The Color of Love (10 page)

“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.

Derian slid her hands into her pockets and watched
the cab pull away, following its course along the park until it turned and
disappeared. She’d escorted more women than she’d ever thought to count to a
cab or car in the middle of the night, seeing them off to their other lives,
their other lovers. Fortunately, few of her liaisons cared to spend the night,
like-having-recognized-like before the assignations had begun. Even when the
night gave way to dawn, she couldn’t recall a single instance when she and her
bedmate had shared breakfast. Sitting opposite someone over a meal required a
level of intimate conversation she usually avoided. Not so with Emily, though.
Somehow they had effortlessly traveled into regions Derian rarely traversed,
even in her mind. Thoughts of family, lost to time or tragedy, were not
landscapes she cared to view, but she’d touched on all of that with Emily. And
Emily had ventured there with her too, for a moment, before pulling back from
whatever sorrows populated that part of her past. Derian wanted to know, wanted
to help ease that grief, but she’d wait until invited, even though waiting was
not her usual stance.

The evening with Emily had been a departure
in more ways than one. Spending time with Emily was not like spending time with
other women. She hadn’t been eager for her to leave—just the opposite. Even
now, a hollow ache percolated in her chest, as if Emily had taken some of the
energy and excitement of the night with her. Derian wasn’t inured to the
company of other women—she appreciated the intimacies they shared, but she’d
always been satisfied with the physical. Oh, she was aware of Emily physically,
all right. She could envision making love with her. Sitting across from her at
the small table, she’d imagined it more than once. Even now, the vibrant images
were so clear and insistent, desire surged like a heavy hand squeezing deep
inside.

She grimaced, caught off guard and not at all
pleased. She’d already mentally cataloged all the reasons why even thinking of
Emily in that way was a bad idea, and being reminded that her head did not rule
her body only made the unruly physical urges more aggravating. She wasn’t going
to be able to sleep until she banished the persistent craving for a woman she
didn’t want to want. A walk in the brisk dark and a diversion of a more
familiar type might refocus her interest in a safer direction.

Hunching her shoulders inside the light wool
blazer she’d tossed on to accompany Emily downstairs, she headed toward Midtown
and the metrosexual club she remembered from her last visit. If Cosmos wasn’t
there any longer, she could surely find another without any difficulty. New
York never slept, after all, and New Yorkers were notoriously adventurous and
nonjudgmental, at least where sex was concerned.