Radclyffe - The_Color_of_Love_-_Radclyffe

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.”