Radclyffe - The_Color_of_Love_-_Radclyffe

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.”