A MAN CALLED BLUE (4 page)

His last serious relationship with a woman of the flesh and blood kind ended three years ago. He'd nearly married Bridget She was beautiful and smart, but in the end the relationship ran out of steam. They were drifting and Blue knew it, and
drifting
into marriage was a mistake he didn't intend to make.

"Hey, Blue. Where you run off to anyway?"

"London."

"Where?" Jelly asked. Blue could hear him munching on something. Jelly always munched.

"London, as in England. Now can we talk about Pearson?"

"What in hell you doin'
there?"

Blue lifted his eyes and waited for patience. It came. "Doing a favor for a friend," he said.
Pearson, Jelly, tell me about Pearson.
But there was no rushing Jelly.

Jelly chewed on... and on. "Old Pearson was up yesterday. Saw him eatin' with Jack Roth in The Skull," he said.

Blue rubbed at his temple hard. Jack Roth was as determined to have Moonlight Island as he was, although for entirely different reasons.
Damn!
He should be on San Juan, not following some too rich woman around London so she could get richer still. "Anything come of it, you think?" he asked.

"Pearson says Roth's a bit slick for his likin'."

Blue started to smile, but Jelly's next words wiped it off. "Likes his money well enough though. Says he's thinkin' on it. Takin' his wife on a little trip, and he's gonna think on it. That's what he says."

"How long is this trip?"

"A month maybe. Says he's gonna visit the kids, and when they throw him out, he's comin' home."

Yes!
Luck was with him. In three weeks he'd be back on San Juan, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

"Jelly, get a pencil, will you? And write down this number." Blue read the number off the older style black telephone on the night table by the bed. "Call my cell first. This number second. The thing is, if Sam comes back early,
call me
—immediately or sooner, whichever comes first. Got that? There's no way I'm going to lose that island to Jack Roth—or anybody else."

"Will do, but you know Sam, Blue. He's been talkin' about sellin' that island for years. You know how the old geezer waffles."

"But this time he's going to do it. I know it."

"If you say so. Anything else?" Jelly sounded skeptical.

"Yeah, run a check on
Three Wishes
now and then, will you? She's secure, but I'd appreciate you looking in on her. I'll be back in twenty-one days tops—and thanks, Jelly."

San Juan, one of the larger of the San Juan Islands, lay in a cluster of islands lying north of Seattle's Strait of Juan de Fuca and south of the Canadian boundary. For the last couple of years, this emerald gem was his home. He left it only when business demanded it. A business that, rhetorically at least, took him to Hollywood and Vine these days more often than Wall street.

He ran a hand over his beard and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, a towel sarong-style around his hips, he strode back in the bedroom. Showered and shaved, he was, if not a new man, at least a reconditioned one. He was rooting around in his duffel for clean briefs when he heard the door open. He turned, watched, and smiled.

Simone came straight at him, her attention focused on the papers in her hands. Her nose nearly bumped his chest before she realized he was there. Dazed, she stared at his bare chest, then quickly raised her eyes.

"What are you doing
here?"
she asked, looking around as if to verify where she was.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"But you're in the main guest room; it adjoins mine. When I'm here I use it for an office. This—" Her voice rose slightly.

"—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 like 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."