The Value of Vulnerability (42 page)

“If you did love me,” he scorned, “you would stick it out. Stay with me at any cost.”

“No.” She threw his earlier words back at him. “It’s not that simple. I’ll lose myself in you if I stay under those circumstances. I’m already on the edge of it. Maybe I should be grateful that I’m given access to some parts of your life. But why do you refuse to share any of mine? What’s the danger of that?”

He shook his head. “It isn’t dangerous exactly. But when the unspeakable happens, it becomes just that. Unspeakable.”

Silence.

“You . . .” She hesitated. “You had Gerard arrested. You ousted your father. Exacting revenge is kind of your thing, isn’t it?”

“It was
not
revenge. It was a settling of accounts.”

“Mm. And Diane? How did you settle that account?”

He stared at her long and hard. “I . . .” He stopped. His face went still. Rigid and cold. “You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me,” she encouraged.

The scary son of a bitch was back in full. Her heart shuddered.

“I destroyed her father’s business. Complete financial ruination for him. Her.”

“O-okay. Reasonable, I guess.”

He uttered a short laugh. “No, Erin. The whole family. From grandparents down, I went after everyone related to her. Cousins and in-laws and the family cat. Not one of them had a dime left when I was finished. They—every last one of them—lost everything they had and as icing, I
ensured that every dirty secret was put out for public consumption. For the sheer personal pleasure of doing it.” He swept her with a cold look. “That horrifies you.”

It did.

“Do you want to know how?”

“No,” she whispered.

But he went on nonetheless.

“When I suspected—no, the whole truth. That’s what you’ve been begging for,
isn’t it? When I
knew
, for a fact—through a complete investigation of her—her purpose for being in my bed, I kept her there. Had sex with her. Held her and talked to her as if I cared. Fed her false information that she acted on, her father acted on, put their money on, his entire company on—and thereby destroyed him. Her. Them. Deliberately. Callously. And hunted down the rest at my leisure.”

“Don’t tell me anymore.” And then: “What impact
did her betrayal have on your business?”

“None. Not even a little.”

“Then why the wholesale revenge? On people who hadn’t done
anything
to you?”

“Because it was
personal!
This is why it’s best if you don’t know these things. I don’t want to trouble you with the ugliness of my world, Erin. The things I’ve done. The person I am.”

“I don’t believe you’re
that
person. Not entirely. Not anymore.”

“Ah, you are sweet,” he scorned.

“I’m not made of glass!” The statement sparked a revelation, but she didn’t voice it yet.

“Shall I tell you the details of what I did to my father? No? Heard enough? And yet you demand to know.”

“I
do
want to know—in the sense of getting to know you. Not—not a cold list of your sins! But how you feel about what you’ve done, what was done to you. You list facts. You always list facts. Like stats about strangers. I want to
know you
. Your father is dying, Ford. And you never told me.”

His head jerked back. He looked away.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Brett? I had to hear it from your mother, who only told me to hurt you. To hurt us. I don’t want to pry, exactly, but something like that—how can we have a relationship if we keep those sorts of secrets? How can we offer love and support to each other, when we don’t know what needs soothing? Solace?”

Silence. It was hard to tell, but she would guess that she’d hit about a dozen buttons.

Then, sadly, he recouped. “Erin, there’s nothing to be gained. You are kind and loving and—and I would hate you to lose any of that. It’s better for you if you—if we—keep things separate.”

“That’s really your rationale? That I can’t handle it? That I need to be wrapped in cotton batten for my own sake?”

Judging by his expression, he found that altruistic explanation conveniently deflected any focus on his emotional reluctance to commit himself to their relationship. “Yes. That’s it. Exactly.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that has anything to do with anything!”

He shrugged and said bracingly: “Not my problem. I deal with events as I see fit. I maintain control over my emotions, not float around, whitewashing people and the world to make them fit some happy ideal. Yes, your methods work for you. For you and your small life. Your ordinary world. They are not practical for real world application.”

Son of a bitch.
It was ending. Really ending. Defeated, she slid off the counter.

“Ford,” she said in a last ditch, “
I’m sorry that you’ve not learned more of me than that. But it’s completely beside the point. You can make a choice not to
be
that person. You can choose to be kind. And forgiving. You’re not
ill
. You might play the sociopath, but you aren’t one.”

Damn, he hated that word.
Sociopath
. She voiced her revelation.

“When we met—through most of our relationship—I’ve thought of you as being so strong. Powerful. Physically and mentally. But emotionally, you’re brittle. You’ll snap under too much pressure.
And of everything that scares you, that scares you the most. I’m not the one made of glass. You are.”

Judging from the expression that flashed over his face, she’d nailed it quite well.

It didn’t matter. The entire spiel was ignored as another curse left him. “Why are you doing this? Is it—is it some sort of—emotional extortion? Shit! I’m surprised you didn’t spring a pregnancy on me.”

Silence fell as those words shimmered in the air, striking at everything she was.

“Thank you for your honesty. I wanted your true feelings. Now I have them. Consider our account settled.”

She left him, traversing the rooms to the elevator, collecting her coat and purse from where she had conveniently left them in the foyer, grateful that Barton had not tucked them away.

Ford caught up just as she entered the anteroom. “Erin, I didn’t mean that. I know you wouldn’t do that. Not deliberately.” He grasped her hand and pulled her around to face him.

She snatched her hand back. “Thank god. Otherwise, you might set out to destroy me and my entire family. And our cat.”

He went white.
White
. He swayed on his feet.

She hadn’t meant to hit that hard. Still, it was a relief to see such a human reaction from him.

“Erin, I would never . . .” He swallowed, and the threads of him wove together again, though raggedly. “Please stay. We haven’t nearly done arguing yet,” he attempted to tease, but there was strained panic in his tone.

“And will you love me by—what’s your
saying? By rule of argument?” she asked. “I don’t want to convince you of anything. I only want you to know me. I want to know you.” She pressed the button. “You’re just an illusion, Ford. Even to yourself. So obtuse. You belittle my very real coping abilities and admire your non-coping ineptitude. I’m in control. You only have an illusion of control.”

“Erin, don’t go.”

With one final effort, she placed her hand over his heart, luxuriating for the last time in the warmth of his smooth skin. Tears she had fought for so long sprang to her eyes. “Let me in.”

Her hand curled into a half fist and she rapped lightly on his naked chest as if on a door.

“Let me in,” she sobbed softly, bending her head over her hand, a tear falling on his skin.

He lifted her head, his mouth hard. “Don’t do this to us.”

“Someone has to do something,” she insisted evenly, belying the tears that flowed liberally. She smoothed back his cowlick, caressing the silky strands lovingly. “There. All fixed.”

Pulling away, she stepped on the elevator, refusing a final look at him as the doors closed.

***

She walked for a long time, crying silently. Finally, she flagged a cab, and went to Liana’s apartment at Yonge and Sheppard
, and spent what remained of the night petted and pampered, telling the story of her great attempt to secure a chance at love. Even then she did not criticise Ford or spill his secrets, only decried his history that had made him impervious to love.

She had been prepared for failure. Preparation did not make the pain less, but at least she was not shocked.
Left in a daze that lasts for years.

But still,
that was exactly how she felt.

The courier package was chockfull of information on those associated with the extortion attempt. Ford had gone through it and readied his plan of destruction.

And did nothing.

You can choose . . .

He forced that voice out of his head and was tempted to start the
People always want
litany, but the last while had found that not working anymore. And annoyingly, it had started to sound like whining.

Opening a desk drawer, he shoved the courier package inside.

Then withdrew it, straightened bent corners, carefully set it inside and closed the drawer. This moodiness—no, this lack of precise control—was downright exasperating. If he weren’t careful, he would start throwing things.

He glanced around his home office. He should put a television in here. The sofa was comfortable. And he had lost interest in the media room.

Rocking back in his chair, he noticed the drawer hadn’t closed properly, and he pushed at it. Didn’t budge. Tugging it open again, he felt around, removing the package again.

His fingers closed on a cool and oddly shaped object at the back.

It was the black-and-gold
maneki-neko
.

The paw wobbled as he set the figurine on the blotter beside the package.

The
Psycho
violins played from the cell. He ignored it. He knew why she was calling, and was not interested.

The paw stilled. He set it moving again.

He did that for twenty minutes or so, his mind emptying as he watched the moving paw and kept the package in his periphery.

A tap on the door had him palming the cat. “Yes, Barton?”

“The jet will be ready for eight this evening, sir.”

“I’m going into the office.” He rose, tossing the
maneki-neko
and courier package back in the drawer and slamming it shut. “Call for my car.”

“Would you care for some lunch first, sir? You didn’t have breakfast.”

“No.” He pocketed the phone, looked up at his valet and said, for the first time: “Thank you, Barton.”

“Very good, sir.” The man withdrew.

Proof: manners made no difference to Barton. So what is the point of them?

He would give him a raise instead.

In the anteroom, he waited for the elevator, hands shoved in the pockets of his overcoat.

“Sir,” Barton entered, carrying a black trench coat, “it’s warmer today. You may prefer this.”

To Ford’s recollection, Barton had never advised him of such matters, and he spent the elevator ride (with trench coat) puzzling over it. Barton ran the household. He didn’t run Ford. But Ford referred to Barton as a valet, and valets should advise on the weight of coat to wear and whether an umbrella was necessary.

I should dock his salary. The man’s been getting away with murder.

Again, the violins played, just as he was getting into the limo. Again, he ignored them.

Last chance
. He ignored that thought, too.

Weekend closure of the DVP meant cutting through the city. Ford sighed, bored. Traffic was not light, but it flowed differently on Saturday than at the same time during the week. Different people were on the street. Purposes different. Pace different. But still crowded and rushed.

Avenue Road changed to Queen’s Park just as his cell emitted Conor’s ringtone. He answered.

“How do you feel about lunch?” Conor asked.

“I’m going to the office.”

“God, Ford. Have some downtime. Bet you haven’t got drunk yet.”

“Drunk?” He liked wine with dinner, and the occasional cognac or rye, but he never drank to excess. “Why would I get drunk?”

A long pause, and then: “Good question. How are you doing?”

“Well. I’m flying out tonight.”

“Right. I forgot. Late though, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have dinner then.”

The limo entered Hospital Row.

“Ford?”

“I’ll call you back.” He disconnected and pressed the intercom. “Stop here. I’m getting out.”