The Color of Love Read Free Page B

did more often than not, and the satisfaction of beating the odds had
kept her mind and body energized. Now she would have been happy to take a long,
hot shower and relax in the corner of the white leather sofa with a brandy and
an audiobook, but the sun never set in Monte Carlo during Grand Prix season,
the partying never stopped, and no one escaped. If she’d wanted to escape the
never-ending bacchanal, she wouldn’t be here to begin with.
    Shedding her black blazer, she tossed it over
a hanger in the closet next to the door, rolled up the sleeves of her white
silk shirt, and made her way around behind the wet bar set up at one end of a
living room that was as large as some hotel lobbies. She sorted through the
array of high-end liquors, two-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, and vintage
wines until she found the single malt. After pouring an inch of scotch into a
short crystal glass, no ice, she sipped the smoky liquid and let the burn
spread through her and blunt the edges of her simmering discontent. She wasn’t
in the mood to look too closely at why she’d had an itch between her shoulder
blades for weeks now, reminding her at the most inopportune times that she was
bored or restless or simply tired of racing across the Continent following the
circuit and chasing a high that never quite satisfied. Whatever it was would
pass, and she could go back to living on the thrill of the next race, the next
encounter, the next woman.
    Speaking of women, she watched with
appreciation as a buxom redhead in a very revealing form-hugging emerald green
shirt, skintight black silk pants, and needle-thin heels stalked toward the
bar. She didn’t know her, and she would’ve remembered a face like that—wide
luscious mouth, high cheekbones accentuated with artful makeup, and a curly,
flowing mane of hair glinting with gold and flaming reds that gave her a
sultry, leonine appearance. She stopped opposite Derian on the other side of
the wet bar and slowly appraised her.
    “My, my,” the redhead said in a low voice
that vibrated with a hint of French and teasing promise, “Michigan certainly is
hiring attractive bartenders these days.”
    “What would you like,” Derian said, not
bothering to correct her.
    “To drink? Or…”
    “Or?” Derian smiled. Everything in life was a
game, and none she liked better than the first few moments of establishing the
playing field with a new woman. “Is there something else I might be able to do
for you?”
    The redhead chuckled and wet her lips with
the tip of a pink tongue. “Darling, there are so many things you could do for
me. What time do you finish here tonight?”
    Instead of answering, Derian poured a glass
of cabernet from a bottle of PlumpJack reserve someone had opened and left
standing on the bar. Shame to waste a great wine on philistines, but she hadn’t
invited most of the people crowding her rooms. The guest list had been Michigan
Tire’s call. She handed the glass to the redhead. “You look like red wine—full
flavored and unforgettable. This one is savory and mysterious, it lingers on
your tongue as only the finest tastes can do. I think you’ll like it.”
    Color flared in the redhead’s throat and she
kept her eyes locked to Derian’s as she closed her fingers around the stem of
the glass. Brushing her thumb across Derian’s knuckles, she lifted the wine
slowly to her mouth. Her lips parted, caressed the rim of the glass, and she
tilted the liquid into her mouth. She ever so slowly swallowed and made a low
purring sound in her throat. “Very nice indeed.”
    “I’m delighted you like it.”
    The redhead cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not
the bartender, are you?”
    “I can be, if you’d enjoy that.”
    “I already am. Who are you?”
    “Derian Winfield.”
    “Ah,” the redhead said, not missing a beat.
“Then I have you to thank for this wonderful soirée.”
    “Me and Michigan Tire,” Derian said.
    “Yes, you’re one of the sponsors of