A MAN CALLED BLUE (5 page)

"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.

Blue smiled in memory.

The world according to Thomas Bludell, Senior, small town pharmacist, and big-hearted philanthropist. Blue set his wineglass on the table and idly twirled it by its stem, thinking of his father. He'd been dead over a year now, and Blue still missed his quiet eyes with their clear view of fife. "Recognize the difference between greed and need, son," he'd said, "and you'll be a happy man."

Blue drank some wine and gave a silent toast to the single parent who'd raised him.
Haven't got it all figured out yet, Pop, but I'm working on it.
And he knew, for his father, that was enough.

A hand briefly touched his shoulder. Simone. Blue stood immediately.

"Blue, I'd like you to meet Gus Hallam." She indicated the man standing next to her, then turned back to Gus. "Blue is Nolan's replacement. He'll be doing the initial financial analysis on Hallam Porcelain."

Blue extended his hand, made a quick assessment. Tall, thin, impeccably dressed. Maybe forty. Pavement gray eyes, sunlamp complexion—and salon fingernails. Not a beer-with-the-boys' type.

"Blue. Unusual name," Hallam said, cool and cordial.

Blue reclaimed his hand. "Better than the alternative," he said without explanation.

They were interrupted by a woman of notable proportions. "Gus, sweets, what table are we at? I want to sit down. I've been shopping all day and my feet are killing me." With that she lashed herself to Hallam's arm. Her hair was the color of one of those swatches you saw in drugstores. If it had a name, Blue guessed it would be something like, Sunrise Shock or Red Scream.

"I think we're sitting here, aren't we, Simone?" Gus asked, nodding toward the table Blue had risen from.

"I believe so," she answered, turning her attention to the flame head. "Please, sit down, Miss...?"

"Shandra. Shandra McQuaid."

"Yes. Please sit down if you're tired. I know how draining shopping can be." She shot a glance at Blue. When he half-smiled, she didn't return it. Come to think of it, she hadn't smiled at him since they'd met. He resolved to correct that—and soon. Blue pulled out a chair for the shopworn Shandra and settled her in.

"Why don't we all sit down," Hallam suggested. "Surely, Josephine—and dinner—will be along shortly." When they were seated, the man with the overworked tuxedo and his wife joined them. He turned out to be the eleventh earl of something or other and an influential sponsor of Anjana's business interests in England. Blue had played in the corporate park long enough to know the importance of this type of connection.

Blue heard whispering behind him. It quickly turned to a hum.

"Who's that?" Shandra asked, nodding toward the door.

Simone shifted in her seat and leveled her shoulders. "
That
is Josephine Doucet, Shandra."

"Your mom?"

Simone's mouth compressed as if she were containing an inappropriate smile. "Yes. My mother."

Blue glanced around the elegant room. Every eye in it focused on Josephine's entrance.