The Color of Love (4 page)

Questions she did not want to ask, or answer.

Derian kissed her way down Françoise’s
throat, slowly cupping her breast and squeezing gently. Françoise arched
against her, a small sob escaping as her fingers tightened in Derian’s hair.

“Yes,” Françoise murmured. “So very good.”

“Come, let me show you how much better,”
Derian said, taking her hand and tugging her toward the bed. Once beside it,
she unbuttoned Françoise’s shirt and slipped her hand inside to rub her thumb
over the peak of the nipple pressing upward through the thin silk of
Françoise’s bra.

“Your hands are wonderful.” Françoise tilted
her head back, eyes closed, lips parted on a long shuddering sigh. Her fingers
raked through Derian’s hair and tightened on her neck. “Please, I want them
everywhere.”

Obediently, Derian opened the remaining
buttons and gentled the silk off Françoise’s shoulders, pushed the sleeves down
her arms, and let it fall away. This was a dance she knew, choreographed for
pleasure and predictably assured. At last the heat of Françoise’s skin, the
smooth satiny sensation of flesh yielding to her touch, consumed her. Immersed
in the command of Françoise’s quivering body, still fully clothed, Derian eased
Françoise down onto the creamy sheets, opened her silk pants, and bent over her
to kiss the center of her abdomen. When she rubbed her cheek against the downy
skin and licked lightly at the juncture of Françoise’s thighs, Francoise cried
out and arched upward, presenting herself to be taken.

“Soon,” Derian whispered.

“I cannot wait.” Françoise’s voice broke on a
husky sigh. “I am too ready.”

“You are too beautiful to hurry.” Derian
kissed once between her thighs and Françoise sobbed. “And I want to savor you.”

Derian undressed her completely and, when she
was naked, straddled her with her legs framing Françoise’s hips. She braced her
body on an arm and stroked Françoise’s throat, trailing her fingers down to her
breast. “Look at me.”

Françoise’s eyes were hazy with need, her
breath short, body vibrating. “Yes, please. I want to watch you take me over.”

Derian took her time, relaxed and certain of
her skill, her caresses practiced, her kisses perfected. She knew how to please
a woman, enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as she enjoyed the respite from
thought. When she stroked between Françoise’s thighs, when she played her
fingers gently over the delicate valley, when she slid inside, every movement
was timed, intentional, designed for the pinnacle of pleasure. When Françoise’s
gaze clouded over and her lips parted on a silent scream, Derian registered a
sense of satisfaction and success.

When Françoise’s choked sobs trailed off and
her body slumped, Derian stretched out beside her, head propped on her hand.
She traced Françoise’s nipple with a fingertip, fascinated as it pebbled in
response. She didn’t expect Françoise to reciprocate, didn’t need her to. Her
goal had been to pleasure Françoise, and she
was confident she had been more than successful.

“You are a marvelous lover.” Françoise
caressed Derian’s face, her voice husky and her eyes hazy with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” Derian said, meaning it.
Françoise’s openness, her vulnerability, her trust were a precious gift.

“If you have a need—” Françoise began.

“I am more than satisfied,” Derian murmured,
giving Françoise a slow, lingering kiss. She didn’t lie. She didn’t want
anything else. “You are what I wanted. All I wanted.”

“Then I should go,” Françoise said with a
sigh. She gave Derian a final caress and sat up. “My escort will be looking for
me.”

“Of course.” Derian rolled over and leaned
back against the pillows, watching Françoise dress, enjoying the way her body
disappeared with each article she donned as much as she had enjoyed disrobing
her. She knew the planes and contours of her flesh now. She was like a
beautiful landscape Derian had touched, claimed, and would forever own in some
small way. Aimlessly, she stroked her stomach through her silk shirt, felt the
stirring between her thighs, anticipated satisfying it later. Her cell phone
rang and she pulled it from her pants pocket. She checked the number and set
the phone on the bedside table.

Françoise regarded her with a raised eyebrow.
“No one important?”

“No. Not in the least.” She had no intention
of taking a call from the family attorney. As much as she liked her childhood
friend, Audrey Ames had taken sides when she’d gone into the Ames family
business of representing Winfield Enterprises. And that side was not Derian’s.

Françoise sashayed closer, leaned down to
give Derian a very impressive view down her shirt, and kissed her, her tongue
dancing over Derian’s for an instant. “I hope I will see you again before the
race moves on.”

“Yes,” Derian said, committing to nothing.
Once was usually all she wanted with a woman. So much safer that way. Her cell
rang again and she sighed. Audrey wasn’t usually so insistent and just left a
message. “I’m sorry, I should take this.”

Françoise tapped her index finger against
Derian’s mouth. “And I should go. Thank you again, Derian, my darling.”

Derian took the call, watching Françoise
disappear. “Bad timing as usual, Aud.”

“Dere, you need to come home.”

“It’s three days before the race.” Derian sat
on the side of the bed and slipped into her shoes. “You’ve already got my proxy
vote, just send it in as usual—”

“Derian, it’s Henrietta.”

A fist slammed into Derian’s midsection and
the room wavered before her eyes. “I’ll be on the next plane.”

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.”