Sitting out here for hours made her think too
much of Pam, and she couldn’t think about her right now. She couldn’t think
about her uncertain visa status or what might happen to her job if, heaven
forbid, something serious kept Henrietta from returning to work. All she could
do was send all her energy and thoughts to Henrietta and believe she would be
fine. She leaned back and closed her eyes, willing the panic to recede. The
nightmare gripped her, refusing to let her breathe. She couldn’t imagine a day
without Henrietta, whose strength was the guiding force at the agency and whose
friendship the foundation on which Emily had built her future. She’d lost so
much already—she couldn’t bear to endure more.
“Here, take this,” a deep voice said, and
Emily’s eyes snapped open.
A brunette about her age, her pale stark
features undoubtedly beautiful when not smudged with fatigue, stood in front of
her holding out a snowy white handkerchief. Startled, Emily jerked upright and
only then recognized the tears wetting her face. Heat flooded her cheeks and
she hastily brushed at the moisture on her skin. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Why?” The woman took her hand and gently
folded the soft linen into it. “Here. Go ahead. Use this.”
Emily wiped her face, almost embarrassed to
soil the pristine square. When her vision cleared, she focused on the stranger.
Her breath caught. “Oh. It’s you.”
“We’ve met, haven’t we. I’m the one who’s
sorry.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose for an instant. Shadows pocketed
her midnight blue eyes. Her coal-black hair, the same color as Henrietta’s, was
disheveled, her white shirt and dark suit hopelessly wrinkled. The topcoat she
carried over one arm looked as sleek and soft as cashmere, which it probably
was. “I’m Derian Winfield.”
“Yes, of course.” Emily stood up and swayed,
tiny sparks of light dancing in the dark clouds dimming her vision.
Derian grasped her elbow. “Hey. Take it easy.
Here.”
“I’m sorry,” Emily said again, weakly echoing
herself and hating the way her voice quivered. Why wouldn’t her head stop
spinning? She never fainted, never. She couldn’t now, not in front of her. “I’m
sorr—”
“Stop saying that,” Derian murmured in an
oddly tender tone and drew her down onto one of the molded plastic chairs.
Derian slid an arm around her shoulders. “Lean against me for a second until
you catch your breath.”
Emily had no intention of leaning against
anyone, especially not Derian Winfield, Henrietta’s niece. With effort, she
stiffened her spine and forced her head to clear. She turned sideways so
Derian’s arm no longer encircled her. “I am so sorry, Ms. Winfield. I hope—”