The Color of Love (3 page)

Henrietta, her shining black hair cut
casually short, without any gray and naturally so, nodded hello. As was always
the case, she wore a business suit, this one a gray pinstripe with a white
open-collared shirt and a plain gold necklace showing at the throat.

“Hi,” Emily said. “Sorry I couldn’t make it
sooner, but I just finished a call with a client.”

“That was the fantasy you were telling me
about the other night at dinner?”

Emily shook her head, although she shouldn’t
be surprised. HW’s memory was prodigious and enviable. “That’s the one.”

“Is the author signing?”

“She is.”

“Excellent. I agree with you—we’re going to
see a resurgence in high fantasy in the next year. Can you get this one
positioned with one of the brand divisions?”

“I think so.” Emily doubted Henrietta had
called her in to discuss a relatively straightforward contract, but she waited
patiently.

“Sit down. This will take a minute.”

Emily’s heart jumped. Something about the way
Henrietta was looking at her sent a chill down her spine. When she’d been a
young intern working directly for HW, she’d been the recipient of a few hard
stares, an occasional quiet but unforgettable admonishment, and a thousand more
words of encouragement. Henrietta Winfield was the best at what she did, and
she’d held the reins of her company in a firm grasp through economic and
industry upheavals that had decimated other agencies. If she was unhappy, Emily
couldn’t fathom what might be the cause. She sat, feeling the pulse beat in her
throat.

“I’ve just been on the phone with our
attorneys,” Henrietta said without preamble. “There’s a better than even chance
we’re going to lose our H-1B approval at the end of the year.”

Emily caught her breath. If that happened,
her application for permanent residence would be in limbo—or terminated. “Why?”

“Because the idiots who make the laws, or
listen to the people who elect them, are hysterical about immigration issues
right now and they’re cutting all the quotas. We are not tech, and that’s where
most of the allocations go.”

Emily knew that, but she’d been in the United
States since she’d enrolled at Harvard as an undergraduate. Singapore had a very
good working relationship with educational institutions in the United States
and obtaining a student visa had been easy. Then when she’d been accepted as an
intern after a year of graduate school, she’d moved into H-1B status. Other
than being a supreme hassle in terms of paperwork and documentation, her visa
had never really been a problem.

“But if—” Emily swallowed. “Am I going to
lose my job?”

“Not if I can help it,” Henrietta said, a
fierce light in her eyes. “The entire thing is ridiculous, and we’re working on
it, but I wanted you to know.”

“Of course, yes.” Emily’s mind reeled. She
couldn’t lose this job—this was more than a job, it was her passion, her
future, and if she had to return to Singapore…she couldn’t. She’d never find
the kind of job there she had here, and even if she could, she’d never earn the
same. The cost of living was even worse than New York City, and with Pam’s
expenses…she’d never manage.

“I don’t want you to worry.” Henrietta
laughed shortly, her voice catching as she coughed. She drank from a glass on
her desk and grimaced impatiently. “I know that’s a ridiculous thing to say,
but we’ve worked our way through miles of red tape more than once.
Unfortunately, this time we have to deal with multiple agencies, federal at
that, and it might take some time.”

“I—” Emily cleared her throat. “I’ll do
anything necessary. I love this job, you know that.”

Henrietta’s expression softened. “Of course I
do. You also happen to be very good at it. We’ve never really talked about it,
but someday, I expect you’ll have a much larger role in the company.”

“I can’t imagine being anywhere else, doing
anything else.”

“Well, I don’t plan on retiring anytime
soon,” Henrietta said, “and there’s time for us to talk about that when this
visa business is straightened out. We need to get you that green card and be
done with it.”

Emily sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

“Well, I’ve set up a meeting with our
attorneys for the end of the week. We’ll talk about all of it then.”

“Thank you.” Emily swallowed around the lump
in her throat. She wouldn’t panic. They had time to straighten it all out.
She’d keep her job, she’d be able to take care of Pam. Her plans would all be
fine.

“Emily,” Henrietta said, rising from behind
her desk and starting toward her. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to
let—” She stopped abruptly, one hand reaching for the side of her desk. Her
expression registered surprise and then she gasped, “Oh.”

“I’m sorry? What?” Emily said. “Henrietta?
Henrietta!”

Emily jumped up as Henrietta Winfield slumped
to the floor.

Derian tossed the keys to the Maserati to the
uniformed attendant who raced from beneath the portico of the Hôtel de Paris to
intercept her before she had even turned off the engine. With a wave of thanks
she strode up the wide red-carpeted stairs and into the lobby of the grand
hotel. Despite the enormity of the space with its polished marble floors, high
decorative arched ceilings, plush carpets, and many seating areas carefully
designed for privacy as well as comfort, the decibel level was higher than
usual. Early crowds already filled the streets, cafés,
and hotels for the upcoming race. She cut her way rapidly through the milling
people to the single bank of elevators in the rear that led to the exclusive
racecourse suites. She punched in the security code and within seconds was
whisked to her level and the doors to the elevator slid silently open. The
hallway was a stark contrast to the bustling lobby—quietly proclaiming
confidentiality and discretion even though all of the suites along the wide
hallway were undoubtedly in use. Grand Prix time was synonymous with party time
in Monte Carlo, and the race was only three days away.

She inserted her entrance card at the Garnier
suite and walked into a party well in progress. A wall of sound accosted her,
dozens of voices laughing, calling to one another, conversing animatedly. The
drapes had been pulled back from the floor-to-ceiling French doors opening onto
one of the balconies overlooking Casino Square and the course, and the
late-afternoon sun streamed into the room, bathing the faces of the partygoers
in soft golden light. The beautiful people glowed with good health, good
fortune, and bonhomie.

Derian wondered if their appearance of
happiness was as false as what she sometimes felt, and just as quickly pushed
the thought aside. Such slivers of dissatisfaction only plagued her when she
was weary, and she’d had a long night at the gaming tables. She’d been winning,
as she did more often than not, and the satisfaction of beating the odds had
kept her mind and body energized. Now she would have been happy to take a long,
hot shower and relax in the corner of the white leather sofa with a brandy and
an audiobook, but the sun never set in Monte Carlo during Grand Prix season,
the partying never stopped, and no one escaped. If she’d wanted to escape the
never-ending bacchanal, she wouldn’t be here to begin with.

Shedding her black blazer, she tossed it over
a hanger in the closet next to the door, rolled up the sleeves of her white
silk shirt, and made her way around behind the wet bar set up at one end of a
living room that was as large as some hotel lobbies. She sorted through the
array of high-end liquors, two-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, and vintage
wines until she found the single malt. After pouring an inch of scotch into a
short crystal glass, no ice, she sipped the smoky liquid and let the burn
spread through her and blunt the edges of her simmering discontent. She wasn’t
in the mood to look too closely at why she’d had an itch between her shoulder
blades for weeks now, reminding her at the most inopportune times that she was
bored or restless or simply tired of racing across the Continent following the
circuit and chasing a high that never quite satisfied. Whatever it was would
pass, and she could go back to living on the thrill of the next race, the next
encounter, the next woman.

Speaking of women, she watched with
appreciation as a buxom redhead in a very revealing form-hugging emerald green
shirt, skintight black silk pants, and needle-thin heels stalked toward the
bar. She didn’t know her, and she would’ve remembered a face like that—wide
luscious mouth, high cheekbones accentuated with artful makeup, and a curly,
flowing mane of hair glinting with gold and flaming reds that gave her a
sultry, leonine appearance. She stopped opposite Derian on the other side of
the wet bar and slowly appraised her.

“My, my,” the redhead said in a low voice
that vibrated with a hint of French and teasing promise, “Michigan certainly is
hiring attractive bartenders these days.”

“What would you like,” Derian said, not
bothering to correct her.

“To drink? Or…”

“Or?” Derian smiled. Everything in life was a
game, and none she liked better than the first few moments of establishing the
playing field with a new woman. “Is there something else I might be able to do
for you?”

The redhead chuckled and wet her lips with
the tip of a pink tongue. “Darling, there are so many things you could do for
me. What time do you finish here tonight?”

Instead of answering, Derian poured a glass
of cabernet from a bottle of PlumpJack reserve someone had opened and left
standing on the bar. Shame to waste a great wine on philistines, but she hadn’t
invited most of the people crowding her rooms. The guest list had been Michigan
Tire’s call. She handed the glass to the redhead. “You look like red wine—full
flavored and unforgettable. This one is savory and mysterious, it lingers on
your tongue as only the finest tastes can do. I think you’ll like it.”

Color flared in the redhead’s throat and she
kept her eyes locked to Derian’s as she closed her fingers around the stem of
the glass. Brushing her thumb across Derian’s knuckles, she lifted the wine
slowly to her mouth. Her lips parted, caressed the rim of the glass, and she
tilted the liquid into her mouth. She ever so slowly swallowed and made a low
purring sound in her throat. “Very nice indeed.”

“I’m delighted you like it.”

The redhead cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not
the bartender, are you?”

“I can be, if you’d enjoy that.”

“I already am. Who are you?”

“Derian Winfield.”

“Ah,” the redhead said, not missing a beat.
“Then I have you to thank for this wonderful soirée.”

“Me and Michigan Tire,” Derian said.

“Yes, you’re one of the sponsors of their
team, aren’t you?”

Derian found her scotch, took another sip.
“That’s right.”

“I’m surprised you’re not driving one of the
cars.”

Derian grinned wryly. “I thought I would,
once upon a time. But it’s very hard work and I have an aversion to that.”

Laughing, the redhead held out her hand. “I’m
Françoise Delacorte. Delighted to meet you—Derian.”

Derian lifted her hand, kissed her fingers.
“Françoise. My pleasure.”

“So is it
Dare
as in daring?” Françoise held on to Derian’s hand, her lips pursing as her gaze
slid down Derian’s body. “It suits you very much.”

“No.” Derian extracted her fingers gently.
“It’s pronounced the same, but it’s
D-e-r-e
.”

“Are you then, just the same? Daring?”

“Some people think so.”

“Do you only gamble on cars and cards?”

Derian glanced out over the room at the sea
of faces, some of whom she recognized, most she didn’t. She always sponsored a
big party for donors, sponsors, and VIP friends of the team at each stop on the
circuit. MT handled the invites, and she paid. She didn’t see anyone she wanted
to talk to. The malaise settled in her chest again, the weariness of repetition
growing harder to ignore. She set down her glass. “I like a challenge—at the tables,
on the course…in the bedroom.”

“Mmm. So do I.” Françoise took another
swallow of wine and set the glass aside. “We are well-matched, you and I.”

“I think you’re right,” Derian said, sliding
around the bar, “and I’d very much like showing you.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“Will you be missed for a time?”

“Not right away.”

“Good.” Derian took Françoise’s elbow. “This
way.”

She guided Françoise to the far side of the
room and unlocked the door to her private rooms. The bedroom occupied a corner
of the suite with the king-sized bed positioned to give its occupants a view
into the square. When she closed the door, the sounds of the revelry faded.
Turning Françoise to face her, she kissed her, sliding one arm around her
waist, and took her time exploring the soft surface of her moist lips, tasting
the earthy aftermath of the wine on her tongue. Françoise was an experienced
kisser, and she melted into Derian’s body, one hand stroking up the back of
Derian’s neck and into her hair. What Derian liked best about kissing a woman,
about taking her to bed, was the way her mind shut off and her body took
control. When she was focused on giving pleasure, she no longer recognized the
distant pall of emptiness that lingered on the edges of her consciousness.

Françoise was a beautiful and seductive
woman, but Derian was having a hard time losing herself in the taste of her
mouth and the press of her breasts against her chest. She could see herself as
if she stood a few paces away, watching the familiar scene play out, the
familiar ending unreel. The challenge, the victory, the cries of passion, and,
inevitably, the parting played through her mind as predictably as the endless
cycle of parties, races, and risk that defined her life. The long, empty hours
until the scene played out again stared back her, as accusing as her own eyes
in the mirror. What was she doing, where was she going, and when would she stop
running?