A MAN CALLED BLUE (9 page)

"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 upward. 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 into 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.