A MAN CALLED BLUE

by EC Sheedy

  "—Is the room the undertaker gave me," he stated flatly.

  "The undertaker? Oh, you mean Dreiser." She stomped to the phone, as much as anyone could stomp in nylon-clad feet. She had the tiniest feet he'd ever seen, and her toenails were painted the same coral she wore on her lips. Her hair was down, a dark tumbling around her shoulders so shiny black it looked blue. Blue couldn't take his eyes off her. He listened intently to her side of the phone conversation.

  "Dreiser, why is Mr. Bludell in the rose room? You know Mr. Smythe always takes the room on the second floor... Uh-huh, yes, I see... Of course. No choice. Of course... Thank you, Dreiser." She hung up the phone, dropped her head a bit forward, and rubbed near her hairline.

  She looked tired, as though she needed a massage and some good sex. He didn't question where that thought came from, he only knew it had definite appeal. Too bad. He hadn't seen sex on the agenda.

  When she didn't speak, he did. "So. Do I stay or go?"

  "Stay. I'm sorry, I'd forgotten the second floor is under restoration. Sometimes there are so many things, I—" If she was planning to say more, she changed her mind. Swallowing visibly, she went on, "But you'll be comfortable here, and it will be a convenient working arrangement." She rubbed tiredly at the back of her neck.

  "Come here," he said. "I can help with that." Blue knew too well what those tired muscles felt like.

  The way she looked at him, he knew she questioned his tone, not his motives. She was, he was sure, confident he didn't have any—at least none she need worry about. To ease her concern further, he raised his hands and added, "Nolan style."

  He encouraged her with a bland look, a fleeting smile. She took the few steps toward him.

  "Turn around and lift up your hair," he instructed.

  She did as he asked.

  Blue wove his fingers together, flexed them, and stared fixedly at her nape. You're making a mistake, Bludell. The words played in his head singsong fashion.

  "Now, loosen your blouse," he said, his voice an octave lower. She undid the top two buttons and pushed it off her shoulders, then gathered up her hair again. The white silk slipped down to reveal even more luscious neck.

  He flexed his fingers again. Then...

  He touched her.

  Her skin was smooth, infinitely soft. He closed his eyes, grateful she couldn't see his effort at control as his fingertips warmed from her body heat. There's one rule here, he told himself, stay on the neck and shoulders.

  Gently he probed her stiff muscles, kneading and loosening them with his thumbs, gradually increasing the pressure. He noticed how his hands spanned the delicate collar made by her shoulder bones, thought how easy it would be to stroke down over the curve of her breast, but his fingers stayed their course. His own muscles, tense for a far different reason than Simone's, eased. He could do this.

  Then she rolled her head back into his hands and moaned, so low, so breathily, he nearly missed it. Another part of his body picked up on it instantly—and reacted. He dropped his hands and forced himself to step back. Damned if his hands weren't trembling. Never had a woman felt so good under his hands. His stomach bunched against a full sexual onslaught.

  For a moment she stood still, keeping her back to him, then she dropped her hair and faced him. Perfectly composed, she did up her buttons. "That helped, thank you," she said matter-of-factly. "You have one thing in common with Nolan, it seems. He gives great massages, too."

  "Glad you're pleased," he bit out, feeling snakelike and completely dishonest.

  She nodded curtly and headed for the door, turning when her hand gripped the latch. "See you in the library, Blue. Harrods awaits. You look dashing in that towel, but I'm afraid tonight demands something more sartorially correct."

  She left him, quelling his frustration—and giving thanks for thick towels.

  The woman had to have graduated with honors from Ice Making 101—and he was standing here, hard as a rail, and as randy as a teenage boy given a green light by the prom queen. He didn't kid himself. Simone Doucet letting him give her a back rub was no green light, more a case of mistaken sexual preference. Damn you, Nolan Smythe. Blue exhaled roughly. It was time to set the woman straight—as straight as he was.

  * * *

  Simone leaned her head against her closed bedroom door. What was the matter with her? The man was gay. He must think her crazy. She'd moaned, for heaven's sake! She never moaned. When she'd done that, he'd stepped back so fast, it's a wonder he didn't trip over the bed. She closed her eyes, willing her skin to cool, her erratically beating heart to calm.

  It wasn't easy.

  Ever since Thomas Bludell stepped on her plane, she'd been agitated. For one thing, he was too casual, too easygoing. The man was going to give her more trouble in three weeks than she'd had in the last year. She couldn't imagine what made Nolan think he'd fit in. Josephine demanded formality. Nolan knew that. All Anjana corporate staff were expected to be crisp, respectful, and industrious. There was nothing like the camaraderie, the easy familiarity she'd known working at Beautiful Woods, the Seattle subsidiary she'd run for six years before assuming the presidency of Anjana. There, she had known and cared about every one of the forty-five employees. Together they'd built a tiny furniture manufacturing facility into a company that had twice won awards for design and quality.

  But Josephine made it plain there was to be no such familiarity in the head office. "I pay over market, hire only professionals, and I don't coddle, Simone," she'd said. "Anjana's not a family—don't try to make it one." And so the distant respect given Josephine by the Anjana corporate staff transferred to her, and she'd made no effort to change it. Her difficulty in dealing with Blue merely pointed out she was becoming used to it, as Josephine said she would. Oddly, the thought didn't please her, but it was time to take control, of herself—and of him. She shoved herself away from the door.

  She had Gabriel to think about. Calmer now, she walked to the Georgian writing table under the high window and took his note from her briefcase. Leaning over it, she smoothed the crumpled letter she had at first tossed into the wastebasket. She should probably still toss it. Instead, she'd considered a visit, going so far as to pencil it in on her agenda. But the truth was he only wanted money.

  She stroked an index finger along the edge of the heavy paper. The words stung her eyes, and she blotted away the tears with the back of her hand.

  Simone:

  I know it's been a long time, but I need a little financial help, and I'm not too proud to ask for it. Please contact me at the above address.

  Gabe.

  Simone glanced at the letterhead. Bruges, Belgium—only across the channel from England. So close. She'd loved him so much once. Now only hurt and distrust remained.

  Gabriel, her brother, who she'd neither seen nor heard from since he'd walked out seventeen years ago. She'd been fifteen, he three years older. She wouldn't respond to the note, even though she'd like nothing better than to look into his eyes and deny him, as he'd denied her when he'd left. He'd promised to come back, to write. Instead, he'd lived up to every negative Josephine attributed to him, to their father, and men in general.

  It was all true, every condemning word, but Simone hadn't learned, even then. She'd needed one more hard lesson and she'd got it. She'd married Harper MacMillan, and Harper iced the fallen cake. Josephine was right. Maybe they all had different reasons, but in the end men walked away—their wants, their needs, their goals, always first, always more important than yours. Irreversible genetic programming, Josephine called it. Maybe so. But dear God, they could wound. And Simone didn't intend to be wounded again.

  She folded the letter and tucked it in a drawer, deciding not to mention it to Josephine. Another dose of bitterness was the last thing she needed. She had enough of her own.

  Her mother now firmly in her thoughts, Simone moved to the phone. She'd promised to let her know when she arrived in London, so she might as well get the call over with. Josephine didn't l
ike to be kept waiting.

  * * *

  Harrods, all five floors and fourteen acres of it, reeled under a full tourist assault. It was July, the height of the season, and the hordes were intent on, if not buying, at least touching, every item in sight. Blue caught a glimpse of the frenzy as he, Simone, and Nance were whisked competently to the men's department by a waiting store commissioner, where they were ensconced in a private seating area.

  Dreiser had phoned ahead.

  Blue heard Simone talking to a short, fastidious man in his fifties whose shirt starch matched the stiffness in his manner. He wrote quickly on a small pad as she spoke.

  "Certainly, Miss Doucet." He turned to Blue, scanned him, then said, "Armani, I should say. I doubt the gentlemen would enjoy the firmer tailoring in the more traditional tuxedo."

  Blue was about to agree when the man turned back to Simone. It was her approval he sought, not Blue's. She nodded, and old picket lips turned back to him."Will the gentleman come this way?"

  Blue breathed deep, filled his lungs with patience, and followed the man to a spacious dressing room. Unless he did something about it—and fast—it would be one long mother of an afternoon.

  "Do you have a name?" Blue asked the minute they were alone.

  "Collins, sir."

  "Well, Collins, let's get something straight. You're selling me, not the lady. Got that? That means—if I don't like it, it isn't bought. Understand?"

  The man frowned, then nodded.

  "Good. Now let me see those notes of yours."

  Collins hesitated. Blue glared. The man handed him Simone's list.

  Blue read down the list quickly. How many clothes did the woman think a man wore in three weeks? He handed it back. "Bring half of this, and if you can do it in under an hour, the sale's yours. If not—" Blue held up his hands in a mock gesture of regret. "I'm a stock forty-two tall. It shouldn't be a problem."

  Collins didn't miss a beat. If he could make this sale, even reduced by half, in an hour, he wasn't about to complain. "Certainly, whatever you say, sir. Now if you wouldn't mind removing your, uh, jeans, we'll begin. Shall we start with the Armani?"

  "By all means. And Collins?"

  "Sir?"

  "Give me a copy of the final bill." Blue had no intention of allowing Simone to buy his clothes. He didn't plan on modeling for her like a damned gigolo either. When he stepped out of this dressing room, the shopping would be done. His way.

  "Very good, sir." With that Collins left the dressing room and Blue checked his watch.

  * * *

  Simone fumed. Simone paced. For almost an hour she'd watched the correct, imperturbable Collins go in and out of the dressing room. Each and every time he headed back to it, arms draped with the finest in men's wear, she issued the same instruction.

  "Please tell Mr. Bludell to step out of the dressing room. I'd like to see my selections."

  "Certainly, Miss Doucet," he would reply, then nothing, no sign of the arrogant man. So much for getting control.

  Finally she sent Nance in. He came out with a smile on his face, and that was odd; Nance rarely smiled, at least not around her.

  "Well?" she asked.

  Nance gave her a sheepish look. "He doesn't want to come out, Miss Doucet."

  "Why on earth not?" Her toe started tapping again. She stilled it.

  "He says he's shy."

  She snorted in a most unladylike manner. "Shy, my foot. You go in there and tell that clown to get out here at once."

  "Yes, ma'am." Nance headed back to the dressing room.

  "No. Wait! I've got a better idea. I'll tell him myself."

  She strode, stiff with purpose, to the dressing room and flung back the heavy curtain and, with equal force, pulled it closed behind her.

  Blue was zipping up the fly on a pair of beautifully cut charcoal slacks. He stopped, leaving the top button undone. The white shirt he was wearing was open and his feet were bare. Her abrupt entrance didn't appear to faze him in the least. Nor did it startle the eternally composed Collins. Both men simply stared at her; Collins with a politely questioning gaze, Blue with a studiously innocent grin she knew hid a deeper amusement. Neither man spoke.

  "Are you quite done?" she asked Blue, barely restraining herself from grinding her teeth.

  His smile widened. She tried to ignore it, along with the tanned broad chest exposed by the open shirt.

  "Quite," he said, with full British inflection, slapping Collins on the back. "This man's a gem, a real gem. Between the two of us, we've come up with the perfect wardrobe. You'll love me in it."

  "Now I wouldn't know that, would I?"

  He wiggled his brows."Don't fuss, darling. You know you'll get your chance to see me wear all of it—or none of it—whenever you like."

  Even Collins's vaunted British reserve couldn't take that one. He coughed.

  She glared at him. "Out!" she said.

  Out he went. She turned on Blue.

  "You' re not gay," she accused, knowing absolutely it was true and—deep down somewhere—not at all disappointed.

  Smiling, he started doing up the buttons on his shirt."Picked up on that, did you?"

  "It wasn't easy," she snapped.

  "Ouch! Low blow, Miss Doucet." He grimaced broadly, loosened his zipper, and tucked the shirt under the waistband of the slacks.

  "You should have told me." She couldn't believe she was standing here watching a man, a too damned virile man, casually zip up his fly after knowing him less than twenty-four hours.

  "I thought I did," he said.

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  "I guess that towel provided better camouflage than I thought," he said.

  "The towel? I don't know what—" She colored to fuchsia.

  He grinned and went back to dressing.

  Momentarily struck dumb, she watched as he did up his top button and started to thread a black belt through the loops. When he bent his head, a hank of his long, sun-streaked brown hair fell forward. It made Simone think of night earth and moonlight. He lifted his head and she looked into the deep blue of his eyes.

  "No hard feelings, I hope," he said, then stood there, barefooted, hands on hips, waiting for her to respond.

  Chapter 3

  Simone glared at him, angry at her own faulty logic. Her assumption that because Nolan was gay so was Blue was ridiculous. The man was unmistakably heterosexual. Overpoweringly so. Hadn't his strong hands massaging her neck told her that? And hadn't her reaction to his hands spoken louder yet? A reaction so long buried she'd hardly recognized it.

  She warmed suddenly, her senses enlivened, the deeply female part of her humming with sexual expectancy. Her next thought hit her like a slap. Blue was every woman's walking wish list. A fact Josephine was sure to notice. She could hear her endless admonitions even now—as if she needed them. Simone rubbed her forehead. This was quickly turning into the business trip from hell.

  Blue's smile faded. "Are you okay?" he asked, keeping her under the sights of those damned laser blue eyes of his. His look was one of puzzled concern, and it snapped her back to the present.

  "I'm fine." She gripped the heavy fabric of the curtain and yanked it back."And as for your question about hard feelings? I don't have any feelings for you—hard or otherwise. Understand that and we'll get through the next few weeks without leaving too much blood on the floor." She'd intended her words to be harsh, commanding, but knew they sounded weak, maybe even desperate.

  He gave her a thoughtful look. "Fair enough." He slipped his bare feet into a pair of soft leather shoes and followed her from the dressing room.

  "Don't you ever wear socks?" she snapped.

  "Not if I can help it." He grinned. "I like naked."

  She shook her head wearily. "Figures."

  * * *

  At eight-thirty Blue and Simone arrived at Claridges, their Rolls-Royce one of many lined up outside London's most celebrated hotel, a frequent choice of foreign royalty and heads of
state.

  They went directly to the private room reserved for the Anjana Enterprises dinner. Blue estimated the crowd at eighty, give or take a couple. By the look of things, he and Simone were among the last to arrive.

  Simone. She confused him, one minute the tough, demanding executive, the next a lost kid looking for a hug and a security blanket. She was getting to him, touching him in some way, and it unsettled him.

  Earlier, waiting for her in the library, he'd been dreading the evening ahead. One look at her changed dread to anticipation. She'd drifted in wearing a white satin thing that polished every curve of her body, then swirled at her ankles like sea foam. She was perfect—and damned if his hand hadn't shook enough to rattle the ice in his drink:. She'd done nothing but given him a curt appraisal, told him he'd do, then calmly held out a beaded evening jacket for him to help her into. Her scent, when he'd stepped up behind her, nearly lifted him out of his shoes.

  She was exquisite in that fragile, ethereal way only a small woman can be. All fine bones and curves. She was also edgy and obviously anxious about the evening ahead. He wondered if she ever relaxed. In the car, in an effort to make conversation, he'd asked about her mother, but she'd quickly changed the subject, telling him he'd meet her soon enough. She chose instead to fill him in on the people he'd meet, instructing him in detail on their respective businesses and their importance to Anjana.

  He was more interested in her husky voice and the way her words shaped her lips than the words themselves. Her mouth was full, delicious. He imagined it smiling—or making love. Looking at her made it damned hard to focus on business.

  He watched her now, across the room, talking to a man wearing a relic of a tux woefully inadequate for his substantial girth; the man had claimed her within seconds of their arrival. Dragging his eyes from Simone, Blue sat at their assigned table, sipped wine, and concentrated on scanning the guests.

  Had it been appropriate to whistle, he would have. There was enough financial clout in this room to beat back the U.S. national debt and mint change. He had his fair share of bucks, but it would be pin money to the people in this room. He made no comparisons. He had enough for the life he'd chosen, and enough was the magic word.