A MAN CALLED BLUE

by EC Sheedy

  Blue waited a moment, then picked up the slack. "Your baby," he stated, cocking his head and studying her. "Your first baby?"

  She nodded. "Josephine is leaving this entirely in my hands. The financial analysis is critical, but..."

  "But?"

  "I don't think it's everything." She felt muddled, unable to explain her anxiety in concrete terms and vaguely guilty because she couldn't. She was so tired.

  "You're right. It's not. Particularly when you're dealing with a Gus Hallam."

  "You know him?"

  "A thousand of him."

  "And you don't trust him?"

  "Do you?" he shot back.

  She hesitated. "No. No, I don't." She knew it shouldn't matter. Josephine believed that if you only did business with people you trusted, no business would get done. Simone was uncomfortable with that, had no taste for pawing through people's motives, lifting them like scales to expose hidden agendas, then manipulating them for profit.

  "Then chalk up some points for your instincts. If this was my baby, I'd be poking at it with a mighty long stick."

  She straightened away from the sofa. "Then help me, Blue. I need someone who'll... keep things quiet. Stay. I'd like you to work with me on this." She ventured a brief smile."Please."

  Blue knew he was being had, but couldn't do a thing about it. One tiny smile, a few soft words, and he was a goner. She looked exhausted, worn out by jet lag and a long evening. He'd started out wanting a level playing field, what he got was mushy ground somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

  She held out her hand. "Three weeks, that's all I'm asking. For me and for Nolan."

  Blue frowned, not missing the hint about his promise to Nolan. He looked at her outstretched hand, so small and soft. The silk of a web. Once he connected with it, what then? Oddly indecisive, he rubbed at his beard-roughened jaw, then looked into the searching eyes of the woman holding that hand out to him. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look at once earnest and uneasy as she waited for his answer.

  You're a damned fool, Bludell.

  He took her hand, expecting the hard practiced executive handshake. Women, he'd noticed, were getting good at cracking hand bones when they shook these days. Not Simone. Her grip was firm but feminine, her hand delicately structured and surprisingly cool. His own warmed as it closed over hers.

  "Three weeks," he agreed. "But I do it my way."

  She cocked her head, showing a hint of suspicion. "Should that last remark worry me?"

  "That depends on how much you like to worry."

  She appeared to consider his cryptic answer, then smiled again, a tentative tilt of her lips that yanked hard on the deeply buried cord linking his chest and another anatomical region too personal to mention, and while he didn't like the idea of any strings at all, the feeling intrigued him.

  "Thank you," she said, carefully pulling her hand from his. "Nolan will be pleased."

  "I'm not doing this for Nolan."

  He could see her tense. "Why are you doing it?"

  "Aside from the fact a beautiful woman asked me to, I'm not sure—yet. Maybe it's the opportunity for advancement."

  "Opportunity?"

  "I figure if I do a good enough job, I'll get to move up the corporate ladder." He took a step toward her and watched her grip tighten on the back of the sofa. He took another step, and she straightened to face him, now a wary doe. He touched her cheek, traced his index finger along her jaw to the fullness of her lower lip, then stopped. "And the way I see it, that ladder will take me straight to the top." He brushed a kiss across her lips, forcing himself to hold the line. "I think I'd like the view."

  He moved away. "I usually start at six-thirty, but jet lag takes a toll, so let's say eight. I hope that's not too early for you."

  Breathless, Simone watched him saunter from the room. If what went on between them tonight was about winning and losing, the first point was definitely Blue's. Carefully, assessingly, she touched her lips. Blue's butterfly kiss lingered. She hadn't imagined it.

  * * *

  "...Nine o'clock. Your coffee is..."

  Simone roused herself to half-awake, before burrowing back under the covers to avoid the voice dragging her into the day.

  Nine o'clock!

  She bolted upright as Mrs. Dreiser pulled back the drapes to let the morning in, a very bright morning. She squinted against the glare.

  "What time did you say it was?" she asked, hoping she'd heard wrong, knowing she hadn't.

  Mrs. Dreiser turned toward the bed, purposeful steps taking her generous figure to the bureau where she'd temporarily set a tray bearing coffee, toast, and half a grapefruit.

  "Six minutes to nine, madam," she said, placing the tray across Simone's knees.

  "Mrs. Dreiser, I told you to wake me at seven." Simone's voice was sharper than intended. She handed the tray back and put both feet on the floor.

  "I intended to, but the gentleman said to let you sleep. He informed me you weren't feeling well." Mrs. Dreiser stood holding the tray, looking seriously aggrieved.

  "And what gentleman would that be?"

  "Mr. Bluebell."

  "That's Bludell, Mrs. Dreiser, and where would the, uh, gentleman be at this moment."

  "He's in the library with Mrs. Doucet."

  "Josephine Doucet! My mother?" she asked stupidly.

  Mrs. Dreiser, stolid to the last, didn't see fit to remind her there was, to her knowledge, only one Mrs. Doucet. She sniffed instead.

  Simone stood so abruptly, her head spun. What in heaven's name was Josephine doing here at this hour? She would expect Simone to be up, of course. A wave of guilt swept over her, followed by a coil of anxiety.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Dreiser. It's not your fault. Please, leave the tray, and tell Mrs. Doucet and Mr. Bludell I'll be right down."

  Mrs. Dreiser nodded regally and left the room. Simone had inherited the Dreisers when she'd bought the house last year. They were unfailingly correct, competent, quiet as ghosts, and as much a part of her Eaton Square home as the faded carpets, carved moldings, and the Sargent's canvas in the upstairs hall.

  The closet yielded a gray skirt and matching blouse. Simone tossed them on the unmade bed, took a quick gulp of coffee, and headed for the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, damp hair pulled into a severe twist at her nape, she opened the library door. Josephine sat behind her desk; Blue lounged in a chair directly facing her. Simone couldn't imagine what they'd found to talk about. Three deep breaths, Simone. Take three deep, deep breaths. She walked into the room.

  Blue stood immediately. He was wearing chinos and a red Polo shirt bright enough to jam a light meter. She'd bet he was sans socks. It's a wonder Josephine hadn't eaten him alive. Every person in Anjana knew its founder didn't have a casual bone in her body.

  Josephine also rose and, moving from behind the desk, she walked toward Simone with her hands extended. "Darling, how are you? Blue tells me you're not well. Was it something you ate? Should I call Claridges and complain?"

  "I'm fine. Just fine." Simone pulled her hands from her mother's and walked toward her desk to pour herself a cup of coffee. From this vantage point, braced against the desk, she faced Josephine and Blue. When she managed to ignore the blaze that was Blue's shirt, she focused on Josephine. "I didn't expect you this morning."

  Josephine lifted a hand, the gesture casually dismissive. "I was passing by and thought it would be a good time to get better acquainted with your new man."

  Simone sipped her coffee. "A spontaneous gesture? Unlike you, Josephine," she said coolly.

  Josephine reached for her handbag. "Yes, and it's made me late for a meeting." She looked at Blue, then Simone. "It appears you've made a good choice, Simone. But while Blue's certainly qualified, be careful—very careful—he doesn't become a distraction."

  She feathered a kiss on Simone's cheek and sailed out of the room, her parting words creating a vacuum that quickly filled with oppressive silence. Blue came up beside Sim
one and quietly refilled his coffee cup while her face burned with anger and embarrassment. Duplicating her posture, he leaned against the desk and sipped his coffee.

  "Your mother—" he started.

  "Never mind."

  He compressed his lips and nodded slowly.

  Simone turned and put her cup and saucer on the desk. She didn't want to explain her mother to Blue or any other man. How could she? When her own feelings were a confused mixture of frustration and gratitude. "Let's get to work," she said, stepping briskly behind her desk and taking her chair.

  Blue's eyes rested on her like weights.

  She pushed a file aside and picked up a sheet of paper. "When I'm in London," she advised matter-of-factly. "I use Anderson's Executive Support services. You'll find them efficient. And I assume you'll require a computer and spreadsheet software. Tell me what you'd like, and I'll have it delivered this afternoon." She handed him the sheet of paper containing names and addresses. "Oh, and I'll be drawing up a short contract to confirm last night's discussion. I'd appreciate it if you'd sign and return it to me as quickly as possible. I would also—"

  "A contract? For twenty-one days?"

  "I want our agreement clearly understood this time. Putting it in writing will ensure that," she stated, hoping she sounded properly authoritative. She also hoped to gain back the upper hand, a hand she'd lost last night. Blue's shadow of a kiss had stayed with her far too long.

  A grin played across his mouth. "It's a waste of trees, but if it's what you want..."

  "It's what I want," she stated emphatically.

  His grin widened. Infuriating man. She dropped her gaze to her desk and flicked a page on her large diary.

  "As for today," she went on. "We have lunch with Sir Michael at twelve, a meeting with Richard Cranway, Gus Hallam's controller, at three, and an appointment with—"

  "Whoa. Slow up there." Blue set his coffee cup down and leaned—make that loomed—over her desk. "Don't you think we should put first things first?"

  With his face mere inches from hers, she couldn't avoid him without leaping like a frightened hare. That, she would not do, no matter what the provocation. She held her seat. "I don't know what you mean."

  He touched her hair and smiled. "How about, good morning, Blue. How are you this morning? Did you sleep well or did you toss and turn all night thinking about me, like I did about you?"

  Her mouth opened. How did he—

  He went on. "I'm fine, Simone, but as for sleeping, I admit I got very little. It seems we were in the same boat when we should have been in the same bed."

  She leaped—exactly like a frightened hare.

  Blue took a step back. "As for your question about the computer, believe it or not, I have my own, and I'll skip lunch with Sir Michael what's-his-name—unless it has something to do with Hallam." He waited.

  She shook a negative, too off balance to speak.

  "Good. Then with what I managed to get out of your mother—"

  "Josephine, call her Josephine," she mumbled.

  He conceded with a nod. "Then with what I got out of her about Hallam Porcelain and the files you're going to give me, I'll get started. If it's all the same to you, I'll work in my room." He glanced around the organized, immaculate library. "I have a somewhat disruptive working style."

  He gave her a bland look and held out his hand. After making a brief stop at the rise of his biceps, her gaze dropped to his open palm. She gave him what she knew was a vacant stare. He gave her a megawatt smile that hit her like a rogue wave.

  "The files, Tiger. Give me the files, and I'll get out of your hair."

  She drew in a breath and tore her attention from his mouth. So this was "his way," the arrogant—About to instruct him not to call her tiger, she clamped her mouth shut, deciding not to waste her words.

  She yanked open the left-hand file drawer, grabbed a set of color-coordinated files, and slammed them into his open hand.

  He glanced briefly at them. "Are there at least five years of financials here?"

  "Yes."

  "Audited?"

  "No. They were prepared by a team of research monkeys at Cambridge. I thought they'd do."

  He chuckled. "I'll start to work with these and touch base with you at—" he looked at his watch "—say, two? That will give us time to formulate questions for Cranway."

  "Shall we synchronize our watches?" she asked dryly. "I wouldn't want to interrupt at an inopportune moment."

  "You can interrupt me anytime you want. I'm a sucker for spontaneous—"

  Simone held up her hand and lowered her head. "Don't! Don't say another word. Just take the files and go. Go."

  When she thought he'd cleared the room, she lifted her head, but he was still there, leaning in the doorway, ankles crossed, files tucked haphazardly under his arm. She felt her lips straighten into a narrow line. If he said one more—

  "Nolan called this morning."

  She calmed instantly. "How is he? Is he sure there are no internal injuries?"

  "He's fine. He's home. His mother and sister are both fussing over him, and he's enjoying every minute of it."

  "That's good news. I'm glad he's okay."

  "He says he's looking at six weeks of plaster, and he'll be as good as new. He wants you to call him."

  She nodded, waited for him to leave. What he left was silence. It rested between them, a calm shadowed pool. Both were reluctant to disturb it.

  "There's nothing on the agenda tonight," Blue said finally, his gaze steady across the quiet room.

  "I try to leave my first couple of nights free, have dinner in. Last night was an exception. Josephine arranged it."

  "My guess is Josephine does a lot of that—arranging of things."

  "She chairs the board. It's her job."

  "Uh-huh." He pulled the files from under his arm and dangled them at his side.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means uh-huh. Your mother is an interesting woman, attractive, successful, and smart," he went on.

  "Is there a point to all this?" She sat down and reached for a pile of correspondence, determined to look busy and preoccupied. She sorted casually through the mail, then picked up a letter opener.

  "Just wondering."

  On an irritated breath, she put down the unopened letter and looked up at him. "You're going to tell me even if I don't ask. Right?"

  He pulled his earlobe, his expression speculative, and for the first time, she noticed he'd removed his earring. "I was wondering if you want to be just like her when you grow up," he said calmly.

  Simone fought for control, not sure if she was angry or embarrassed. "I could have a worse role model. Take you for example, what does your father do for a living? Sit outside the general store, watch the world go by, and philosophize while he swigs beer and spits?"

  Clearly she'd hit a nerve. Blue, without seeming to move a muscle, went rigid. Anger and pain vied for dominance in his eyes. Pain won.

  "Dad died a year ago," he said, his voice flat. "But your description's surprisingly accurate. Except for the beer and spit, of course."

  "I'm sorry. That was incredibly tactless of me." If she could have, Simone would have crawled under her desk blotter.

  "You couldn't know." He pushed away from the door and turned to go, his grin, which she suspected was as natural to him as breathing, was back. "By the way, if you want me for anything this afternoon—anything at all—I'll be in my room."

  And I'll be as far away from that room as I can get, she vowed, watching his abysmally bright shirt disappear down the hall.

  * * *

  Simone watched idly while Nance pulled the Rolls to the curb outside her Eaton Square house. Lunch with Sir Michael Twickem had lasted precisely one hour and twenty-one minutes, which was about an hour too long. To describe him, the English had the perfect expression, crashing bore. One of Anjana's major suppliers, his hosting of the lunch was his way of showing gratitude for years of business. All Si
mone's attempts to defer, delay, and decline had been for naught. The only good thing about it was that it kept her mind off Blue—more or less.

  Unexpectedly, the conversation had turned to Gus Hallam. Sir Michael was, as it turned out, a former board member for Hallam Industries and had nothing but praise for Hallam. Said he was "an all-round good sort, a pillar of rectitude, and unselfish to a fault." He sounded like Hallam's press agent.

  Nothing Sir Michael said jibed with her perceptions of Hallam—or Blue's. Maybe they were both wrong.

  Except that it didn't make sense.

  Gus Hallam was prepared, even anxious, to sell a very profitable company that had been in his family for years. Why? Her suspicions held firm, and she sighed. Maybe the Cranway meeting would help.

  "We're here, Miss Doucet," Nance said, opening the door and offering his hand. "Will you need the car tonight?"

  "No, thank you, Nance. We'll be having dinner in tonight." She tried not to think about the fact that the "we" she referred to was her and Blue and went on, "Why don't you take some time to see the sights? You may not get another chance."

  "Will do, Miss Doucet. Thanks."

  Glad to be back in the privacy of her suite, and with fifteen minutes to spare before meeting Blue in the library, Simone slipped off her shoes, peeled off her hose, and wiggled her toes. Hotter than usual for July, London positively steamed today. Her glance strayed to the door connecting her suite to Blue's. Her thoughts arrowed through it to the man on the other side.

  As if on cue, there was a rap on the door.

  "You decent in there?" It was Blue.

  She stuffed her nylons under the seat cushion, tucked her feet as far under the chair as possible, and took a calming breath. It didn't occur to her to ask why she needed one."Come in," she said.

  Blue stepped in carrying a handful of papers. His brow furrowed in thought, his gaze fixed on the document in his hand, he started to speak before lifting his eyes.

  "Have you got a minute to answer a couple of questions? I don't get this—" He pointed to a spot on the page, stopping when he noticed her bare feet. He grinned, stared, and grinned some more.