A MAN CALLED BLUE (8 page)

"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 Simone'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.

"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."