“HW is not going anywhere. You’re going to
make damn sure of it.” Derian tossed the towel into the laundry chute, found
the half-empty glass of champagne on the vanity, and downed it in a swift gulp.
Enough already. What she needed was a meal to restore her strength, which Ralph
could arrange with a quick phone call, and a woman to take her thoughts off her
own pointless musings. And she certainly had that. Emily May was far more
interesting than any woman she’d spent time with in recent memory. Everything
she needed was only a few minutes away.
“Are you doing okay?” Derian called as she
left the bathroom and headed toward her bedroom.
Emily materialized at the other end of the
hall and stopped as abruptly as if she’d run into a stone wall. “Oh! Sorry.”
“You know, you say that a lot.” Derian
stopped, cocked her head. “Is it just me that makes you uncomfortable, or
everyone?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. I’m not.
Uncomfortable. Usually,” Emily snapped, turning her head away.
“Then it’s me. Why?”
“You have to ask?” Emily pointed one arm in
Derian’s direction. “Have you noticed that you’re naked?”
Derian glanced down. “Oh, that. Should I
apologize, then?”
“No. I’m fine. Apology not needed.” Emily
kept her gaze averted, but she hadn’t blanked her vision fast enough to
obliterate the impression of Derian’s naked form, now firmly impregnated in her
brain cells. Lean, toned, tanned, with enticing sleek lines sweeping from
compact breasts down a long abdomen to the faint swell of hips and muscular
thighs. Derian was as brutally elegant as the race cars she appeared to love, a
perfect machine in human form, feminine in grace, masculine in power.
Beautiful. Emily swallowed. “I’ll be in the living room. Please, take your
time.”
She heard Derian laugh as she hurried away. A
door closed behind her, and she breathed a sigh of relief at having a few
moments to collect herself. She so needed to find her balance around Derian, a
new and confounding experience. She appreciated beautiful women for the
aesthetics, who didn’t? The female form was such a fierce combination of
delicacy and strength—the female face endlessly captivating. Why else would
museums be filled with centuries of effort trying to capture the mystery of
woman? Derian shouldn’t have any more effect on her than an exquisite painting
or a spectacular sculpture, but she kept losing her breath when she looked at
her. And now she had the image of her nude emblazoned in her memory.
Totally her fault. If she’d been thinking
instead of enjoying a second half-glass of champagne, she would’ve realized she
was stepping into Derian’s private space when she drifted into the hall. But
she’d hardly expected her to be naked. The woman was so unbelievably casual
about physical matters, touching effortlessly if respectfully, and treating her
own body as if it was nothing special, and it certainly was. Special.
Refreshing, exciting.