A MAN CALLED BLUE

by EC Sheedy

  "I assume you've seen bare feet before," she huffed, determined not to be embarrassed.

  "Not yours." He walked the few steps toward her and reached behind her calf, the back of his hand brushing softly against her leg. He held up her sheer dark panty hose.

  Reddening, she snatched them from his hand, stood, and marched to her bureau, where she stuffed them in a drawer.

  "I believe you had a question." If the man didn't stop grinning like a painted clown, she'd—

  "You have great feet, did you know that?"

  "I'm not interested in your foot fetish."

  "No?" He cocked his head. "Which one of my fetishes are you interested in? I have several."

  She glared at him. "And I'm sure there's a woman, somewhere in the universe, who'd find them riveting. Now, if you don't mind, I'd prefer you skip your seductive banter and get to the reason you came to my room in the first place."

  "You think my banter is seductive?"

  "I didn't say—" She stopped, and snapped her jaws shut. She would not say one more word to encourage him, not one.

  He laughed and chucked her under the chin. "Okay, okay. Let's get to it then, before that blood pressure of yours hits the danger level." He again focused on the papers in his hand. Giving them his full concentration, he went to the Louis XIV desk under the window and spread them across its surface.

  "What I want to ask you about are these figures here." He pointed, making it necessary for her to step to his side and slightly behind him.

  His blue eyes narrowed and he looked down at her. "If you want me to stay in business mode, Miss Doucet, you'd better change perfumes. That one works on me like an injection of undiluted testosterone."

  Before she could respond, he looked away and immediately started running through a set of numbers from the financial statements in his hand. It was a few seconds before she caught up with him. "These—" he pointed to the assets section of the balance sheet "—don't jibe. Look at this."

  Simone followed his gesture, noting a series of notes and calculations in the margins in what must be his handwriting. Many of the notes were followed by question marks. For the next half hour, they reviewed them one by one, Blue backing up his conclusions clearly and logically, his concentration total. Simone started to relax as Blue reduced thirty pages of financial data to a meaningful summary.

  Then he started to pace, his brow furrowed. "The fact is, this is a hell of a healthy balance sheet—and the sales projections look solid." He glanced at her. "Although, I'd like to see contracts to back them up."

  "We'll get them." She nodded at the papers on the desk. "So what's the problem?"

  "There isn't one. Based on what I reviewed today, and assuming the numbers are correct, Gus Hallam's offering Anjana the deal of the century." He ran a hand through his hair, looking perplexed.

  Simone waited.

  "And that's just it. Hallam doesn't strike me as the kind of man who'd give away the farm."

  Simone thought for a moment before responding. "He told me he wanted a good home for his employees, that Anjana's reputation as a fair employer was the main reason he contacted us first when he decided to sell. He said money wasn't the only issue."

  Blue made a sound suspiciously like a snort. "Gus Hallam, alias Santa Claus. I don't think so."

  Simone agreed with a slow meditative dip of her chin, and for a moment they stared at each other, not speaking, each mentally reviewing their impressions of Hallam.

  "I tend to agree, but what if we're wrong?" Simone finally said. She walked a few steps, her bare feet cushioned by the deep silk of the Chinese carpet. "At lunch today, Sir Michael couldn't say enough good things about him, but it was—"

  "Go on."

  "I don't know... It was just too much, I guess."

  "Are they associated in some way?"

  "Not anymore. Years ago, Sir Michael sat on Hallam's board. That's it, as far as I know." She sighed her impatience. "Besides, it's probably my overactive imagination. For now, and in Anjana's interest, it's best we keep an open mind where Hallam is concerned. While I don't want to make a mistake—" Josephine would never condone that "—I also don't want to pass up the deal of the century, as you put it. Maybe Cranway will shed some light on things." She glanced at her watch. Almost three o'clock. "He'll be here shortly."

  "He's not coming. His secretary called to cancel a few minutes after you left for lunch."

  "Did she give any reason?"

  "The usual. Called away on business."

  Annoyed, Simone rubbed her index finger along her hair line. "At this rate this acquisition is going to take forever." She frowned. "I don't get it. Hallam does nothing but pressure us for a decision, then his controller doesn't show up to give us the information we need to make the decision. It seems as though the two of them have different agendas."

  Blue rapped the papers on the desk, rolled them in his hand, and tapped them against his thigh. "It's just as well Cranway didn't show. I'd like to talk to a couple of contacts of my own before we meet with him, if it's okay with you?"

  She arched a brow. "Are you actually asking my permission, Mr. Bludell?"

  He smiled, and the expression in his blue eyes lightened. "Sounds like it, doesn't it?"

  Simone studied him, trying to ignore the effect his easy smile had on her hormones. "And when you talk to these contacts, can I count on you to be discreet?" Simone didn't want to be responsible for leaking the news that Hallam was selling and risk opening up a bidding war. Josephine was fanatical about confidentiality. When Blue didn't answer, she glanced up at him.

  "Don't worry, Tiger, I'll be discreet." He touched her cheek with the rolled-up financials. "I'm a discreet kind of guy—corporately and... otherwise."

  Chapter 5

  Blue watched as Simone considered his request, sensed her struggle. She didn't trust easily, and he understood that. The unrelenting competition of big business was fertile breeding ground for cynicism, with trust shriveling in direct proportion to the amount of money at risk. After a time, you automatically figured everyone was out for something and your job was to stop them from getting it—whether you needed it for yourself or not. It was no longer the work you enjoyed, but the game itself.

  He had a sudden empty feeling in his gut. Had Simone come to that? He hoped not, then wondered why he, a big believer in live and let live, gave a damn. In a matter of days, he'd be gone.

  He watched her take the chair behind her desk and tap an automatic pencil rhythmically on its three-hundred-year-old surface. Finally she spoke.

  "All right, Blue. If you think it will help, check Hallam out with your contacts, but keep Anjana's name out of it. The only advantage we have in these negotiations is secrecy."

  "Done."

  When he didn't say more, she stopped tapping and glanced up at him as though not knowing what to say next. Their business was done; they both knew that, but he didn't move to go, and she didn't move to dismiss him. Instead, she grew increasingly flustered. Something male in him liked that.

  She brushed some stray hair behind her ear and stood, looking distracted. "Oh, and speaking of Hallam, we're invited for a weekend at Hallwynd, his country house outside of Oxford." Her voice was calm, but its dusky edge enticed him. He wanted to hear it in the night, love-strained and wanting.

  "I know," he said, his own voice surprisingly even, considering the direction of his thoughts, dumb adolescent thoughts that perfectly matched the adolescent urges tightening his body.

  For a moment she looked puzzled.

  "It's on the agenda, Simone. I have a copy, remember?"

  "Of course, I, uh, forgot. Well then, that's it, I guess," she said, the words rushing and jumping across her lips. Lips the lipstick had long since worn off. Clean, lush, kissable lips.

  When she stepped out from behind the desk, his eyes were drawn to her bare feet, then up her trim ankles to the hem of her conservative suit skirt. Too damned conservative was his next thought as his gaze swept upwa
rd. She looked decidedly uneasy. Come to think of it, he was feeling a bit ruffled himself.

  "Dinner will be served at seven-thirty in the dining room." She reverted to busy work with the few papers left on her desk, face carefully averted. "We usually dress."

  "How disappointing."

  Her gaze shot to his. "I meant—"

  "I know what you meant." He cocked his head. "Don't you ever smile?"

  "Of course," she snapped. "I smiled all last night during dinner. I smiled so much my jaw hurts." When she started to rearrange the papers on her desk, he gripped her wrist with his free hand. His thumb rested on a pulse; it stumbled. He watched her force herself to calm. She did a lot of that, as if she were waging a war of nerves—and losing.

  "Was that smiling? I thought it was a tic."

  What started as a glare turned to a faint grin. "I guess that is a better description," she said. She tugged her hands under his and he released her. "I, uh, don't enjoy crowds. I guess it shows." She stood up, turned her back to him, and looked out the window.

  "I'm not crazy about them myself."

  "With you it's not so obvious."

  "I picture them all in nightshirts, wearing red high-tops asking directions to the nearest bathroom. It's a great leveler."

  She turned to face him. "Nightshirts, how gallant of you." Her expression was wry, her arms crossed protectively under her breasts. "I'll try it sometime."

  "It's not exactly an equal opportunity image." He arched a brow. "I don't give everyone a nightshirt."

  "I think you're a true incorrigible, Thomas Bludell, or as Nolan would say, 'a certifiable untrainable.' "

  Her smile widened briefly before it faded, giving way to a hint of wistfulness, vague and intriguing. Blue's grip tightened on the roll of papers he held. It didn't copy. Simone, beautiful and successful, lived life in a velvet cocoon, fully protected by wealth and privilege. What made her so damned wary? No. Fearful. He watched her compose herself before looking at him again.

  "I hoped you'd rise to the challenge," he teased. Something in him wanted her smile back.

  "If there's one thing I don't need right now, it's another challenge. I have a full agenda already, remember."

  "Know what I think?" he asked.

  "No, but I'm guessing you'll tell me."

  "I think you've got a case of terminal professionalism."

  She planted her hands on her slim hips and gave him the warning glare of a bantam rooster. Her lips were a straight stubborn line. "And I think we're done here."

  He looked down at her, watched the silk of her blouse pull enticingly over her breasts. He resisted the urge to touch her, stroke her back to good humor. Given time, he could learn to like this woman. A lot. The thought made him frown. He hadn't expected to like Simone Doucet.

  "Does that mean you want me to go?"

  "Another astute deduction," she said tersely. "I'm sure we can both find something better to do with the next few hours other than bait each other."

  "Can't think of a thing."

  "Try reviewing Hallam's sales projections. We'll discuss them over dinner." Her tone was cool and managerial.

  Smiling, Blue decided to give her the last word—he guessed she was used to it—and headed for the door. He was surprised when he heard her voice again, softer this time.

  "Blue."

  He turned, standing in the open door connecting their suites. "Uh-huh?"

  "About today. I appreciate your work. You reduced a complicated set of financials to a workable summary. I know that's a real talent. Thank you."

  He considered a wisecrack, but discarded it when he looked at her. She was sincere; he could see that, and her praise hadn't come easy. She stood, straight as a plank, rubbing her thumb tip along the shaft of a pen. The movement was rhythmic, the pressure strong enough to whiten her knuckle.

  He nodded. "No problem. See you at dinner."

  She dipped her delicate chin. "Dinner."

  * * *

  The table sat fourteen. Simone looked it over nervously. She'd never thought about the formality, the immensity of it before. Filled with guests or on one of her rare one-on-one dinners with Josephine, it seemed right. Now, set for two, with the length of a bowling lane between settings of priceless Minton dinner ware, it looked pretentious.

  "It's seven-thirty-three, madam. Shall I serve?" Mrs. Dreiser asked, giving a final nudge to a salad fork not quite parallel to the plate.

  "No, Mrs. Dreiser, we'll wait for Mr. Bludell. He won't be much longer."

  When Mrs. Dreiser left the room, Simone, wineglass in hand, drifted toward the adjoining parlor. She favored the odd little room. In the home's early days, it served the gentlemen of the house by providing a male haven to enjoy after-dinner port and an imported cigar. She'd claimed it for her own, and with only a nodding regard for its masculine history, decorated it in deep shades of plum and forest green, bringing in lighter accents with cheery damask and bold chintz. It was a happy mixture of colors and furniture and a room she truly enjoyed. Two high-back chairs flanked a fireplace whose summer-darkened center formed a backdrop for a lush bouquet of fresh hydrangea and roses.

  She sank into one of the chairs. Her attention caught by a perfect pink rose, she reached over, pulled it from the vase, and brought it to her nose.

  Blue. What was she going to do about him? Simone stroked the rose, then trailed the bloom over her cheek. She was attracted to him and knew that was dangerous.

  She had what she wanted—or at least would have when she became more comfortable doing business at the international level. She wouldn't let a misguided attraction threaten it.

  She plucked a rose petal and pressed it gently between her thumb and index finger. It was as light as Blue's feathery kiss of the night before.

  She crushed the petal and put it in a crystal ashtray. She didn't want to think about Blue's kiss, or where it might lead. An unexpected sexual tug, that's all it was. She'd cope. Sex. She hardly thought of it anymore, leaving it well behind on the learning curve she'd been on since Harper left and she started to work for Josephine. And she hadn't missed it until a certain pair of blue eyes started to make midnight promises.

  "Nice room."

  Blue! Startled, and embarrassed by her thoughts, she swiveled toward the sound of his voice. He came up from behind her and rested his hands on the back of her chair. If she turned her head, she could touch her cheek to his knuckles. There it was again, that irritating catch in her breathing.

  "Thank you," she murmured. "I like it."

  She stood to face him, but he'd already turned and walked to the casement window that opened onto a view of the rear garden. Forcing herself to remember her plan for the evening, she mentally reviewed it; dinner, conversation about Hallam Industries, and an early evening. She would remain courteous and in charge. She could do this. Then she looked at him and was instantly mesmerized by his broad back, the tan hand he ran up the frame of the old window, the tilt of his head as he leaned forward to look outside. Every nerve and sinew in her body shook themselves to life, quivering and warm.

  Still standing by the window, he turned."Really nice room," he repeated. "All it needs is an ocean view."

  "A tall order in the heart of London," she said, her voice surprisingly normal considering the tightness in her throat.

  "You look wonderful," he said, making an abrupt change in the direction of the conversation. He raked his gaze over her in open appreciation.

  "Thank you," she said evenly. "And you look—" He wore black slacks and a blindingly white shirt with a mob of Walt Disney characters spilling from the pocket. No tie. "Interesting," she finished, incapable of coming up with a better word and working hard to suppress a grin.

  "All thanks to Harrods." He touched the pocket. "Collins' idea. He twisted my arm."

  "I'll bet." She nodded toward the dining room. "Shall we go in. We've already thrown Mrs. Dreiser off her schedule."

  "After you."

  When Blue stepped in
to the dining room, he whistled softly, took one look at the acre of table separating their place settings, and said, "Tell me you're kidding."

  Simone blushed but didn't answer, saved by the entrance of Mrs. Dreiser who appeared with the soup, placing a fragile bowl at opposite ends of the table. Blue looked around in undisguised amazement as he followed Simone to her end of the table.

  He held Simone's chair for her and leaned to whisper in her ear. "This is all very cozy, but I'd like to request two things. First, a cab to take me to my end of the table, and second, a 'how to' diagram for that place setting down there."

  "I'm sure you'll cope," she said. His mouth, all warm breath and tease, taunted a few obscure nerves. Her neck prickled and warmed. She leaned forward to pick up her soup spoon. "Shall we eat?" She didn't dare look at him.

  He took his place and the meal began, broken only by the soft scrape of sterling on bone china and the rustle of linen napkins. Simone wished she'd put on some music, anything to lighten the mood of the room. When she glanced down the table at Blue, he only smiled, as if he recognized her uneasiness, but didn't intend to do a thing about it.

  Damn the man! All jokes and easy patter when it was uncalled for, and not a word when the situation required it.

  By the time Mrs. Dreiser came to clear the soup bowls, Simone couldn't stand the awkward silence a moment longer. "Did you start on the Hallam sales analysis?" she asked.

  Blue cupped a hand behind his ear. "What was that?" he asked, his voice about three decibels louder than usual.

  Simone prayed for patience. "I asked if you'd looked at Hallam's sales numbers." She did not raise her voice.

  They were interrupted by Mrs. Dreiser bringing their salads. When Mrs. Dreiser set Blue's in front of him, he shook his head. "No thanks, Marie," he said, giving the older woman a smile. "I'll skip the salad."

  To Simone's surprise, Mrs. Dreiser smiled back. She couldn't recall the woman ever smiling, at least not at her. After asking if he'd prefer something else and his declining, she removed his salad and headed back to the kitchen.