The Value of Vulnerability
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Authors: Roberta Pearce
The Value of Vulnerability
a romance
Roberta Pearce
***
The Value of Vulnerability
Copyright © 2014 by Roberta Pearce
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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
ter 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, most
ly 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 i
nformation 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.”