The Color of Love

Chapter Two

Derian tossed the keys to the Maserati to the uniformed attendant who raced from beneath the portico of the Hôtel de Paris to intercept her before she had even turned off the engine. With a wave of thanks she strode up the wide red-carpeted stairs and into the lobby of the grand hotel. Despite the enormity of the space with its polished marble floors, high decorative arched ceilings, plush carpets, and many seating areas carefully designed for privacy as well as comfort, the decibel level was higher than usual. Early crowds already filled the streets, cafés, and hotels for the upcoming race. She cut her way rapidly through the milling people to the single bank of elevators in the rear that led to the exclusive racecourse suites. She punched in the security code and within seconds was whisked to her level and the doors to the elevator slid silently open. The hallway was a stark contrast to the bustling lobby—quietly proclaiming confidentiality and discretion even though all of the suites along the wide hallway were undoubtedly in use. Grand Prix time was synonymous with party time in Monte Carlo, and the race was only three days away.

She inserted her entrance card at the Garnier suite and walked into a party well in progress. A wall of sound accosted her, dozens of voices laughing, calling to one another, conversing animatedly. The drapes had been pulled back from the floor-to-ceiling French doors opening onto one of the balconies overlooking Casino Square and the course, and the late-afternoon sun streamed into the room, bathing the faces of the partygoers in soft golden light. The beautiful people glowed with good health, good fortune, and bonhomie.

Derian wondered if their appearance of happiness was as false as what she sometimes felt, and just as quickly pushed the thought aside. Such slivers of dissatisfaction only plagued her when she was weary, and she’d had a long night at the gaming tables. She’d been winning, as she did more often than not, and the satisfaction of beating the odds had kept her mind and body energized. Now she would have been happy to take a long, hot shower and relax in the corner of the white leather sofa with a brandy and an audiobook, but the sun never set in Monte Carlo during Grand Prix season, the partying never stopped, and no one escaped. If she’d wanted to escape the never-ending bacchanal, she wouldn’t be here to begin with.

Shedding her black blazer, she tossed it over a hanger in the closet next to the door, rolled up the sleeves of her white silk shirt, and made her way around behind the wet bar set up at one end of a living room that was as large as some hotel lobbies. She sorted through the array of high-end liquors, two-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, and vintage wines until she found the single malt. After pouring an inch of scotch into a short crystal glass, no ice, she sipped the smoky liquid and let the burn spread through her and blunt the edges of her simmering discontent. She wasn’t in the mood to look too closely at why she’d had an itch between her shoulder blades for weeks now, reminding her at the most inopportune times that she was bored or restless or simply tired of racing across the Continent following the circuit and chasing a high that never quite satisfied. Whatever it was would pass, and she could go back to living on the thrill of the next race, the next encounter, the next woman.

Speaking of women, she watched with appreciation as a buxom redhead in a very revealing form-hugging emerald green shirt, skintight black silk pants, and needle-thin heels stalked toward the bar. She didn’t know her, and she would’ve remembered a face like that—wide luscious mouth, high cheekbones accentuated with artful makeup, and a curly, flowing mane of hair glinting with gold and flaming reds that gave her a sultry, leonine appearance. She stopped opposite Derian on the other side of the wet bar and slowly appraised her.

“My, my,” the redhead said in a low voice that vibrated with a hint of French and teasing promise, “Michigan certainly is hiring attractive bartenders these days.”

“What would you like,” Derian said, not bothering to correct her.

“To drink? Or…”

“Or?” Derian smiled. Everything in life was a game, and none she liked better than the first few moments of establishing the playing field with a new woman. “Is there something else I might be able to do for you?”

The redhead chuckled and wet her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. “Darling, there are so many things you could do for me. What time do you finish here tonight?”

Instead of answering, Derian poured a glass of cabernet from a bottle of PlumpJack reserve someone had opened and left standing on the bar. Shame to waste a great wine on philistines, but she hadn’t invited most of the people crowding her rooms. The guest list had been Michigan Tire’s call. She handed the glass to the redhead. “You look like red wine—full flavored and unforgettable. This one is savory and mysterious, it lingers on your tongue as only the finest tastes can do. I think you’ll like it.”

Color flared in the redhead’s throat and she kept her eyes locked to Derian’s as she closed her fingers around the stem of the glass. Brushing her thumb across Derian’s knuckles, she lifted the wine slowly to her mouth. Her lips parted, caressed the rim of the glass, and she tilted the liquid into her mouth. She ever so slowly swallowed and made a low purring sound in her throat. “Very nice indeed.”

“I’m delighted you like it.”

The redhead cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not the bartender, are you?”

“I can be, if you’d enjoy that.”

“I already am. Who are you?”

“Derian Winfield.”

“Ah,” the redhead said, not missing a beat. “Then I have you to thank for this wonderful soirée.”

“Me and Michigan Tire,” Derian said.

“Yes, you’re one of the sponsors of their team, aren’t you?”

Derian found her scotch, took another sip. “That’s right.”

“I’m surprised you’re not driving one of the cars.”

Derian grinned wryly. “I thought I would, once upon a time. But it’s very hard work and I have an aversion to that.”

Laughing, the redhead held out her hand. “I’m Françoise Delacorte. Delighted to meet you—Derian.”

Derian lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. “Françoise. My pleasure.”

“So is it Dare as in daring?” Françoise held on to Derian’s hand, her lips pursing as her gaze slid down Derian’s body. “It suits you very much.”

“No.” Derian extracted her fingers gently. “It’s pronounced the same, but it’s D-e-r-e.”

“Are you then, just the same? Daring?”

“Some people think so.”

“Do you only gamble on cars and cards?”

Derian glanced out over the room at the sea of faces, some of whom she recognized, most she didn’t. She always sponsored a big party for donors, sponsors, and VIP friends of the team at each stop on the circuit. MT handled the invites, and she paid. She didn’t see anyone she wanted to talk to. The malaise settled in her chest again, the weariness of repetition growing harder to ignore. She set down her glass. “I like a challenge—at the tables, on the course…in the bedroom.”

“Mmm. So do I.” Françoise took another swallow of wine and set the glass aside. “We are well-matched, you and I.”

“I think you’re right,” Derian said, sliding around the bar, “and I’d very much like showing you.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

“Will you be missed for a time?”

“Not right away.”

“Good.” Derian took Françoise’s elbow. “This way.”

She guided Françoise to the far side of the room and unlocked the door to her private rooms. The bedroom occupied a corner of the suite with the king-sized bed positioned to give its occupants a view into the square. When she closed the door, the sounds of the revelry faded. Turning Françoise to face her, she kissed her, sliding one arm around her waist, and took her time exploring the soft surface of her moist lips, tasting the earthy aftermath of the wine on her tongue. Françoise was an experienced kisser, and she melted into Derian’s body, one hand stroking up the back of Derian’s neck and into her hair. What Derian liked best about kissing a woman, about taking her to bed, was the way her mind shut off and her body took control. When she was focused on giving pleasure, she no longer recognized the distant pall of emptiness that lingered on the edges of her consciousness.

Françoise was a beautiful and seductive woman, but Derian was having a hard time losing herself in the taste of her mouth and the press of her breasts against her chest. She could see herself as if she stood a few paces away, watching the familiar scene play out, the familiar ending unreel. The challenge, the victory, the cries of passion, and, inevitably, the parting played through her mind as predictably as the endless cycle of parties, races, and risk that defined her life. The long, empty hours until the scene played out again stared back her, as accusing as her own eyes in the mirror. What was she doing, where was she going, and when would she stop running?

Questions she did not want to ask, or answer.

Derian kissed her way down Françoise’s throat, slowly cupping her breast and squeezing gently. Françoise arched against her, a small sob escaping as her fingers tightened in Derian’s hair.

“Yes,” Françoise murmured. “So very good.”

“Come, let me show you how much better,” Derian said, taking her hand and tugging her toward the bed. Once beside it, she unbuttoned Françoise’s shirt and slipped her hand inside to rub her thumb over the peak of the nipple pressing upward through the thin silk of Françoise’s bra.

“Your hands are wonderful.” Françoise tilted her head back, eyes closed, lips parted on a long shuddering sigh. Her fingers raked through Derian’s hair and tightened on her neck. “Please, I want them everywhere.”

Obediently, Derian opened the remaining buttons and gentled the silk off Françoise’s shoulders, pushed the sleeves down her arms, and let it fall away. This was a dance she knew, choreographed for pleasure and predictably assured. At last the heat of Françoise’s skin, the smooth satiny sensation of flesh yielding to her touch, consumed her. Immersed in the command of Françoise’s quivering body, still fully clothed, Derian eased Françoise down onto the creamy sheets, opened her silk pants, and bent over her to kiss the center of her abdomen. When she rubbed her cheek against the downy skin and licked lightly at the juncture of Françoise’s thighs, Francoise cried out and arched upward, presenting herself to be taken.

“Soon,” Derian whispered.

“I cannot wait.” Françoise’s voice broke on a husky sigh. “I am too ready.”

“You are too beautiful to hurry.” Derian kissed once between her thighs and Françoise sobbed. “And I want to savor you.”

Derian undressed her completely and, when she was naked, straddled her with her legs framing Françoise’s hips. She braced her body on an arm and stroked Françoise’s throat, trailing her fingers down to her breast. “Look at me.”

Françoise’s eyes were hazy with need, her breath short, body vibrating. “Yes, please. I want to watch you take me over.”

Derian took her time, relaxed and certain of her skill, her caresses practiced, her kisses perfected. She knew how to please a woman, enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as she enjoyed the respite from thought. When she stroked between Françoise’s thighs, when she played her fingers gently over the delicate valley, when she slid inside, every movement was timed, intentional, designed for the pinnacle of pleasure. When Françoise’s gaze clouded over and her lips parted on a silent scream, Derian registered a sense of satisfaction and success.

When Françoise’s choked sobs trailed off and her body slumped, Derian stretched out beside her, head propped on her hand. She traced Françoise’s nipple with a fingertip, fascinated as it pebbled in response. She didn’t expect Françoise to reciprocate, didn’t need her to. Her goal had been to pleasure Françoise, and she was confident she had been more than successful.

“You are a marvelous lover.” Françoise caressed Derian’s face, her voice husky and her eyes hazy with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” Derian said, meaning it. Françoise’s openness, her vulnerability, her trust were a precious gift.

“If you have a need—” Françoise began.

“I am more than satisfied,” Derian murmured, giving Françoise a slow, lingering kiss. She didn’t lie. She didn’t want anything else. “You are what I wanted. All I wanted.”

“Then I should go,” Françoise said with a sigh. She gave Derian a final caress and sat up. “My escort will be looking for me.”

“Of course.” Derian rolled over and leaned back against the pillows, watching Françoise dress, enjoying the way her body disappeared with each article she donned as much as she had enjoyed disrobing her. She knew the planes and contours of her flesh now. She was like a beautiful landscape Derian had touched, claimed, and would forever own in some small way. Aimlessly, she stroked her stomach through her silk shirt, felt the stirring between her thighs, anticipated satisfying it later. Her cell phone rang and she pulled it from her pants pocket. She checked the number and set the phone on the bedside table.

Françoise regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “No one important?”

“No. Not in the least.” She had no intention of taking a call from the family attorney. As much as she liked her childhood friend, Audrey Ames had taken sides when she’d gone into the Ames family business of representing Winfield Enterprises. And that side was not Derian’s.

Françoise sashayed closer, leaned down to give Derian a very impressive view down her shirt, and kissed her, her tongue dancing over Derian’s for an instant. “I hope I will see you again before the race moves on.”

“Yes,” Derian said, committing to nothing. Once was usually all she wanted with a woman. So much safer that way. Her cell rang again and she sighed. Audrey wasn’t usually so insistent and just left a message. “I’m sorry, I should take this.”

Françoise tapped her index finger against Derian’s mouth. “And I should go. Thank you again, Derian, my darling.”

Derian took the call, watching Françoise disappear. “Bad timing as usual, Aud.”

“Dere, you need to come home.”

“It’s three days before the race.” Derian sat on the side of the bed and slipped into her shoes. “You’ve already got my proxy vote, just send it in as usual—”

“Derian, it’s Henrietta.”

A fist slammed into Derian’s midsection and the room wavered before her eyes. “I’ll be on the next plane.”