Derian held the door for her. “Who said I was
going to be listening to any of that? I’m an expert at appearing to be
interested and nodding at all the appropriate places while contemplating the
next race.”
“Your skills will come in handy tonight,
then.” Emily firmly told herself not to think about when Derian might be off to
the next stop on the endless racing circuit. Henrietta was home from the
hospital, but thus far they’d all managed to keep her away from Winfield’s.
Derian wasn’t leaving yet, and tonight was just for tonight. She’d think no
further.
After they settled into the backseat of the
car, Emily gave the driver the address. Derian sat close, her arm stretched out
behind Emily, the fingertips of her left hand resting on Emily’s bare skin. She
hadn’t worn a wrap and now she was doubly glad. The weather had finally cooperated,
and the evening promised to be one of those rare spring nights that felt like
summer and held its warmth into the late hours. Derian’s fingertips on her skin
warmed her all the way through, or maybe Derian’s touch was just a reflection
of the heat that had been building inside her for days.
“We’ll have about an hour to mingle before
the event starts,” Emily said. “I suspect everyone is going to want to meet
you, so be prepared.”
“My loins are girded,” Derian said dryly.
“Well, try not to draw your sword unless
absolutely necessary.”
“I promise, no bloodshed.” Derian’s hand
moved slowly up and down Emily’s arm. “Besides, I’ll have you to think about,
and nothing could possibly bother me while I’m doing that.”
*
Seated at a large round table near the front
of the banquet hall with eight other Winfield people, platters of hors
d’oeuvres, and open bottles of champagne, Emily found her pledge to concentrate
on business getting more difficult by the second. Usually she loved events like
this one. She enjoyed networking, taking the temperature of the industry,
watching the maneuvers of the power people who were part of the living
machinery of the publishing industry. And she truly appreciated the work of the
authors being fêted, even when, like tonight, none of Winfield’s were on the
stage. She thought several of the authors they represented had deserved to be
finalists, but awards were always less about quality and far more about
politics. After all, they were determined by individuals who, no matter how well-informed
and knowledgeable, still had personal agendas, biases, and favoritisms. Still,
one always wanted one’s work to be appreciated, and as long as recognition was
formalized this way, she was as competitive as anyone else in the business.