what happens on Monday. Earnestly said, with not a hint of humour or sarcasm.

Thinking it had been a number of years since he had been called ‘sweet,’ if ever, he asked, What is your last name?

Russell.

The name registered vaguely in his memory from his review of the staff manifest. Somewhere in the middle. A key position. Why are you here so late?

"This isn’t late, she said dryly. Her teeth caught her lower lip. Say, I’ve work to do this weekend. Will I still be able to get in? Access the servers?"

Yes. Client care goes on without a hitch.

Good, good.

Stepping off the elevator and crossing the lobby with her, he decided with mild cynicism that this was her form of grovelling. Or at least self-promotion.

Smoothly done, though, with the correct amount of sincerity.

Yet even as he thought that, the building security guard greeted her by name, commenting on the early hour and the likelihood of seeing her the following day. Perhaps her self-promotion was justifiable after all.

See? she murmured.

I am terribly transparent, he said, masking his surprise at her percipience.

She just laughed. Again.

Too easily amused, he assessed. Perhaps faked, but it is a pleasant fakery.

Are you coming to the party? she asked as they stopped at the front doors.

Absolutely not. But that did not mean he was letting her get away. Do you want me to?

Oh, well . . .

For all of her outwardly flirtatious confidence, it was clear she was not entirely sure of herself. Never one to shy from pouncing on a weakness, he stepped closer to her. Do you? he repeated quietly, holding her wide gaze.

A mere dip of her chin confirmed that. I think your appearance would be interesting, she said, and he subjected her features to intimate review.

Graced with only a hint of mascara, thick long lashes framed eyes that were both clear and—he decided at last—intelligent, lacking coyness and pretence, and glimmering with humour undimmed by her brief nervousness. Delicately arched brows a shade or two darker than her hair were mobile and expressive. Her fine, straight nose bordered on aristocratic, balancing high cheekbones and a rather strong jaw. Bare of makeup, her skin was smooth and satiny, begging to be touched. Dark-pink lips parted slightly. He wanted to know how they would feel—and taste—under his.

A telltale flush crept over that skin, and he noted the slight throb in the hollow of her throat.

Beautiful women are a dime-a-dozen.

Yet Erin’s energy and openness took her from everyday beauty to something far more appealing. He wanted her, far more than whoever that girl was this afternoon.

Interesting for whom? He heard the huskiness of his own voice, thickened with lust, the complement to her evident desire.

She cleared her throat as if anticipating that her voice would reflect the hoarseness of his, and responded brightly. Interesting for the execs, who’ll certainly try to curry favour. For the employees, who’ll wonder if you’re attached to the wild rumours. Which I guess you are.

And you? Do you want me to go, just for you?

"Just for me? Oh dear, that is a thought," she chuckled, though with a little catch.

A cocked eyebrow demanded a clear response.

It would give me someone to flirt with, she teased. "If