The Color of Love (8 page)

Far from looking embarrassed again, Emily’s
brows rose. “Is that so? So I shouldn’t believe you’re an avid patron of the
arts, a major donor to several humanitarian aid missions, and, according to the
interviewer, a passionate supporter of international human rights
organizations?”

Uncomfortable now herself, Derian tried to
shrug off the subtle praise. “Oh, that article. More charitable than most. I
think the reporter might have been trying to score points with the Foundation.”

“Maybe, although I recall that article in the
World Week
also mentioned your devotion to the race car circuit, your uncanny skill at the
casinos, and your…hmm, penchant for attracting the attention of starlets and
celebrities.”

“The first part was true, the rest perhaps
exaggerated.”

Emily grinned, pleased at having turned the
tables on Derian for a change, teasing back and watching Derian struggle with
the mild praise. Obviously Derian preferred to keep her generosity a secret.
Emily understood the desire for privacy. “If that’s what you want everyone to
think, I won’t give away your secrets.”

“Thanks,” Derian said with unusual
seriousness.

The driver pulled to the curb in front of an
ornate, spired building Emily recognized—the Dakota, onetime home to John
Lennon, Lauren Bacall, Bono, and many current celebrities. She glanced at
Derian. “You live here? I thought the waiting list was years long.”

“My mother had an apartment here from before
her marriage, and I’ve inherited it. I keep it for when I’m in the city.”

Emily remembered reading that Derian’s
mother, an heiress to an automotive family fortune, had died when Derian was a
child, and much of Derian’s wealth had been inherited from her. “I’m sorry.”

Derian opened the door and paused. “About?”

“Your mother.”

“Thanks,” Derian said softly, not thinking it
odd that Emily would offer condolences after almost twenty years. The loss
never grew any less. She stepped out and waited for Emily to join her before
guiding her toward the massive arched entryway to the inner courtyard.

A liveried doorman straightened when he saw
them coming. “Ms. Winfield. How good to see you again.”

“Hi, Ralph. Made it through another winter, I
see.”

The middle-aged man’s face crinkled in a wide
smile. “Never missed a day. It was a cold one too.”

She squeezed his arm. “I wouldn’t know. I
spent it in Greece.”

“Always somewhere sunny for you.” He chuckled
and escorted them across the brick courtyard to the east entrance. “Do you have
bags?”

“I sent them on ahead from the airport.”

“Peter will have gotten them up by now,
then.”

He held the door for them and Emily stepped
into the wide foyer first. She’d often imagined what it would look like, but
she hadn’t really come close to envisioning the grandeur of the sweeping
staircases, the gleaming brass fixtures, the stories-high ceiling and ornate,
old-world elegance. Beyond the breathtaking beauty, the quiet struck her first.
The atmosphere was as hushed as a cathedral. In a way, it was, being one of the
most exclusive residences in all of New York City.

“Thanks, Ralph.” When the doorman tipped a
finger to his cap and faded back, Derian led the way toward a bank of elevators
with scrolled brass doors and inserted a key. Once inside she pushed one of the
top floor buttons and the ride up progressed swiftly. As the doors opened,
Derian said, “I’m not sure if I’ve anything stocked in the way of refreshments.
They weren’t expecting me.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been
here?” Emily couldn’t imagine having an apartment in this magnificent building
and not actually living in it.

“Almost three years, I think,” Derian said,
her expression remote.

“And the rest of the time you travel?”

Derian fit a key into the lock of a paneled
wooden door, with a heavy cast-iron number four on it, and pushed it wide. “It
depends on the season and the Grand Prix schedule. Sometimes I’ll stay in one
place for a few months, but not usually here.”

“I’m being nosy, aren’t I. I apologize.”
Emily followed Derian inside and caught her breath. Archways connected the
spacious main rooms, with the windows in the living area facing Central Park.
Streetlights on the labyrinth of the roads cutting through the park glowed,
replacing the stars that rarely shone above the city haze. Twin high-back
sofas, their fabric surfaces subtly patterned, faced one another with a huge
coffee table larger than her dining table between them. Tiffany lamps, plush
Oriental carpets, high sideboards in gleaming woods. She wasn’t sure what she
had expected, but the richness, not in money, but in detail and workmanship,
astounded her.

“Did you expect glass and steel?”

Emily laughed. “You’re reading my mind
again.”

“Am I?” Derian asked softly. “I didn’t
realize I was.”

Emily colored. “It seems you hear what I’m
saying when I’m talking in my head.”

“I apologize if I’m intruding, then.”

“No,” Emily said quickly. “You’re not. I…it’s
just unanticipated, that’s all. Probably my imagination.”

“And tell me,” Derian said, still standing
beside her, her topcoat open, her sleek frame somehow eclipsing the surrounding
opulence, “what did you expect?”

Suddenly very warm, Emily shrugged out of her
coat and folded it over her arm.

“Forgive me, I’m being a poor host,” Derian
said into the silence, taking the coat from her and hanging it in a spacious
closet next to the door. She shrugged out of her topcoat and stored it next to
Emily’s. Her blazer she tossed carelessly over the arm of the sofa as she
glanced back at Emily. “Well? What did you imagine?”

“I suppose I did expect something very modern
and…” Emily, usually so good with words, always finding just the right one to
shade any meaning, searched for a phrase that didn’t sound shallow or
deprecating.

Derian laughed. “Glitzy? Over-the-top?
Flamboyant?”

“No,” Emily protested, laughing. “I’m trying
to think of how one would describe a race car. I guess that’s what I
expected—efficient, beautiful in a high-tech kind of way, but not so…personal.
So intimate.”

“Intimate.” Derian glanced around the room as
if she’d never seem it before. “You’re right, about the cars. I do think
they’re beautiful, a perfect blend of form and function. But I wouldn’t want to
surround myself with them.” She gestured to the marble fireplace, the carved
wainscoting, the complex ceiling moldings. “I think this is probably
Henrietta’s influence. I spent a lot of time with her when I was younger, and
she instilled an appreciation in me for the beauty of craftsmanship, the care
of creating something that will last.”

“I know,” Emily said softly. “That’s how I
feel about the books we represent at the agency.”

“Even today? Hasn’t the art of publishing
given way to the allure of big business? Haven’t you all gone to a best-seller
model? Here today, gone tomorrow?”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Emily said,
impressed that Derian even thought about what the world of publishing was like.
She never appeared at the agency, never attended any of the business meetings,
but she clearly knew the direction of change in recent years. “That’s what I
love about our agency. We don’t just look for the kinds of works that will sell
the most. We look for the kinds of works that will live on, that will add something
to the understanding of our times or provoke thought, or simply be a beautiful
example of the art.”

Derian smiled. “I can see that Henrietta has
had an influence on you too, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Perhaps she
chose you because you’re a kindred soul.”

“If that were true, I would be incredibly
honored.”

Derian walked to the far end of the big room,
skirted behind a waist-high bar, and opened a tall mahogany cabinet to reveal a
hidden refrigerator. She chuckled. “When I sent my luggage ahead, someone
decided to stock in some supplies.” She took out a platter of cheese and other
appetizers and set a bottle of champagne next to it. “Help yourself while I
shower. I did promise you dinner and no more than a fifteen-minute wait.”

As she spoke, Derian opened the bottle of
champagne, pulled two fluted glasses from a glass-fronted cabinet over the
counter, and poured the frothing wine. She picked up hers and held the other
out to Emily. “Do you drink?”

“On occasion.”
And never anything with a label like that.
Emily took the glass and sipped. The bubbles played across her tongue like
sunshine. “Oh. That’s…nice.”

Derian grinned. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Emily said, watching Derian
move with smooth grace toward the hall. “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

Derian glanced back over her shoulder, a dark
glint in her eyes. “Good. Neither do I, and I’m enjoying the company.”

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.”