The Color of Love

Chapter Three

Emily jerked awake to the swooshing sound of the ICU doors opening. She blinked the mist of sleep from her eyes and jumped to her feet. Her vision swam. She’d lost track of how long she’d been sitting in the too-bright alcove just up the hall from the intensive care unit, waiting for word of Henrietta’s condition. Too many cups of coffee, too many packets of crackers from the vending machine. Her stomach roiled, her throat ached from the tears she’d swallowed back, and her head pounded. Vonnie had kept vigil with her the first few frantic hours, sharing the burden of leaving discreet notifications regarding Henrietta’s sudden illness and organizing the staff who’d been left in the lurch when the EMTs had stormed in, rapidly assessed Henrietta’s terrifyingly motionless form, and bundled her up and out of the building in what felt like seconds. Odd, now that Emily thought back to those first hours, that Vonnie had no phone number for Henrietta’s family. Emily had only spoken to the Winfield attorney when she’d called the emergency contact number listed among the agency’s files. And then no one else had reached out to her for information, or even to Vonnie, Henrietta’s personal secretary. Perhaps the close family were out of town and had called the ICU directly to speak with Henrietta’s caregivers. Of course, that must be it.

Vonnie had finally gone home hours before to take care of her family. For a time, Emily had shared the stark waiting area, made no more welcoming by the presence of a coffeemaker in one corner and a television on the wall, with an elderly man whose dazed expression tore at her heart and a weeping husband and wife who had stumbled out into the hallway to talk to an exhausted-looking resident in wrinkled green scrubs before disappearing. Then she’d been alone, waiting for she knew not what because she could not bear to leave, clinging to the hope that soon someone would come who could tell her of Henrietta’s fate.

Now a handsome middle-aged, black-haired man with a commanding air strode brusquely past her little warren. His double-breasted charcoal suit was impeccably tailored, his black oxfords shined to a high gloss. A large gold watch glinted on his left wrist. Even if Emily hadn’t recognized him, she would have known him. Taller than Henrietta, his jaw heavier, his eyes far harder than Henrietta’s, he still bore an unmistakable resemblance to her.

Emily jumped up. “Excuse me.” When he didn’t respond, she rushed into the hall after him. “Excuse me! Mr. Winfield?”

The man halted, spun around, and glanced at her without the slightest expression in his icy blue eyes. “Yes?”

Throat dry, she stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, I’m—”

“I’m sorry. I have nothing to say at this time—”

“I work for Henrietta,” Emily hurried on, wondering who he thought she might be. “I’m a senior agent at the agency. I was with her when—”

“I’m afraid my sister’s condition is private. I’m sure whatever needs to be done at the…business…can wait.”

With that, he spun around and left her standing in the middle of the hallway with her hand outstretched. In another few seconds he’d rounded the corner and she heard the ding of an elevator. What a cold, unfeeling man. How could he be Henrietta’s brother? As soon as she thought it, she reminded herself he was probably just stressed and preoccupied.

She knew all too well hospitals were horrible places. Impersonal, usually ugly, and filled with too many people who were too busy to stop and recognize the despair and anguish in the faces of so many. Lonely places where those left behind drowned in sorrow while others looked away. She shuddered and returned to the waiting area. She’d had years of practice waiting in places like this—waiting for word of her parents, waiting to hear from Pam’s doctors. Martin Winfield, she knew his name as she’d been introduced to him on several occasions when she’d accompanied Henrietta to the corporate board meetings, reminded her of some of those bureaucrats who ran the very places where empathy and support should come first, but had been forgotten in the race to survive in an ever more competitive world. Even some of the health-care staff had forgotten their mission—to heal and comfort. Henrietta’s brother reminded her of why it was so important that she keep Pam where she was now, in a warm, personal environment where she felt safe and everyone knew her name.

Emily sighed. She was tired and being unfair—she didn’t know Martin Winfield, and he had no reason to acknowledge her. How could he remember her as he’d barely glanced in her direction the few times they’d been in the same space. She certainly wasn’t being fair to the many dedicated doctors and nurses and other caring professionals who worked so hard to help.

Sitting out here for hours made her think too much of Pam, and she couldn’t think about her right now. She couldn’t think about her uncertain visa status or what might happen to her job if, heaven forbid, something serious kept Henrietta from returning to work. All she could do was send all her energy and thoughts to Henrietta and believe she would be fine. She leaned back and closed her eyes, willing the panic to recede. The nightmare gripped her, refusing to let her breathe. She couldn’t imagine a day without Henrietta, whose strength was the guiding force at the agency and whose friendship the foundation on which Emily had built her future. She’d lost so much already—she couldn’t bear to endure more.

“Here, take this,” a deep voice said, and Emily’s eyes snapped open.

A brunette about her age, her pale stark features undoubtedly beautiful when not smudged with fatigue, stood in front of her holding out a snowy white handkerchief. Startled, Emily jerked upright and only then recognized the tears wetting her face. Heat flooded her cheeks and she hastily brushed at the moisture on her skin. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” The woman took her hand and gently folded the soft linen into it. “Here. Go ahead. Use this.”

Emily wiped her face, almost embarrassed to soil the pristine square. When her vision cleared, she focused on the stranger. Her breath caught. “Oh. It’s you.”

“We’ve met, haven’t we. I’m the one who’s sorry.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose for an instant. Shadows pocketed her midnight blue eyes. Her coal-black hair, the same color as Henrietta’s, was disheveled, her white shirt and dark suit hopelessly wrinkled. The topcoat she carried over one arm looked as sleek and soft as cashmere, which it probably was. “I’m Derian Winfield.”

“Yes, of course.” Emily stood up and swayed, tiny sparks of light dancing in the dark clouds dimming her vision.

Derian grasped her elbow. “Hey. Take it easy. Here.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said again, weakly echoing herself and hating the way her voice quivered. Why wouldn’t her head stop spinning? She never fainted, never. She couldn’t now, not in front of her. “I’m sorr—”

“Stop saying that,” Derian murmured in an oddly tender tone and drew her down onto one of the molded plastic chairs. Derian slid an arm around her shoulders. “Lean against me for a second until you catch your breath.”

Emily had no intention of leaning against anyone, especially not Derian Winfield, Henrietta’s niece. With effort, she stiffened her spine and forced her head to clear. She turned sideways so Derian’s arm no longer encircled her. “I am so sorry, Ms. Winfield. I hope—”

Derian laughed, a deep full sound so rich Emily could almost taste the timbre. “Please. Anything but that. I’m Derian, or Dere, if you like.”

“I—I’m Emily May. I work for Henrietta—Ms. Winfield.”

“Of course. I remember now.” Derian shook her head. How could she have not noticed this woman…more was the only word she could come up with, the first time they’d met? If she were introduced to her now, she’d certainly not forget. Emily was stunning, the kind of pure unadorned beauty the masters tried to capture on canvas and only managed to hint at: perfectly proportioned features, delicate but sure, green eyes the color of the sea kissing the white sands of some Mediterranean shore, glossy chestnut hair threaded with gleaming copper strands. Oh yes, Derian remembered meeting her now, and how little she’d noticed, too absorbed in her own anger. She’d been introduced to Henrietta’s intern after an annual WE board meeting—the major one when all the Winfield Enterprise divisions came together to report. She’d probably only been thinking of how she could escape the formal after-affair she’d been roped into, and in her defense, Emily May had changed. Her heart-shaped face had lost some of the youthful softness but had gained the elegant contours of a woman, and she was all the more striking for the subtle maturity. She might have passed her over before, thinking her just a starry-eyed girl, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again. “It’s been a few years since we’ve met, but I have no excuse. Forgive my rudeness.”

Emily stared. “Ms. Win—Derian, please. You have nothing to apologize for, under any circumstances, and certainly not these.”

“I don’t agree, but I won’t argue with your absolution.” Derian sighed. “I just tried to see my aunt and the attendants tell me I have to wait half an hour until she can have more visitors. Apparently my father just left.”

“Yes. You must have missed him by only a minute or two.”

“Believe me, that’s not a hardship.” Emily looked shocked but Derian didn’t bother to explain the last person she wanted to see was Martin, and he probably reciprocated. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming other than Aud, who wouldn’t bring it up with Martin or his family unless she had to. “Do you have any word on Henrietta? How is she?”

Heat flared in Emily’s eyes and was quickly extinguished. “No, I asked your father, but…”

Derian clenched her jaw. “I don’t suppose he was very forthcoming.”

Emily managed to look sympathetic. “No, but I’m sure he is very worried and has a lot on his mind.”

“And you’re very kind and diplomatic.”

“I wish I knew more.” Emily glanced down the hall toward the ICU. “I’ve been trying to get word, but I’m not family and this is the first time I’ve seen your father. Or…anyone.”

“She’s been in here for ten hours and he hasn’t been by?” Fighting off a wave of fury, Derian closed her fist until her nails bit into her palm and washed away the red haze clouding her thoughts. “Still the same old bastard, I see.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t worry. I know how things work. I got here soon as I could.” Derian rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “I didn’t know she was sick. We haven’t talked in a while.”

“I’m not sure she was aware either. I think she might have told me, had she known.”

“You’re close, then—I mean, friends?” Derian tried to pinpoint the last time she and Henrietta had done more than exchange a quick email. Last year before the race in Sochi? Time blurred, a repetitive loop of hotels, soirées, and meaningless conversations. Henrietta was the only person she ever really opened up to, and she hadn’t done that in a very long time. If she had, she’d have to put words to things she didn’t want to own.

“I think we are,” Emily said softly. “She means the world to me—of course, we’re not fami—”

Derian scoffed. “Family is an overrated concept. I’m glad you were with her. And I’m glad she has you.”

“You must’ve broken some kind of record getting here—weren’t you somewhere in Europe?”

Emily gripped her forearm, an unexpectedly comforting sensation. Derian regarded her curiously. “How did you know?”

Emily wasn’t about to confess that she often followed celebrity news, mostly for entertainment and relaxation to break the rigors of the concentrated work of screening manuscripts and studying production layouts. Whenever Derian Winfield was mentioned, usually accompanied by a photo of her with a race car or some glamorous woman, she took note. She’d always thought Henrietta’s niece was attractive, but the glossy photos hadn’t captured the shadows that swirled in the depths of her eyes or the sadness that undercut the sharp edges of her words. “Perhaps Henrietta mentioned it. Somewhere in Europe, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Fortunately, I had access to a plane.” Derian winced and took stock of her appearance. “Although I look somewhat like a street person at the moment.”

“No,” Emily said with a faint laugh. “You most certainly do not. You do look tired, though.”

Derian touched a finger beneath Emily’s chin and tilted her head up. “And you look beyond tired. How long have you been here?”

Emily stilled, the unfamiliar touch of Derian’s hand streaking through her with the oddest blaze of heat and light. She’d never realized tactile sensations could be in Technicolor. “I’ve been here since Henrietta arrived. I rode in the ambulance. The EMTs were kind enough to let me.”

Derian frowned. Realizing after an instant she still cradled Emily’s face, she brushed her thumb gently over the tip of her chin before drawing away. “Then I’m in your debt. As soon as I’ve seen her, I’m taking you to get something to eat.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure you’ll want to get together with your family.”

“No, that would be the last thing I want to do.” Derian glanced toward the hall in the direction of the intensive care unit. “The only member of my family I care about is in there.” She glanced back at Emily. “You and I share that, I think.”

“Henrietta is easy to care about.”

“You see, I told you, you were diplomatic.” Derian smiled. “Henrietta is a hard-ass, but she knows people. And when she cares about you, she’s always on your side. If you’ve survived this long with her, you’re tougher than you look.”

Emily ought to have been insulted, but she laughed. She didn’t hear criticism in Derian’s voice and imagined there might actually have been a hint of respect there. “I’ll have you know, I’m plenty tough.”

“Then you’ll be tough enough to wait until I’ve seen her. Agreed?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad Henrietta has you. She deserves someone like you at her side.”

Emily found the statement odd and Derian’s voice surprisingly wistful. All she knew of Henrietta’s niece was that she was often referred to with raised eyebrows among the agency’s staff and had never taken any interest in the business. The press made her out to be something of a reckless, privileged playgirl. But whatever the rumors and innuendo regarding Derian Winfield might be, she had dropped whatever she’d been doing and flown halfway around the world to be by Henrietta’s side. And for that, she’d earned Emily’s respect. Her curious urge to know what had put such pain in Derian’s faraway gaze and the unexpected heat Derian’s touch ignited were something altogether different.