The Color of Love Read Online Free

their
team, aren’t you?”
    Derian found her scotch, took another sip.
“That’s right.”
    “I’m surprised you’re not driving one of the
cars.”
    Derian grinned wryly. “I thought I would,
once upon a time. But it’s very hard work and I have an aversion to that.”
    Laughing, the redhead held out her hand. “I’m
Françoise Delacorte. Delighted to meet you—Derian.”
    Derian lifted her hand, kissed her fingers.
“Françoise. My pleasure.”
    “So is it Dare as in daring?” Françoise held on to Derian’s hand, her lips pursing as her gaze
slid down Derian’s body. “It suits you very much.”
    “No.” Derian extracted her fingers gently.
“It’s pronounced the same, but it’s D-e-r-e .”
    “Are you then, just the same? Daring?”
    “Some people think so.”
    “Do you only gamble on cars and cards?”
    Derian glanced out over the room at the sea
of faces, some of whom she recognized, most she didn’t. She always sponsored a
big party for donors, sponsors, and VIP friends of the team at each stop on the
circuit. MT handled the invites, and she paid. She didn’t see anyone she wanted
to talk to. The malaise settled in her chest again, the weariness of repetition
growing harder to ignore. She set down her glass. “I like a challenge—at the tables,
on the course…in the bedroom.”
    “Mmm. So do I.” Françoise took another
swallow of wine and set the glass aside. “We are well-matched, you and I.”
    “I think you’re right,” Derian said, sliding
around the bar, “and I’d very much like showing you.”
    “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
    “Will you be missed for a time?”
    “Not right away.”
    “Good.” Derian took Françoise’s elbow. “This
way.”
    She guided Françoise to the far side of the
room and unlocked the door to her private rooms. The bedroom occupied a corner
of the suite with the king-sized bed positioned to give its occupants a view
into the square. When she closed the door, the sounds of the revelry faded.
Turning Françoise to face her, she kissed her, sliding one arm around her
waist, and took her time exploring the soft surface of her moist lips, tasting
the earthy aftermath of the wine on her tongue. Françoise was an experienced
kisser, and she melted into Derian’s body, one hand stroking up the back of
Derian’s neck and into her hair. What Derian liked best about kissing a woman,
about taking her to bed, was the way her mind shut off and her body took
control. When she was focused on giving pleasure, she no longer recognized the
distant pall of emptiness that lingered on the edges of her consciousness.
    Françoise was a beautiful and seductive
woman, but Derian was having a hard time losing herself in the taste of her
mouth and the press of her breasts against her chest. She could see herself as
if she stood a few paces away, watching the familiar scene play out, the
familiar ending unreel. The challenge, the victory, the cries of passion, and,
inevitably, the parting played through her mind as predictably as the endless
cycle of parties, races, and risk that defined her life. The long, empty hours
until the scene played out again stared back her, as accusing as her own eyes
in the mirror. What was she doing, where was she going, and when would she stop
running?
    Questions she did not want to ask, or answer.
    Derian kissed her way down Françoise’s
throat, slowly cupping her breast and squeezing gently. Françoise arched
against her, a small sob escaping as her fingers tightened in Derian’s hair.
    “Yes,” Françoise murmured. “So very good.”
    “Come, let me show you how much better,”
Derian said, taking her hand and tugging her toward the bed. Once beside it,
she unbuttoned Françoise’s shirt and slipped her hand inside to rub her thumb
over the peak of the nipple pressing upward through the thin silk of
Françoise’s bra.
    “Your hands are wonderful.” Françoise tilted
her head back, eyes closed, lips parted on a long