The Color of Love

Chapter Seven

Derian leaned on her outstretched arms, palms to the smooth tile wall, dropped her head, and closed her eyes as warm water sluiced over her shoulders and back. The long hours of the endless day and previous sleepless night settled into her bones with a soul-sapping weariness. Nothing new, really. Just another stopover on the merry-go-round of her life, aimlessly moving, never slowing, never stopping, not even when she was in one place. Some days, she had to concentrate to remember where she’d just been—the glaring casino lights, the roar of the crowds pressing close to the track, the urgent whispers in the dark of women she barely touched and remembered even less blurred and faded into indistinguishable links on a chain, tugging her along. And here she was, back at the beginning, like an ouroboros, a snake chasing its own tail while consuming itself in its never-ending rush to escape its fate.

“Man,” she muttered, “I must be tired.”

Straightening with an aggravated snort, she reached blindly for the shampoo, finding it where she’d left it who knew how long ago. She wondered idly as she soaped her body and washed her hair if the cleaning people replaced the products on a regular basis. She suspected they did. One of those little things she rarely gave any thought to. She was so used to living in hotels that her own home felt like one and was maintained in the same way as all the other elegant places she frequented. The Dakota, for all its history and charm, exuded the same careful attention to detail as a five-star hotel, and with the exception of the few employees like Ralph, was nearly as impersonal. Somehow she had stripped her life of all personal connections—valets delivered her car, bellmen picked up her laundry, porters and other attendants carried her luggage and delivered her food. Women almost as impersonal—charming and momentarily entertaining, but all the same, near strangers—satisfied her need for human contact where sex was a by-product, but not the goal. She was never one to foist responsibility for her situation onto others. She’d made her life what she wanted it to be, one of no attachments, no duties, and no obligations beyond the financial, the easiest of all for her to manage. She had no reason to complain in these odd moments when she found herself alone and the awareness registered, the isolation so intense the pain was palpable.

Vehemently, she twisted off the taps and stepped from the shower into the steamy room. She saw herself as only a wavy outline in the cloudy mirror. Even when the mirrors were crystal clear, she rarely glanced at herself. Maybe she was hoping to avoid seeing her reflection disappear along with the substance of her life.

“And aren’t we just getting existential,” she muttered, vigorously toweling her hair in an effort to restore a little sanity to the brain beneath. Wallowing in self-pity was not her style, and truthfully, she rarely even thought about herself or where she was headed. The only ones offended by her nomadic lifestyle were Martin and possibly Aud, although she’d never said so outright. Henrietta’s sudden life-threatening illness had dragged her out of her complacency and shattered the lethal ennui, reminding her that life could still kick her in the gut, no matter how carefully she distanced herself from anything that might touch her. She hadn’t counted on Henrietta disturbing the touchstone of her life by almost dying. Henrietta was just HW, like the Atlantic was always the Atlantic. Wherever Derian roamed, she knew where her center rested. Henrietta was the force that kept her connected to the world in any real way. Now she felt like a balloon on a fraying tether, in danger of floating off completely.

“HW is not going anywhere. You’re going to make damn sure of it.” Derian tossed the towel into the laundry chute, found the half-empty glass of champagne on the vanity, and downed it in a swift gulp. Enough already. What she needed was a meal to restore her strength, which Ralph could arrange with a quick phone call, and a woman to take her thoughts off her own pointless musings. And she certainly had that. Emily May was far more interesting than any woman she’d spent time with in recent memory. Everything she needed was only a few minutes away.

“Are you doing okay?” Derian called as she left the bathroom and headed toward her bedroom.

Emily materialized at the other end of the hall and stopped as abruptly as if she’d run into a stone wall. “Oh! Sorry.”

“You know, you say that a lot.” Derian stopped, cocked her head. “Is it just me that makes you uncomfortable, or everyone?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. I’m not. Uncomfortable. Usually,” Emily snapped, turning her head away.

“Then it’s me. Why?”

“You have to ask?” Emily pointed one arm in Derian’s direction. “Have you noticed that you’re naked?”

Derian glanced down. “Oh, that. Should I apologize, then?”

“No. I’m fine. Apology not needed.” Emily kept her gaze averted, but she hadn’t blanked her vision fast enough to obliterate the impression of Derian’s naked form, now firmly impregnated in her brain cells. Lean, toned, tanned, with enticing sleek lines sweeping from compact breasts down a long abdomen to the faint swell of hips and muscular thighs. Derian was as brutally elegant as the race cars she appeared to love, a perfect machine in human form, feminine in grace, masculine in power. Beautiful. Emily swallowed. “I’ll be in the living room. Please, take your time.”

She heard Derian laugh as she hurried away. A door closed behind her, and she breathed a sigh of relief at having a few moments to collect herself. She so needed to find her balance around Derian, a new and confounding experience. She appreciated beautiful women for the aesthetics, who didn’t? The female form was such a fierce combination of delicacy and strength—the female face endlessly captivating. Why else would museums be filled with centuries of effort trying to capture the mystery of woman? Derian shouldn’t have any more effect on her than an exquisite painting or a spectacular sculpture, but she kept losing her breath when she looked at her. And now she had the image of her nude emblazoned in her memory.

Totally her fault. If she’d been thinking instead of enjoying a second half-glass of champagne, she would’ve realized she was stepping into Derian’s private space when she drifted into the hall. But she’d hardly expected her to be naked. The woman was so unbelievably casual about physical matters, touching effortlessly if respectfully, and treating her own body as if it was nothing special, and it certainly was. Special. Refreshing, exciting.

And best not to think about that too much. Perhaps she’d had a little too much of the very fine champagne after all. That must be it, although she didn’t actually feel disinhibited in the least. After all, she didn’t actually plan to go through with the mini-fantasy she’d had of running her palm over the gentle slope of Derian’s chest and down…

Emily soundly set the unfinished flute of champagne down on an end table and dragged her mind away from dangerous territory. Determined to banish thoughts of Derian, naked or not, she scanned the living room again, finally pinpointing what she’d thought missing. Bookcases. Her much smaller apartment was crammed with bookshelves in every available inch of wall, nook, and cranny. And even then, she didn’t have enough room for everything she wanted to keep and had piles of reads and to-be-reads secreted under tables, nightstands, even the bed. Sure, she was a child of the modern age and had plenty of digital books on several different electronic readers, but she still loved the feel of the physical form and had always been a collector. First editions, odd editions, little-known titles that represented something new and exciting at the time. She loved to keep those, each a piece of history that marked her own life, or milestones in publishing, or changes in the world around her.

Derian had no bookcases, at least none visible in the main part of the apartment, which was unusual given the traditional décor. Somehow, with her being Henrietta’s niece, Emily would’ve expected Derian to be a book lover. She had no idea why she thought that, now. It wasn’t as if a love of literature was genetically inherited. Her parents had certainly instilled in her a love of reading by example—her mother, more than her father, who restricted most of his reading to world news, finance, politics, and other areas that impacted his work. Her mother had been the fanciful one, reading everything from romances, mysteries, fantasy, biographies, to graphic novels. Emily smiled, remembering the first time her mother had shared a grown-up comic book with her. She could still feel the surge of excitement of holding her mother’s copy of the bound book with the gleaming, colorful pages and how special the shared moment had been. So many moments in her life marked by the discovery of a beloved book.

“You can turn around now,” Derian said softly. “I’m presentable.”

Emily turned slowly, thinking Derian had been more than presentable just a few moments before. Finally, she managed to keep at least some embarrassing words to herself and said nothing.

Derian grinned as if she were still reading her mind, which was irksome and appealing all at once. A lot like the woman herself.

“If I didn’t know better,” Emily said, feigning annoyance, “I’d think you did that on purpose.”

“I might have, if I’d known you would have enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t say that.” Emily narrowed her eyes. “Do you actually enjoy shocking people?”

“Were you?” Derian asked quietly, suddenly very close. “Shocked?”

“No,” Emily said, unable to hide the truth. “I was not.”

“What then?”

“Surprised,” Emily whispered, “that’s all.”

“So you don’t really find me shocking?” Derian traced a finger over the top of Emily’s hand.

“No,” Emily said softly, feeling the weight of Derian’s finger pulse in her center. “I find you unexpected.”

Derian’s gaze intensified. “Not like the rumors and gossip columns would have you believe?”

“I might be guilty of enjoying the glitz and glamour of your world,” Emily said, letting Derian search her eyes, “but I can tell reality from fantasy in my own.”

“Can you?” Derian murmured, catching Emily’s fingers in her palm. “How about tonight?”

“What about tonight?” Emily had the oddest sensation she was falling into the undercurrents swirling in Derian’s eyes and wondered if she cared.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like this to be a date?” Derian’s fingers linked with Emily’s. “Because I would.”

“I can’t think of a worse idea.”

Derian didn’t look offended. She looked curious. “Why?”

“Oh, a million reasons,” Emily said lightly, resisting the urge to step back. She couldn’t retreat. She never retreated. And if she did now, Derian would know in an instant she was attracted. She could hardly be blamed for an unconscious and purely automatic response. Derian Winfield was beautiful, intelligent, clever, and surprisingly tender. “You’re Henrietta’s niece, and it’s probably not a good idea for us to have any kind of personal relationship under the best of circumstances, but definitely not these. You’re likely to disappear at any moment, which is fine, really, but there’s no point in pretending that we have anything in common. So I think any kind of relationship between us should be purely friendly and professional.”

The corner of Derian’s mouth worked as if she were trying not to laugh. Emily frowned. “What?”

“Friendly and professional. Right.” Derian leaned forward, kissed Emily softly on the mouth. “Okay.”

Emily’s lips parted as Derian released her hand. Her heart thundered in her ears and a twisting sensation coiled inside her. She wasn’t sure if it was the kiss or Derian’s audacity that disoriented her, but for an instant, she forgot everything except the smooth heat of Derian Winfield’s mouth. The kiss was barely a kiss, just a fleeting touch, silky soft. Just enough to make her lips tingle. She tugged at her lower lip for a second, willing the sensation to disappear. There. Much better. She stared at Derian, found her watching her with a dark, penetrating expression that made her shiver.

“Why did you do that?”

Derian shrugged, looking not the least bit perturbed by the annoyance in Emily’s tone. “Because I’ve been thinking about it since I stepped into the shower. And because you have an incredibly attractive mouth.”

“But I just said—”

“I know,” Derian said easily. “I heard. But if it’s all right with you, I’m going to disagree.”

“With what?” Emily folded her arms, watching Derian light candles at each end of a dining table set into an alcove with floor-to-ceiling windows and a spectacular view of the park.

“The purely professional part. I’m good with friendly, though.” Derian tapped a console on the wall and quiet strains of music filled the room.

Feeling began to return to Emily’s hands and feet. She hadn’t realized she couldn’t feel them until then. She concentrated on keeping her voice steady. “I should go.”

“We’re having dinner, remember?” Derian smiled. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Emily sighed. “You didn’t. I’m not offended by a beautiful woman kissing me.”

Derian’s smile turned to surprise. “Thank you.”

“Surely you’ve heard that before,” Emily said, echoing Derian earlier.

“Not when I actually believed it.” Derian shook her head, as if chasing away an unwanted thought. “I called the hospital while I was getting dressed. No change.”

“I guess that’s good.” Emily was glad for the abrupt shift in subject. Jousting with Derian over the subject of kisses and dates was far too dangerous.

“I think so.” Derian gestured to the table. “I also called Ralph. Dinner should be here momentarily. I did promise you no more than a forty-five-minute wait.”

“I thought we were going out.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.” Derian pulled out a chair, held it as she watched Emily. “I thought this might be quieter and more relaxing. Do you mind?”

“It’s really not necessary. I can grab a cab—”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Stay, Emily,” Derian said softly. “Please.”

Emily sat.