The Color of Love (18 page)

“Bullshit. You’re your father’s right-hand
man, and
he’s
Martin’s personal attorney. Don’t pretend you don’t know what the long-range
plans are.”

“I swear, Derian,” Aud said, “I don’t know
exactly what Martin has planned. Someone has to take over at the agency in
Henrietta’s absence. It’s perfectly reasonable that Martin wants someone he
knows to have decision-making power.”

“You mean someone who will institute his
agenda. There are qualified people at the agency who can run things in
Henrietta’s stead. We both know that.”

“We don’t actually.” Aud made an exasperated
sound. “Look, as much as I love Henrietta, she and Martin aren’t all that
different. She keeps a lot of information about the agency to herself. As to
how qualified anyone else is to take her place, that remains to be seen.”

“Emily May is Henrietta’s choice.”

“Another thing we don’t know, and even if
that’s the case, Emily is—”

“Experienced, and personally trained by
Henrietta. Come on, Aud. The agency is a tiny part of Winfield Enterprises, and
the only reason Martin even cares about it is because he and Henrietta have
been feuding their whole lives.”

“As I said,” Aud said coolly, “I don’t
presume to know Mr. Winfield’s plans.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Derian muttered. “Look,
just get Donatella out of there for now. Let Emily run things until Henrietta
is through the postoperative period, and then—”

“That’s not going to happen.”

Derian stiffened. “Why not?”

“Derian, you haven’t cared to be involved in
any of the business matters your entire life. I’m glad that you’re here, and I
know that Henrietta needs you, but this is not your concern.”

Anger welled in Derian’s chest, even as she
knew Aud had a point. She had no right to make demands. And she had no one to
blame for that except herself.

“Look,” Aud said, sounding tired, “I
understand your concerns. Emily May might not even be at the agency in a few
more months, and until we get a reasonable transition team in place, Donatella
is your father’s choice.”

“Wait a minute, back up. What do you mean,
Emily might not be there?”

“Martin wants to downsize, and Emily isn’t
even a permanent resident. Even if her visa is renewed, and right now, that’s
up in the air, the board is not going to approve her taking over as head of the
agency. Besides, she’s not family, and you know how things work.”

“And Donatella is?”

“Donatella at least has your father’s
blessing.”

“And we all know how much that counts for.”

“Derian—”

“Never mind, Aud. I don’t know why I forgot
whose side you’re on. I seem to keep making that mistake.”

“Dammit! If you’d bothered to be here once in
a while—”

“You’re right,” Derian said. “But I’m here
now.”

She disconnected, dropped the phone into her
pocket, and walked back into the hospital. Maybe the smartest thing to do was
stay out of the way, let Martin do what he wanted to do for years—turn the
agency into a moneymaking enterprise or kill it altogether. She’d opted out of
that battlefront years ago. Ran from it, if she was being honest. Once
Henrietta was on the road to recovery, she could get back to her life. She
slowly climbed the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the
stairwell. Back to her life. She couldn’t think of a single thing about it that
she missed.

At 6:59, Derian rang the buzzer next to the small
white rectangular tab with the name
E.
May
typed in bold and tugged down the sleeves of her navy blazer.
She’d paired it with dark jeans, a pale gray shirt, and black boots, hoping
casual was a good choice for dinner in. She had an instant of uncertainty and
laughed in wry amusement. Since when did she worry about impressing? A moment
later, the intercom crackled to life. “Yes?”

“It’s Derian.”

“3C. Come on up—my door is unlocked.”

The small vestibule grew quiet until a few
seconds later a long, low buzz sounded from the double interior doors and
Derian let herself in to a narrow foyer leading to a set of stairs at the far
end. The mosaic tile floor was mud-free despite the recent storms, the
waist-high dark wood wainscoting and curved banister glowing with polish with
only the occasional scuff mark, and the stairs free of trash and dirt. A nice
apartment building, one of maybe five or six stone edifices in a row on a
narrow side street. She climbed to the third floor, found apartment C, turned
the brass knob, and she let herself into a softly lit living room in a
high-ceilinged, open-plan apartment. Across the room, Emily worked at an island
flanked by several tall bar stools that separated the small galley kitchen from
the main seating area just to Derian’s right. Beyond the living area,
floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a view of a small pocket park she’d passed
when the Uber driver let her off at the corner. At the opposite end of the
room, other doors presumably led to the bedroom and bath. Focused spots
illuminated the kitchen workspaces, leaving the rest of the large apartment in
muted shadows cast by floor lamps with tasseled ivory shades. The mix of old-world
elegance and modern efficiency seemed a perfect reflection of Emily.

“Hi,” Derian said, her heart beating rapidly
for some reason.

“You’re right on time.” Emily greeted her
with a bright, easy smile, looking sexy and relaxed in a black shirt with small
iridescent flowers scattered over the front, body-hugging jeans, and strappy
black shoes with low heels. Her hair was caught back with a plain tie, leaving
a thick tail at her nape.

The heavy feeling Derian’d been carrying all
afternoon since leaving the hospital fled her chest. “You sound as if you
thought I wouldn’t be here.”

Emily laughed. “I did no such thing. If I’d
been the slightest bit worried, I wouldn’t have done all this prep.” She
gestured to the counter and an array of vegetables and other foods in a line of
small, hand-painted ceramic bowls. She resumed expertly slicing vegetables on
one of several cutting boards. “Is that the red I see?”

Derian hefted the Château Mouton in its
unassuming paper bag. “As promised.”

“Would you open it, and we can have a little
while I cook.”

“Excellent idea.” Derian carried the bottle
to the counter, removed it from the bag, and opened it with a corkscrew Emily
handed her.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Where did you find
that?”

“Ah, I had the wine steward at the Dakota
procure it for me. Will it work?”

“Oh, I should think so.” Emily shook her head
at the extravagance, secretly flattered by Derian’s efforts toward making the
evening special, and went back to chopping.

Derian set the red aside to breathe and
settled onto the high-backed stool to watch Emily work. Her hands flashed, the
gleaming knife blade a blur, and small piles of colorful vegetables appeared as
if by magic. Although the area was small, it was easy to see it had been laid
out with care by someone who actually intended to use it. The range was a new
compact high-end commercial model. Gleaming pots and pans sat on several
burners and hung from a copper rack affixed to the ceiling. She watched as
Emily efficiently assembled items into a roasting pan and slid it into the
oven. “Looks like you have a calling. Ever considered being a chef?”

“I’ve always loved to cook. But the books
captured me first.” Emily nodded toward the wine. “Would it be a sin to try
that prematurely?”

“I’d say it’s breathed enough. Besides, there
can be no sin in shared indulgence.”

Emily regarded her silently, and Derian held
her gaze. She couldn’t be anywhere near Emily without that stirring of
excitement, and tonight she didn’t want to avoid it. The last days had been
hell. Meeting Emily was the only good thing to come out of the whole nightmare,
and for a few hours, she intended to bask in the pleasure. Derian poured wine
into the two glasses Emily set on the counter, then lifted hers and held it
out. “To Henrietta.”

“To Henrietta.” Emily lightly touched her
glass to Derian’s. A high, clear chime of crystal rang out. “Thank you for
calling me this afternoon.”

“Not at all.” After Derian had visited
Henrietta in the recovery room, she’d called Emily at the agency with an
update. Henrietta was stable, but not yet awake. She wouldn’t remember Derian
visiting, holding her hand, informing her that all was well. That didn’t
matter. She’d been there, as she’d needed to be—for herself as much as
Henrietta. “Tomorrow she’ll be more aware and you can visit.”

“I hope so.”

“So,” Derian said as the warm, sharp taste of
the wine teased all her senses, “who taught you to cook?”

Emily made a wry face. “I always wanted to
spend time in the kitchen when I was young, but my parents thought trailing
after the cook was unseemly. They didn’t mind, however, when I took cooking
lessons as soon as I was old enough.” She shrugged, her expression distant. “I
stole off to the kitchen at the embassy as often as I could when they were
entertaining foreign dignitaries, trying to master as many national dishes as I
could.”

“You must have quite an eclectic repertoire,
then.”

“I don’t get much chance to use it these
days.” Emily shook off whatever memory had momentarily clouded her expression.
“I hope you like Asian fusion.”

“I enjoy food, but I must admit, after
hundreds of meals served in restaurants and hotels, the allure fades.”

“Well, perhaps we can reinvigorate that.”

“Perhaps.” Derian sipped her red. “That and
other diminishing pleasures.”

Emily flushed and quickly looked away. Derian
smiled inwardly, recognizing she wasn’t the only one feeling the pull of
attraction. Ordinarily she wouldn’t resist the draw, especially not when the
woman in question obviously shared her desire. This time, though, she needed to
proceed a great deal more carefully. Emily was no innocent and certainly not a
child, but despite her apparent openness to mild flirtation, she
had
already weighed in
on the subject—and her answer had been no. Still, people were known to change
their minds, and Derian enjoyed the gentle chase. And she liked that nothing
beyond dinner had been suggested. She didn’t want any of her time with Emily to
resemble the empty, and ultimately forgettable, evenings she’d spent with other
women. She didn’t want to play games, she didn’t want to forget the night as
soon as it had passed. She simply wanted to enjoy the company of a bright,
beautiful, exciting woman.

“Is something wrong?” Emily asked quietly.

“No,” Derian said quietly. “In fact,
everything is surprisingly all right.”

*

They ate at a small round table covered by a
snowy white linen cloth in a shallow alcove off the living area. Three tall
narrow windows gave a view down onto the park. Emily had opened one of the
windows and surprisingly warm evening air wafted in, carrying the sounds of the
city.

“It’s nice,” Derian said, “seeing a bit of
green.”

“Not exactly the kind of view you’re used
to,” Emily commented.

“No,” Derian said, her eyes on Emily.
“Actually, far better.”

Emily blushed. “Where were you staying in Monte
Carlo?”

Derian grinned briefly at the deft
deflection. Emily’s shy blush just made her want to tease her more. “Hôtel de
Paris.”

“Ah, yes. That overlooks the racecourse on
the plaza.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Only vicariously.”

“You’re very well informed, then.”

Emily laughed. “I don’t travel frequently,
but I enjoy reading pretty much everything. And I already confessed to being a
celebrity addict.”

“I would imagine for a woman like you, that
would not be satisfying for very long.”

Emily poured tea from an ornamental pot into
small glazed cups. “Why is that?”

Derian tried the tea. It was surprisingly
fragrant but not the least bit cloying. Full and aromatic. “I’ve never been a
tea drinker, but I think this might persuade me differently.”

“It’s practically the national drink where I
grew up. High tea is one of the customs left over from colonialism that is
still embraced in Singapore. I enjoy coffee, but I find it’s only good when
taken sparingly. Like so many things.”

“Not necessarily a popular sentiment.”

“And you’re dissembling again.” Emily pointed
a finger. “What do you mean, a woman like me?” Emily wasn’t fishing for
compliments. She was genuinely curious. Oh, she wanted Derian to be interested.
She wasn’t so self-deluding as to deny that. Having the interest of a beautiful
woman was not something she could ignore or pretend she didn’t want. But she so
rarely wondered how others thought of her, she couldn’t fathom what clues—or
what secrets—she’d exposed.

“A woman of substance.”

“Oh,” Emily said with mock horror. “That
sounds ghastly. Stodgy and boring and—you make me sound like a stereotypical
librarian.”

Grinning, Derian looked around and tilted her
chin in the direction of an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, every
shelf filled and many overfilled with books. “Observe.”

“Of course I love books,” Emily said. “Why on
earth would I do what I do if I didn’t?”

Derian took Emily’s hand and gave it a
playful shake. “I’ve never in my life known a librarian who looks like you.”

“Nice try, but you obviously haven’t met many
librarians. Contrary to the stereotype, many of them are far more attractive
and interesting than me.”

“I doubt that,” Derian murmured.

Emily’s playful protests flew from her mind.
She’d never known she was so susceptible to flattery, but every time Derian
looked at her as if she were seeing someone beautiful and intriguing, Emily was
transported into a world of possibility she’d never imagined. She felt sexy and
desirable and desirous. She swallowed. “You have a way of making me forget
myself.”