Radclyffe - The_Color_of_Love_-_Radclyffe

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

Derian touched a finger beneath Emily’s chin and tilted her head up. “And you look beyond tired. How long have you been here?”

Emily stilled, the unfamiliar touch of Derian’s hand streaking through her with the oddest blaze of heat and light. She’d never realized tactile sensations could be in Technicolor. “I’ve been here since Henrietta arrived. I rode in the ambulance. The EMTs were kind enough to let me.”

Derian frowned. Realizing after an instant she still cradled Emily’s face, she brushed her thumb gently over the tip of her chin before drawing away. “Then I’m in your debt. As soon as I’ve seen her, I’m taking you to get something to eat.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure you’ll want to get together with your family.”

“No, that would be the last thing I want to do.” Derian glanced toward the hall in the direction of the intensive care unit. “The only member of my family I care about is in there.” She glanced back at Emily. “You and I share that, I think.”

“Henrietta is easy to care about.”

“You see, I told you, you were diplomatic.” Derian smiled. “Henrietta is a hard-ass, but she knows people. And when she cares about you, she’s always on your side. If you’ve survived this long with her, you’re tougher than you look.”

Emily ought to have been insulted, but she laughed. She didn’t hear criticism in Derian’s voice and imagined there might actually have been a hint of respect there. “I’ll have you know, I’m plenty tough.”

“Then you’ll be tough enough to wait until I’ve seen her. Agreed?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad Henrietta has you. She deserves someone like you at her side.”

Emily found the statement odd and Derian’s voice surprisingly wistful. All she knew of Henrietta’s niece was that she was often referred to with raised eyebrows among the agency’s staff and had never taken any interest in the business. The press made her out to be something of a reckless, privileged playgirl. But whatever the rumors and innuendo regarding Derian Winfield might be, she had dropped whatever she’d been doing and flown halfway around the world to be by Henrietta’s side. And for that, she’d earned Emily’s respect. Her curious urge to know what had put such pain in Derian’s faraway gaze and the unexpected heat Derian’s touch ignited were something altogether different.

Chapter Four

A youngish-looking man with skin the color of cinnamon, a broad jaw lightly dusted with what looked like a day’s worth of beard, and a stethoscope slung around his neck appeared in the hall. The laminated badge clipped to the pocket of his maroon scrubs had a big MD in one corner. He glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Is there anyone here with Henrietta Winfield?”

Derian shot to her feet. “We are.”

The doctor came forward and held out his hand. “I’m Jim Burns, one of the ICU residents.”

“Derian Winfield, Henrietta’s niece.” Derian gestured to Emily. “This is my…sister, Emily.”

Burns gave a perfunctory nod. “This is the first chance I’ve had to speak with anyone from the family. I apologize that you’ve been waiting so long.”

“I understand,” Derian said tightly. So Martin hadn’t bothered to ask about Henrietta’s condition. Probably hadn’t even visited her. She wondered why he’d come at all, but then, he’d want to see for himself she was incapacitated so he could plan his next campaign to force Henrietta out of the business. Tamping down the familiar surge of rage whenever Martin came to mind, she concentrated on what really mattered. “Can you tell us how she’s doing?”

“She’s stable and intermittently awake,” Burns said, “although heavily sedated at the moment. Her CPK and troponin”—he paused, catching himself—“sorry, her blood tests measuring cardiac injury are pretty conclusive. She had a substantial MI…heart attack…and the thallium scan, which is a test to show heart function, indicates a serious area of damage.”

A cold hand squeezed around Derian’s insides. “What does all that mean?”

“We’ve already started her on a fibrolytic agent—an intravenous drug to help break up the clots in her coronary arteries. The cardiologists will repeat her noninvasive cardiac tests, but there’s a very good possibility she’s going to need open-heart surgery within the next day or two to reverse the damage.”

“And then?” Emily asked, her voice steady and calm. “What’s the prognosis?”

Burns regarded her directly for the first time. “Very good, luckily. She got here fast, and we started treatment right away. With adequate reperfusion, the cardiac muscle will likely recover, and once the blood starts flowing again, the heart will return to a near-normal state.”

Emily’s shoulders relaxed. “So we can expect her to make a full recovery?”

“Barring complications, of course, and assuming she follows a reasonable cardiac care plan.”

Derian laughed shortly. “If that includes no stress and a slower pace, that’s not likely to happen.”

“Not uncommon in these patients,” Burns said, “and that’s exactly why surgery is the best approach. If everything goes well, your aunt won’t need to curtail her lifestyle.” He held up a cautionary finger. “However, she’s still going to need significant time to recover from the surgery, rehab, and work back into her full daily schedule. I take it she’s pretty active.”

Emily huffed. “A locomotive headed down a steep incline would be an apt comparison.”

He nodded. “Not surprising.”

“Can we see her?” Derian asked.

Burns glanced at his watch. “For a minute or two. The nurses will be busy getting vitals and labs in ten minutes, but…come with me.”

When Derian moved to follow him, Emily hesitated. Derian glanced back and held out her hand. “Come on, sis.”

Emily’s lips pressed together, the dancing light in her eyes saying she was suppressing laughter. She took Derian’s hand, hers smaller, soft and warm and firm. Without thinking, Derian threaded her fingers through Emily’s. The fit was so natural, she was momentarily disoriented. She wasn’t a hand-holder, but the flow of heat from Emily’s touch steadied her. Filing that disconcerting thought away as an anomaly due to the circumstances, she followed the medical resident down the hall to where he slapped a big red button the size of a dinner plate on the wall. The foreboding double metal doors with the tiny windows that blocked all view of what went on inside swung open with a hiss. She almost expected a warning sign above it: Abandon All Hope …

Derian shuddered. She was more tired than she’d thought.

Emily’s fingers tightened on hers. She was pale, and her eyes had widened, as if she too sensed the despair radiating from the sterile surroundings.

Her own discomfort fading in the face of Emily’s, Derian leaned close, her mouth near Emily’s ear. She caught the fragrance of coconut and vanilla. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Emily said, her voice tight. “I’m fine. Just a bad memory. Don’t worry.”

Derian wasn’t convinced. Emily looked shaken, and her distress tugged at Derian, awakening a fierce desire to ease Emily’s unhappiness that felt so right she didn’t bother to question it. “I’m right here.”

Emily turned away from the too-bright lights and righted herself in Derian’s intense, sympathetic gaze. Derian’s deep, sure voice—her comforting words—shut out the hum of machines and jumble of sounds that struck her like a tidal wave, threatening to pull her under. She wasn’t used to being championed or protected by anyone and, for a few seconds, she basked in the comfort of Derian’s unexpected chivalry. Feeling stronger, and slightly embarrassed, she squeezed Derian’s hand and reluctantly loosened her grip. “Thanks.”