The_Color_of_Love_-_Radclyffe - страница 21
She’d just have to learn to ignore the enjoyable pulse of electricity that accompanied Derian’s touch. And just to be safe, she slipped her arm free of Derian’s grasp as she slid into the backseat. Derian followed, and the driver pulled away. The vehicle was comfortably warm, but despite her fatigue, Emily wasn’t the least bit tired. An unfamiliar energy suffused her, a sensation she eventually recognized as anticipation. She was doing something out of the ordinary for her—going to dinner with a stranger—even if Derian seemed far from that after the last few hours they’d shared. Beside her, Derian sat relaxed, one arm spread out along the top of the seat, her hand nearly touching Emily’s shoulder. There was still space between them, but the inexplicable sense of somehow being connected persisted.
And she was being frivolous. Frivolous, something she had never been in her entire life. Even when she was much, much younger and life was much, much simpler, she’d never been frivolous. Pam had been the adventurer, the athlete, the daredevil. She’d been logical, studious, goal-directed, private, and driven. She enjoyed things, many things—loved books, films, long walks on the beach—and had some close friends she could be silly with. But she also cherished her private time, her private thoughts, and her private plans for the future. She’d never craved excitement or adventure or the busy social schedule that her parents loved and she tried to avoid. And here she was now, having a very out-of-character adventure with a very attractive woman who interested her in ways no one ever had.
“Where were you?” Emily asked. “Yesterday?”
Derian turned on the seat, studied Emily. The question, a simple one, didn’t seem simple at all when Emily asked it. Emily was completely different than the women she usually spent time with. She was every bit as beautiful, more even, because she didn’t try to be and didn’t seem to notice that she was. Her beauty wasn’t a tool, or in some cases, a weapon. Her beauty was simply what beauty should be, a thing unto itself to be enjoyed.
“I’m sorry, was that too personal?”
“Sorry, no,” Derian murmured. She resisted the impulse to move her hand another four inches and clasp a strand of the silky, gold-laced hair that rested on Emily’s shoulders. She was used to touching women, and being touched by them, in all manner of ways—casually, seductively, in invitation or challenge. She tried never to touch a woman unthinkingly, considering even the most innocent contact an honor, but just the slightest of contact with Emily set her system on high alert. Emily stirred her, a sensation she’d long thought she’d become immune to where women were concerned. With most things, really. “I’m afraid I was distracted. I was just thinking you were very beautiful.”
Emily gave a little start, and in the hazy glow of reflected lights from marquees and streetlights, surprise flashed across her face.
“I can’t possibly be the first person who’s told you that,” Derian said.
“Ah…maybe,” Emily said, her tone pensive and thoughtful. “I think definitely, at least completely out of the blue.”
The image of some woman murmuring compliments to Emily in an intimate setting jumped into Derian’s head, and she smothered an irrational surge of annoyance that came dangerously close to feeling like jealousy. She had neither the right nor the desire to claim anyone’s full attention, especially not a woman like Emily—who clearly did not play games.
“Well, if you haven’t heard it before, you should have.” Derian watched Emily register the idea, catalog it, tuck it away. She saw the small smile of pleasure flicker for an instant, and satisfaction heated her belly. She liked making her smile. “Monte Carlo.”
“Oh,” Emily said, “that’s right. I read an article—” She broke off, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
“Really? One of those, huh?” Derian laughed. Even in the shadowy light she could tell Emily was blushing. And when was the last time she’d seen that response in a woman? She couldn’t resist the urge to tease her again just to see her tug at her lip, a very sexy little movement. “I can categorically state that ninety percent of whatever it said was not true.”
