The Color of Love by Radclyffe Page A

with
such absolute clarity, as if the screen Derian placed between herself and the
rest of the world was completely invisible. Her skin heated as if Emily touched
her simply by looking. Most women couldn’t touch her even when they were naked
together.
    “Had dinner in such a beautiful place, with a
view like this.” Emily swept her hand toward the window and the glittering
night.
    “I’m glad you like it.”
    “I do,” Emily said softly. “Thank you.”
    The quiet thrum of pleasure in her voice made
Derian’s blood pound. She cleared her throat. “I hope you don’t mind, I ordered
for us. You’re not allergic to anything or averse to particular foods?”
    “Actually, I’m gluten, dairy, meat, carb, and
acidic free.”
    “Well, I ordered sparkling water. That should
be safe.”
    Emily laughed. “I’m mostly vegetarian, but I
confess to succumbing to a good steak now and then. I live for pasta and never
met a seafood dish I didn’t like. I’m sure whatever you ordered is fine.”
    Derian began to uncover the chafing dishes.
“That was unkind.”
    “I suspect you can handle it.” Emily grinned.
“Can I help you?”
    “No, stay right there.” Derian folded a snowy
white napkin over her forearm and rested a dish on it. “I shall serve Madame
tonight.”
    Faint color rose to Emily’s cheeks. “Very
well, then. Thank you.”
    “My pleasure,” Derian murmured.
    Emily settled back in her chair and prepared
to be waited on. She remembered being waited on at formal functions her parents
had held at their home for visiting dignitaries when the party was small and
the embassy would’ve been too cold and impersonal. She’d never liked being
seated at the big table at the far end, away from the adults, always feeling as
if she was there more for show than for her presence. Every now and then her
mother would glance her way and smile as if to tell her she knew she was still
there, but her father rarely gave her a look, too lost in conversation with
whomever they were feting. Her memories of the impersonal formal dining faded
as Derian silently moved around behind her, sliding dishes in front of her with
a whispered description, filling her wineglass with a calculated cascade of
blood-red liquid, slipping other dishes to the center of the table with
sterling silver serving utensils positioned within.
    “You do this very well,” Emily murmured.
    Derian sat down beside her, close enough for
Emily to catch her spicy scent. “My father always insisted on a formal table
when the family dined together. I learned from watching the maids. Sometimes I
even helped them, just to annoy him.”
    “Teenage rebellion?”
    Derian sipped her wine. “More than that, I
guess. Maybe lifelong rebellion.”
    “Do you have siblings?” Emily asked.
    “I do now, a half brother. He’s…” She paused
as if counting in her head. “He must be six. I haven’t seen him in quite a
while.”
    Emily took a bite of the very delicious food.
“It must be odd, having such a younger sibling.”
    “Truthfully, I don’t think of my father’s
second family as having anything to do with me. I have nothing against the boy,
of course. But I don’t know his mother or him, and my father and
Marguerite—that’s his wife’s name—took up well after I left home.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Daniel.” Derian poured a little more wine in
Emily’s glass.
    “No more,” Emily said, laughing lightly. “I’m
not used to it.”
    “Of course.” Derian replenished her glass and
put the bottle aside. “How about you? Big family, small family?”
    Emily carefully set her fork down. She
usually managed to avoid talking about family, which wasn’t all that difficult
since her associates were business ones and the topic didn’t often come up.
Henrietta knew, but she’d never shared the story with anyone else, not even
Ron. Not the whole story. “Small, I guess. One older sister. Pam.”
    “She here in the city too?” Derian