The Color of Love

Chapter Eight

“Thanks, Peter,” Derian said to the porter who delivered the large food trolley covered with gleaming stainless-steel chafing dishes. “I’ll take it from here.”

His face registered the slightest surprise before he quickly nodded. “I’m happy to serve you and your guest, Ms. Winfield.”

“I can handle it, but thanks.” Derian stepped aside so Peter could slide the cart into the room and closed the door behind him. She didn’t want company. She wanted to be alone with Emily May, and setting up the table would give her a few moments to get her game in order. She hadn’t intended to kiss her. The thought had crossed her mind, that was true. She’d wanted to kiss her from the moment she’d found her nearly asleep, waiting for her outside the intensive care unit. Emily had looked vulnerable and delicate, but Derian’d known better than to think she needed rescuing. She’d seen Emily’s strength as well as the shadows of some past pain when she’d stood by Henrietta’s bedside and declared her certainty that Henrietta would be all right. Daring the Fates to disagree. Emily was anything but fragile, which made her all the more desirable.

But an inexplicable urge to shield her from whatever plagued her and a primitive instinct to claim her attention were no excuse for kissing her. She knew better than to toy with women who weren’t open to being toyed with, and Emily was one of those. She didn’t give off a single player vibe, nor had she given any indication she wanted to be kissed. Derian was good at ferreting out signals, at reading seduction in apparent disinterest that merely invited her to the chase, and she never pressed where she wasn’t wanted. She hadn’t been thinking about sex when she’d given in to the impulse to taste, she’d only been thinking about another touch—another incendiary instant of contact that shook her more than the most abandoned encounter. This time, she’d been the one pressed by desire, driven to break her own rules by an unfamiliar need to stir in Emily the same kind of yearning that stirred in her.

Emily had said she wasn’t offended by the kiss, but taking liberties wasn’t like her. Derian didn’t want to stray into those waters again. A woman, especially Henrietta’s protégé, who could so easily make her forget all the reasons why she only played with players, had danger written all over her. No—Emily was too close to home, too dangerous in her appeal, too altogether beyond the safety zone.

“I can’t say I’ve ever done this before,” Emily said, glancing over her shoulder to watch Derian approach with the cart.

“What’s that?” Derian asked, promptly forgetting her resolution to stay away. Emily had a way of looking at her with such absolute clarity, as if the screen Derian placed between herself and the rest of the world was completely invisible. Her skin heated as if Emily touched her simply by looking. Most women couldn’t touch her even when they were naked together.

“Had dinner in such a beautiful place, with a view like this.” Emily swept her hand toward the window and the glittering night.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I do,” Emily said softly. “Thank you.”

The quiet thrum of pleasure in her voice made Derian’s blood pound. She cleared her throat. “I hope you don’t mind, I ordered for us. You’re not allergic to anything or averse to particular foods?”

“Actually, I’m gluten, dairy, meat, carb, and acidic free.”

“Well, I ordered sparkling water. That should be safe.”

Emily laughed. “I’m mostly vegetarian, but I confess to succumbing to a good steak now and then. I live for pasta and never met a seafood dish I didn’t like. I’m sure whatever you ordered is fine.”

Derian began to uncover the chafing dishes. “That was unkind.”

“I suspect you can handle it.” Emily grinned. “Can I help you?”

“No, stay right there.” Derian folded a snowy white napkin over her forearm and rested a dish on it. “I shall serve Madame tonight.”

Faint color rose to Emily’s cheeks. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Derian murmured.

Emily settled back in her chair and prepared to be waited on. She remembered being waited on at formal functions her parents had held at their home for visiting dignitaries when the party was small and the embassy would’ve been too cold and impersonal. She’d never liked being seated at the big table at the far end, away from the adults, always feeling as if she was there more for show than for her presence. Every now and then her mother would glance her way and smile as if to tell her she knew she was still there, but her father rarely gave her a look, too lost in conversation with whomever they were feting. Her memories of the impersonal formal dining faded as Derian silently moved around behind her, sliding dishes in front of her with a whispered description, filling her wineglass with a calculated cascade of blood-red liquid, slipping other dishes to the center of the table with sterling silver serving utensils positioned within.

“You do this very well,” Emily murmured.

Derian sat down beside her, close enough for Emily to catch her spicy scent. “My father always insisted on a formal table when the family dined together. I learned from watching the maids. Sometimes I even helped them, just to annoy him.”

“Teenage rebellion?”

Derian sipped her wine. “More than that, I guess. Maybe lifelong rebellion.”

“Do you have siblings?” Emily asked.

“I do now, a half brother. He’s…” She paused as if counting in her head. “He must be six. I haven’t seen him in quite a while.”

Emily took a bite of the very delicious food. “It must be odd, having such a younger sibling.”

“Truthfully, I don’t think of my father’s second family as having anything to do with me. I have nothing against the boy, of course. But I don’t know his mother or him, and my father and Marguerite—that’s his wife’s name—took up well after I left home.”

“What’s his name?”

“Daniel.” Derian poured a little more wine in Emily’s glass.

“No more,” Emily said, laughing lightly. “I’m not used to it.”

“Of course.” Derian replenished her glass and put the bottle aside. “How about you? Big family, small family?”

Emily carefully set her fork down. She usually managed to avoid talking about family, which wasn’t all that difficult since her associates were business ones and the topic didn’t often come up. Henrietta knew, but she’d never shared the story with anyone else, not even Ron. Not the whole story. “Small, I guess. One older sister. Pam.”

“She here in the city too?” Derian asked conversationally.

“No. She isn’t.”

“That’s hard, when you’re close.” As if picking up on the tension in Emily’s voice, Derian regarded her steadily. “Sounds like you are.”

“Yes,” Emily said around the lump in her throat. “I miss her.”

“Where is she?”

“At home—in Singapore.”

“Ah, I didn’t realize.” Derian smiled. “You sound very American.”

Emily laughed. “English-speaking schools, and I’ve been here almost a decade.”

“Do you get back often, then, to Singapore?”

“A couple times a year.” Emily shook her head when Derian offered another helping of one of the entrées.

Derian covered the dish. “Are the rest of your family still there?”

“Pam and I are the only ones left.”

“Ah. I’m sorry too, then. It must have been a challenge, coming over here alone.”

“I was determined, so I didn’t think of it much at the time.” Emily let out a breath, forced a smile. “And I’ve been lucky. The agency is a great place to work, and I’ve made some good friends.”

“So tell me about you and Henrietta,” Derian said. “How did you end up here? Winfield’s isn’t the biggest literary agency in New York, and you strike me as going for the top.”

“Winfield’s is smaller than some, true,” Emily said, knowing she sounded protective, “but it is also one of the most respected.”

“Ah,” Derian said softly, “so you value substance over show.”

“I like to think so.”

Derian leaned back, cradled her wineglass. “How did you and Henrietta meet?”

“Well,” Emily said, “I guess you could say I chased her.”

Derian laughed. “Now there’s a story I really want to hear.”

“All right.” Emily recounted for Derian how she had first contacted Henrietta, and the gradual development of their long-distance working relationship that culminated in her move to the agency, and finally their very deep friendship.

When she’d finished, Derian nodded. “I can see where Henrietta would’ve been intrigued by someone who cut through all the bullshit. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“I suppose that’s true.” Emily shrugged. “I’ve always been the pragmatic type. For me, most things are black and white. I say what I think, and I prefer others do the same. I like life to be straightforward.”

“That would put you in the minority.” Derian finished her wine and slid her glass away. “In my experience, people rarely say what they think, and oftentimes don’t mean what they say. Everything is a little bit of a game.”

“For you too?” Emily asked.

“Oh,” Derian said, laughing. “Most definitely.”

“And how do you know when something is real?”

“Well everything is real in the moment, isn’t it, even when it’s a game? You just have to know you’re playing.”

“You’re not just talking about cards and cars, are you.”

Derian’s expression flattened. “No.”

Emily frowned. “I’m quite certain I would be terrible at pretending other than what I felt.”

“I think you would be too. Don’t gamble.”

“Actually, I’m very good at cards. I’ve been told I have an excellent poker face.”

“Do you bluff?” Derian asked.

“Yes, insomuch as I am quite capable of keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself.”

“I suppose that could be considered a bluff.” Derian tapped a finger to Emily’s hand. “We’ll have to play sometime.”

Emily flushed. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid you’re far too experienced for me.”

“I don’t know,” Derian said musingly. “I might’ve met my match. But I was thinking more of playing together, not against each other.”

Emily sensed the conversation veering once again away from the topic and into some realm she couldn’t quite comprehend. She was never entirely sure they were talking about what they were actually saying. Subtext was everything in fiction, but she preferred plainer language in real life. “You would not find me a very good partner. I’m afraid I don’t know any of the rules.”

“Oh, not to worry. I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

“I doubt we’ll ever have the chance,” Emily said a little frostily. Derian’s grin was infuriatingly arrogant and just a little too compelling to contemplate.

“So what do you do to occupy your time,” Derian asked, seemingly unfazed by Emily’s tone, “if you don’t enjoy games?”

“I read, of course,” Emily said.

“No, no, that’s work.”

“Not at all. Well, of course it is sometimes, but even though it’s work, it’s still one of my greatest pleasures. Don’t you feel that way about your work?”

“I don’t work. You must’ve read that. I spend my time searching for new ways to avoid it.”

“Ah,” Emily said, not believing her for a minute. Derian might not have a conventional job, but nothing about her suggested she was lazy. If anything, she vibrated with dynamism and restless vitality. “Isn’t winning a job? I mean, coming in first or beating the odds requires effort and thought and probably stamina. Certainly, a professional gambler works.”

“Very true,” Derian said. “But I’m not a professional gambler in the sense that I make my living doing it. I like to win, no doubt about that, but if I lose, no one suffers for it.”

“Semantics.”

“I won’t argue language with a literary type,” Derian said lightly. “What besides books?”

Emily noticed how deftly Derian diverted the conversation away from herself, but she appreciated the desire for privacy, valuing it herself. “Films—”

“They’re just another form of books, right? Scripts translated into visual form?”

Emily smiled appreciatively. “There are definite similarities, of course, in terms of story structure and characterizations, but with the ability to inject narrative, as authors do in fiction, for example, books aren’t obligated to the kind of rapid characterization and plot development that scriptwriters are.”

“Nor dependent on actors who must communicate subtext through body motion and speech,” Derian added.

“Yes,” Emily said. “Which do you prefer? Films or books?”

Derian was silent a long moment. “I like films but prefer listening to books when I have the time.”

“Ah, you’re an audiophile. I like them too, but I miss the slower pace of reading,” Emily said. “I wondered where you kept your books, but of course you’d want them to be portable since you travel so much.”

Derian glanced around the room as if it was a strange new place. “I don’t have any books because I’m not a very good reader.”

Emily stilled. Derian’s voice had faded, as if she’d drifted someplace beyond their conversation.

“When I was small I couldn’t read at all,” Derian said matter-of-factly, as if relating a story about someone else. “They labeled it dyslexia, but I didn’t demonstrate all the signs. I don’t mix up the words, I have mostly directionality confusion. It was quite an embarrassment to my family.”

“Surely not to Henrietta,” Emily said vehemently.

Derian smiled thinly. “No, not to Henrietta. But my father was embarrassed by what they initially thought was some kind of mental disability.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emily murmured.

“Once I was old enough to verbalize what was happening, they figured it out and I got the right kind of therapy—all on the QT, of course.” She grimaced. “I can interpret most maps with a little effort, but it put an end to my desire to drive race cars.”

“So you sponsor them.” Emily knew Derian wouldn’t appreciate sympathy for something she’d obviously conquered, but she couldn’t help being saddened. Such a hard burden when her family had been so unsupportive. The idea of Derian suffering alone incensed her.

“I’m okay with it all now,” Derian whispered, taking Emily’s hand as if she were the one in need of comfort.

“I’m glad that we have audiobooks, then. And that you enjoy them.”

“Fortunately, it turns out I have an eidetic memory for numbers.” Derian grinned. “I can remember an entire spreadsheet of values after a quick glance. It gives me a very good edge in anything that requires probability.”

“Such as cards?” Emily said, trying for a lighter note.

“Exactly. Probability, statistics, anything requiring numbers is easy for me. It took a while for that to show up, but once it did, the rest—” She shrugged. “Let’s say my luck at the tables comes naturally.”

“Is that why you’re not interested in the agency?”

“I wouldn’t be any good at it, and as much as Henrietta has wanted me to join her on the fourth floor, I think she knows I’m not suited for it.” Derian rose and began clearing the table. “Besides, the board would never stand for it. I’m the black sheep, remember.”

Emily rose to help her. “Let me help. You’ve waited on me all night.”

“I enjoy waiting on you,” Derian murmured.

“And I’ve taken up quite enough of your time this evening,” Emily said as Derian pushed the food cart aside. “I really should be getting home.”

“Of course. I’ll call you a car.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can easily get a cab—”

Derian cupped Emily’s cheek and brushed her fingers through Emily’s hair. “No, you won’t. I’ll see you downstairs and into a car.”

“You’re very kind,” Emily murmured, leaned into Derian’s hand without thinking, and watched heat flicker through Derian’s eyes. She thought for a heartbeat she was about to be kissed again. She didn’t move.

“No,” Derian whispered, “I’m not.”

And she stepped away, leaving Emily unkissed and unexpectedly disappointed.