The Color of Love

by Radclyffe

  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.”

  Chapter Three

  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 glan
ced 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.”

  Emily stared. “Ms. Win—Derian, please. You have nothing to apologize for, under any circumstances, and certainly not these.”

  “I don’t agree, but I won’t argue with your absolution.” Derian sighed. “I just tried to see my aunt and the attendants tell me I have to wait half an hour until she can have more visitors. Apparently my father just left.”

  “Yes. You must have missed him by only a minute or two.”

  “Believe me, that’s not a hardship.” Emily looked shocked but Derian didn’t bother to explain the last person she wanted to see was Martin, and he probably reciprocated. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming other than Aud, who wouldn’t bring it up with Martin or his family unless she had to. “Do you have any word on Henrietta? How is she?”

  Heat flared in Emily’s eyes and was quickly extinguished. “No, I asked your father, but…”

  Derian clenched her jaw. “I don’t suppose he was very forthcoming.”

  Emily managed to look sympathetic. “No, but I’m sure he is very worried and has a lot on his mind.”

  “And you’re very kind and diplomatic.”

  “I wish I knew more.” Emily glanced down the hall toward the ICU. “I’ve been trying to get word, but I’m not family and this is the first time I’ve seen your father. Or…anyone.”

  “She’s been in here for ten hours and he hasn’t been by?” Fighting off a wave of fury, Derian closed her fist until her nails bit into her palm and washed away the red haze clouding her thoughts. “Still the same old bastard, I see.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Don’t worry. I know how things work. I got here soon as I could.” Derian rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “I didn’t know she was sick. We haven’t
talked in a while.”

  “I’m not sure she was aware either. I think she might have told me, had she known.”

  “You’re close, then—I mean, friends?” Derian tried to pinpoint the last time she and Henrietta had done more than exchange a quick email. Last year before the race in Sochi? Time blurred, a repetitive loop of hotels, soirées, and meaningless conversations. Henrietta was the only person she ever really opened up to, and she hadn’t done that in a very long time. If she had, she’d have to put words to things she didn’t want to own.

  “I think we are,” Emily said softly. “She means the world to me—of course, we’re not fami—”

  Derian scoffed. “Family is an overrated concept. I’m glad you were with her. And I’m glad she has you.”

  “You must’ve broken some kind of record getting here—weren’t you somewhere in Europe?”

  Emily gripped her forearm, an unexpectedly comforting sensation. Derian regarded her curiously. “How did you know?”

  Emily wasn’t about to confess that she often followed celebrity news, mostly for entertainment and relaxation to break the rigors of the concentrated work of screening manuscripts and studying production layouts. Whenever Derian Winfield was mentioned, usually accompanied by a photo of her with a race car or some glamorous woman, she took note. She’d always thought Henrietta’s niece was attractive, but the glossy photos hadn’t captured the shadows that swirled in the depths of her eyes or the sadness that undercut the sharp edges of her words. “Perhaps Henrietta mentioned it. Somewhere in Europe, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Fortunately, I had access to a plane.” Derian winced and took stock of her appearance. “Although I look somewhat like a street person at the moment.”

  “No,” Emily said with a faint laugh. “You most certainly do not. You do look tired, though.”