The Color of Love

by Radclyffe

  Emily gave a little start, and in the hazy glow of reflected lights from marquees and streetlights, surprise flashed across her face.

  “I can’t possibly be the first person who’s told you that,” Derian said.

  “Ah…maybe,” Emily said, her tone pensive and thoughtful. “I think definitely, at least completely out of the blue.”

  The image of some woman murmuring compliments to Emily in an intimate setting jumped into Derian’s head, and she smothered an irrational surge of annoyance that came dangerously close to feeling like jealousy. She had neither the right nor the desire to claim anyone’s full attention, especially not a woman like Emily—who clearly did not play games.

  “Well, if you haven’t heard it before, you should have.” Derian watched Emily register the idea, catalog it, tuck it away. She saw the small smile of pleasure flicker for an instant, and satisfaction heated her belly. She liked making her smile. “Monte Carlo.”

  “Oh,” Emily said, “that’s right. I read an article—” She broke off, catching her lower lip between her teeth.

  “Really? One of those, huh?” Derian laughed. Even in the shadowy light she could tell Emily was blushing. And when was the last time she’d seen that response in a woman? She couldn’t resist the urge to tease her again just to see her tug at her lip, a very sexy little movement. “I can categorically state that ninety percent of whatever it said was not true.”

  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 tim
e 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.”

  Chapter Seven

  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.”

  She heard Derian laugh as she hurried away. A door closed behind her, and she breathed a sigh of relief at having a few moments to collect herself. She so needed to find her balance around Derian, a new and confounding experience. She appreciated beautiful women for the aesthetics, who didn’t? The female form was such a fierce combination of delicacy and strength—the female face endlessly captivating. Why else would museums be filled with centuries of effort trying to capture the mystery of woman? Derian shouldn’t have any mor
e effect on her than an exquisite painting or a spectacular sculpture, but she kept losing her breath when she looked at her. And now she had the image of her nude emblazoned in her memory.

  Totally her fault. If she’d been thinking instead of enjoying a second half-glass of champagne, she would’ve realized she was stepping into Derian’s private space when she drifted into the hall. But she’d hardly expected her to be naked. The woman was so unbelievably casual about physical matters, touching effortlessly if respectfully, and treating her own body as if it was nothing special, and it certainly was. Special. Refreshing, exciting.

  And best not to think about that too much. Perhaps she’d had a little too much of the very fine champagne after all. That must be it, although she didn’t actually feel disinhibited in the least. After all, she didn’t actually plan to go through with the mini-fantasy she’d had of running her palm over the gentle slope of Derian’s chest and down…

  Emily soundly set the unfinished flute of champagne down on an end table and dragged her mind away from dangerous territory. Determined to banish thoughts of Derian, naked or not, she scanned the living room again, finally pinpointing what she’d thought missing. Bookcases. Her much smaller apartment was crammed with bookshelves in every available inch of wall, nook, and cranny. And even then, she didn’t have enough room for everything she wanted to keep and had piles of reads and to-be-reads secreted under tables, nightstands, even the bed. Sure, she was a child of the modern age and had plenty of digital books on several different electronic readers, but she still loved the feel of the physical form and had always been a collector. First editions, odd editions, little-known titles that represented something new and exciting at the time. She loved to keep those, each a piece of history that marked her own life, or milestones in publishing, or changes in the world around her.