Far from looking embarrassed again, Emily’s
brows rose. “Is that so? So I shouldn’t believe you’re an avid patron of the
arts, a major donor to several humanitarian aid missions, and, according to the
interviewer, a passionate supporter of international human rights
organizations?”
Uncomfortable now herself, Derian tried to
shrug off the subtle praise. “Oh, that article. More charitable than most. I
think the reporter might have been trying to score points with the Foundation.”
“Maybe, although I recall that article in the
World Week
also mentioned your devotion to the race car circuit, your uncanny skill at the
casinos, and your…hmm, penchant for attracting the attention of starlets and
celebrities.”
“The first part was true, the rest perhaps
exaggerated.”
Emily grinned, pleased at having turned the
tables on Derian for a change, teasing back and watching Derian struggle with
the mild praise. Obviously Derian preferred to keep her generosity a secret.
Emily understood the desire for privacy. “If that’s what you want everyone to
think, I won’t give away your secrets.”
“Thanks,” Derian said with unusual
seriousness.
The driver pulled to the curb in front of an
ornate, spired building Emily recognized—the Dakota, onetime home to John
Lennon, Lauren Bacall, Bono, and many current celebrities. She glanced at
Derian. “You live here? I thought the waiting list was years long.”
“My mother had an apartment here from before
her marriage, and I’ve inherited it. I keep it for when I’m in the city.”
Emily remembered reading that Derian’s
mother, an heiress to an automotive family fortune, had died when Derian was a
child, and much of Derian’s wealth had been inherited from her. “I’m sorry.”
Derian opened the door and paused. “About?”
“Your mother.”
“Thanks,” Derian said softly, not thinking it
odd that Emily would offer condolences after almost twenty years. The loss
never grew any less. She stepped out and waited for Emily to join her before
guiding her toward the massive arched entryway to the inner courtyard.
A liveried doorman straightened when he saw
them coming. “Ms. Winfield. How good to see you again.”
“Hi, Ralph. Made it through another winter, I
see.”
The middle-aged man’s face crinkled in a wide
smile. “Never missed a day. It was a cold one too.”
She squeezed his arm. “I wouldn’t know. I
spent it in Greece.”
“Always somewhere sunny for you.” He chuckled
and escorted them across the brick courtyard to the east entrance. “Do you have
bags?”
“I sent them on ahead from the airport.”
“Peter will have gotten them up by now,
then.”
He held the door for them and Emily stepped
into the wide foyer first. She’d often imagined what it would look like, but
she hadn’t really come close to envisioning the grandeur of the sweeping
staircases, the gleaming brass fixtures, the stories-high ceiling and ornate,
old-world elegance. Beyond the breathtaking beauty, the quiet struck her first.
The atmosphere was as hushed as a cathedral. In a way, it was, being one of the
most exclusive residences in all of New York City.
“Thanks, Ralph.” When the doorman tipped a
finger to his cap and faded back, Derian led the way toward a bank of elevators
with scrolled brass doors and inserted a key. Once inside she pushed one of the
top floor buttons and the ride up progressed swiftly. As the doors opened,
Derian said, “I’m not sure if I’ve anything stocked in the way of refreshments.
They weren’t expecting me.”
“How long has it been since you’ve been
here?” Emily couldn’t imagine having an apartment in this magnificent building
and not actually living in it.
“Almost three years, I think,” Derian said,
her expression remote.
“And the rest of the time you travel?”
Derian fit a key into the lock of a paneled
wooden door, with a heavy cast-iron number four on it, and pushed it wide. “It
depends on the season and the Grand Prix schedule. Sometimes I’ll stay in one
place for a few months, but not usually here.”
“I’m being nosy, aren’t I. I apologize.”
Emily followed Derian inside and caught her breath. Archways connected the
spacious main rooms, with the windows in the living area facing Central Park.
Streetlights on the labyrinth of the roads cutting through the park glowed,
replacing the stars that rarely shone above the city haze. Twin high-back
sofas, their fabric surfaces subtly patterned, faced one another with a huge
coffee table larger than her dining table between them. Tiffany lamps, plush
Oriental carpets, high sideboards in gleaming woods. She wasn’t sure what she
had expected, but the richness, not in money, but in detail and workmanship,
astounded her.
