“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.”

Chapter Three

Emily jerked awake to the swooshing sound of the ICU doors opening. She blinked the mist of sleep from her eyes and jumped to her feet. Her vision swam. She’d lost track of how long she’d been sitting in the too-bright alcove just up the hall from the intensive care unit, waiting for word of Henrietta’s condition. Too many cups of coffee, too many packets of crackers from the vending machine. Her stomach roiled, her throat ached from the tears she’d swallowed back, and her head pounded. Vonnie had kept vigil with her the first few frantic hours, sharing the burden of leaving discreet notifications regarding Henrietta’s sudden illness and organizing the staff who’d been left in the lurch when the EMTs had stormed in, rapidly assessed Henrietta’s terrifyingly motionless form, and bundled her up and out of the building in what felt like seconds. Odd, now that Emily thought back to those first hours, that Vonnie had no phone number for Henrietta’s family. Emily had only spoken to the Winfield attorney when she’d called the emergency contact number listed among the agency’s files. And then no one else had reached out to her for information, or even to Vonnie, Henrietta’s personal secretary. Perhaps the close family were out of town and had called the ICU directly to speak with Henrietta’s caregivers. Of course, that must be it.

Vonnie had finally gone home hours before to take care of her family. For a time, Emily had shared the stark waiting area, made no more welcoming by the presence of a coffeemaker in one corner and a television on the wall, with an elderly man whose dazed expression tore at her heart and a weeping husband and wife who had stumbled out into the hallway to talk to an exhausted-looking resident in wrinkled green scrubs before disappearing. Then she’d been alone, waiting for she knew not what because she could not bear to leave, clinging to the hope that soon someone would come who could tell her of Henrietta’s fate.

Now a handsome middle-aged, black-haired man with a commanding air strode brusquely past her little warren. His double-breasted charcoal suit was impeccably tailored, his black oxfords shined to a high gloss. A large gold watch glinted on his left wrist. Even if Emily hadn’t recognized him, she would have known him. Taller than Henrietta, his jaw heavier, his eyes far harder than Henrietta’s, he still bore an unmistakable resemblance to her.

Emily jumped up. “Excuse me.” When he didn’t respond, she rushed into the hall after him. “Excuse me! Mr. Winfield?”

The man halted, spun around, and glanced at her without the slightest expression in his icy blue eyes. “Yes?”

Throat dry, she stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, I’m—”

“I’m sorry. I have nothing to say at this time—”

“I work for Henrietta,” Emily hurried on, wondering who he thought she might be. “I’m a senior agent at the agency. I was with her when—”

“I’m afraid my sister’s condition is private. I’m sure whatever needs to be done at the…business…can wait.”

With that, he spun around and left her standing in the middle of the hallway with her hand outstretched. In another few seconds he’d rounded the corner and she heard the ding of an elevator. What a cold, unfeeling man. How could he be Henrietta’s brother? As soon as she thought it, she reminded herself he was probably just stressed and preoccupied.

She knew all too well hospitals were horrible places. Impersonal, usually ugly, and filled with too many people who were too busy to stop and recognize the despair and anguish in the faces of so many. Lonely places where those left behind drowned in sorrow while others looked away. She shuddered and returned to the waiting area. She’d had years of practice waiting in places like this—waiting for word of her parents, waiting to hear from Pam’s doctors. Martin Winfield, she knew his name as she’d been introduced to him on several occasions when she’d accompanied Henrietta to the corporate board meetings, reminded her of some of those bureaucrats who ran the very places where empathy and support should come first, but had been forgotten in the race to survive in an ever more competitive world. Even some of the health-care staff had forgotten their mission—to heal and comfort. Henrietta’s brother reminded her of why it was so important that she keep Pam where she was now, in a warm, personal environment where she felt safe and everyone knew her name.

Emily sighed. She was tired and being unfair—she didn’t know Martin Winfield, and he had no reason to acknowledge her. How could he remember her as he’d barely glanced in her direction the few times they’d been in the same space. She certainly wasn’t being fair to the many dedicated doctors and nurses and other caring professionals who worked so hard to help.