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.