A MAN CALLED BLUE Read online

  A Man Called Blue

  by

  EC Sheedy

  writing as Carole Dean

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 1997, 2012 by Carole Dean. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by Angie-O

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Chapter 1

  A curse shot through the door of the luxurious private jet. And not a nice one. Simone Doucet shifted her attention from the Wall Street Journal and cocked an ear toward the door in time to catch another one—even less nice. It certainly wasn't Nolan.

  She glanced at her watch; he was late. Unusual for him. She stood and went to the open hatch in the center of the aircraft.

  "Nance, what's going on out there?" she called out.

  "Don't know, Miss Doucet. This bozo says he works for you."

  Nance's beefy hand gripped the shoulder of a man a head shorter than himself, and judging from the man's pugnacious stance, he wasn't the least intimidated. Considering Nance stood six feet seven inches with his feet in a trough, Simone figured the man was either extraordinarily brave, certifiably stupid, or stoned out of his mind.

  Nance loosened his grip, allowing the man enough freedom to turn and face her. He wore cutoffs, a green muscle shirt of some kind, deck shoes with no socks, and sunglasses. A lumpy canvas bag rested at his feet. To Simone's eye he was a shower short of disreputable. She'd never seen him before in her life.

  "Get rid of him, Nance."

  While Nance shaped the man into a human projectile, she began her retreat to the inside of the plane. "Hey. Hold it! Nolan sent me," he shouted. She turned back to see him shake free of Nance and dig into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and lifted it in her direction. She nodded at Nance, and he reached around the man to remove the paper from his hand.

  "It's a letter, Miss Doucet, and it's Mr. Smythe's signature on the bottom, all right. It says here—"

  She held out her hand. "Bring it to me, Nance."

  "Stay put, mister." With that terse instruction, Nance took the few steps leading to the hatch and handed her the letter.

  Simone:

  I hate to do this to you, but it can't be helped. At this moment, I'm in the hospital with a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, and a smashed elbow—all from a misstep on my stairs! Thomas Bludell, the man who carries this fax, is a very good friend of mine. I've asked him to stand in for me. London should be no problem for him. He has the skills for it, and if you dress him up, you can take him anywhere—almost. In short, he's all yours for two weeks. You won't be disappointed.

  Nolan

  P.S. I'll call you in London. Have a safe trip, good luck with Hallam Porcelain—and trust Thomas. He's a good man to have in your corner.

  She slapped the message against her thigh. Damn! She didn't need this. It was the second note in a week to upset her plans. Making no secret of her displeasure, she glared down at the man standing on the hot tarmac.

  "Hey." He lifted his hands. "I'm no happier about this than you are, lady, but I owe the guy. Fire me where I stand if you want." He brought his hands down to rest on his lean hips. "It's your call."

  As if she had a choice. She nodded her head toward the canvas bag at his feet. "Nance, take Mr. Bludell's luggage, please." If she couldn't have Nolan, she'd at least have his skills—and a damned escort. In London she'd need both.

  Thomas Bludell dropped his chin and shook his head like a beaten man. Obviously, he'd been hoping she wouldn't let him board. He muttered something under his breath.

  "Excuse me?" she asked.

  The sun glinted on the rim of his glasses when he lifted his head to answer. "Nothing. Just a vow to break Nole's other leg the next time I see him."

  She studied him. Between the sun's white glare and his dark glasses, she could only see his jaw, set to a hard square, and a mouth, that, should it ever soften, some women would find sensual. He was not unattractive. The thought didn't cheer her.

  She raised a brow but didn't smile. "I'd appreciate it if you'd save the idle threats until we're airborne. We're scheduled for takeoff any minute." She took a step, stopped, and turned back. "Nolan? Will he be all right?"

  "He'll be fine. Nice of you to ask," he said drily.

  " 'Nice' would have been him advising me in advance of this unwanted substitution."

  "He had one call before they took him in. I was it."

  "And this?" She held out the letter.

  "Coerced a nurse. Figured I needed an introduction."

  He cocked his head, and although she couldn't see his eyes, she knew he was assessing her. Predictable. Men liked to take inventory, and this one wasn't shy about it. Inwardly she caved. Oh lord, not another aggressive man who figured he was God's gift to womankind. No. He couldn't be, not if he was a friend of Nolan's. She scanned him, from his scuffed Topsiders to... his earring. There was definitely a gold hoop glittering in his earlobe. Inappropriate, of course. As was his too long hair. But the hair itself, a deep, sun-streaked chestnut, was thick and shiny. No, he definitely wasn't unattractive. Maybe Nolan was right, maybe Thomas Bludell could be dressed up—enough to do.

  "What you need, Mr. Bludell," she said finally, "is a shave and a haircut." Giving him no chance to respond, she turned and went inside the plane. By the time he stepped in, she was seated with her back to him.

  Nance directed him to a seat in the rear of the craft, and Simone heard him sink into it with the exhaled energy of an angry, frustrated man. This time he didn't bother to curse. Simone shook out her abandoned newspaper, ignored the urge to look back at him. It wasn't easy.

  They were barely settled when Kelly, her pilot, announced, "We have clearance, Miss Doucet." Flight-panic scratched at her nerves. She took a deep breath as the plane began its smooth glide from the service area to one of the runways used by private aircraft. Takeoffs were the worst part.

  Nance was at her shoulder immediately. "Can I get you anything, Miss Doucet?"

  Nance knew exactly what to get her, but, proper employee that he was, he asked anyway. She didn't look at him when she answered, "Scotch, please."

  He brought it immediately and she drank it quickly, then stifled a gag. She disliked alcohol, only drank it when she had to. Flying was a definite had to. When Nance started toward his seat in the rear of the craft, she called him back.

  "When we're up, Nance, please tell Mr. Bludell to join me for lunch."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Nance nodded and walked, hunched over, down the aisle. Simone tried to lose herself in an article on the long term effects of a U.S recession on the world economy; but when Kelly nudged the
plane over a slight rise in the tarmac, and her stomach fell the equivalent of a 747's cruising altitude, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the burgundy leather seat. Every muscle in her body as rigid as her bones.

  * * *

  Blue watched Simone from under half-closed lids. From his vantage point, he saw only a partial profile, but he did see her down the scotch. One shot. No flinch. The woman must have brass innards and a copper-plumbed throat.

  He hadn't yet got a good look at her. At the plane's hatch, with the sun behind her, he'd made out she was small and her hair was dark. That was about it—except for her voice, low and husky—and as commanding as a boot camp sergeant's. He guessed it came naturally. She was, after all, president of an international company and as rich as anyone had a right to be.

  Anjana Enterprises, founded by her mother, Josephine, made a textbook case on how grit, hard work, and brains merged to forge business success. Josephine Doucet was a living legend. Today, Anjana's holdings were so vast Blue couldn't think of a business it wasn't invested in; hotels, cable networks, software firms, a string of exclusive spas. You name it. A year ago, Josephine pulled Simone from one of Anjana's smaller subsidiaries, a Washington furniture company, and made her corporate top dog. A big step up, and his friend Nolan had stepped up right along with her.

  The woman a few feet in front of him moved her head. Her hair wasn't dark, he saw now; it was an inky, midnight ebony—and long. Past her shoulders, he guessed, if she ever let it out of that coiled thing at the back of her neck.

  Nolan described her as vulnerable. The word implied defenseless, exposed. Uh-uh, he didn't think so. Simone Doucet was more an armadillo/porcupine cross. A tough seasoned hybrid. Vulnerable? No way. Obviously too many truffles and too much caviar had clouded the man's judgment.

  "We're cleared for takeoff, ma'am," the pilot announced.

  He saw her stiffen, saw her knuckles curl around the armrest. She stayed that way until they were airborne a few minutes later. Okay, so maybe the lady had one or two vulnerabilities after all. Not that he cared. Looking after female corporate sharks was Nole's job, and after meeting this one, he was glad of it. She wasn't Blue's type, as a boss or anything else.

  He glanced again at her fingers, still curled over the armrest, but loosened now, and noticed how white her skin was, very nearly translucent. Probably soft—

  He muscled that line of thinking aside, abruptly turning his attention to the window. Irritated again, he watched Seattle shrink, then spread as the plane gained altitude. A job, he reminded himself, that's all this is. A damned inconvenient job no matter how soft the woman's skin might be.

  Nance tapped him on the shoulder. "Something to drink?"

  "Sure, why not?" He checked his watch. One fifteen. "I'll have what the lady had."

  "Sorry, no can do. Miss Doucet doesn't approve of her people drinking alcohol during working hours. Got coffee though."

  "You're not kidding, are you?" Blue thought of the way she'd quaffed her scotch.

  The big guy shrugged noncommittally.

  "Anymore rules for us peons I should know about?"

  He shook his head. "She kind of makes them up as she goes along. You'll get used to it, Mr. Bludell."

  He didn't think so. "Blue. The name's Blue," he said.

  "Blue, it is. You want that coffee or not?"

  "Not. Thanks."

  Nance trundled off down the aisle, and Blue put his head back and closed his eyes. He couldn't believe he was here, playing second fiddle to a dragon lady, a tycoon dragon lady. If he lost Moonlight Island because of this, Nolan Smythe would be gumming oatmeal the rest of his life.

  He should have said no. Damn it, he should have.

  You owe the guy, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. So quit griping. In two weeks Simone Doucet and Anjana Enterprises would be history. He closed his eyes. He'd handle it.

  When the plane reached cruising altitude, Nance tapped him on the shoulder. "Miss Doucet wants you to join her up front."

  He sucked in a breath. "Right." Pushing on the armrests, he lifted himself from the seat and trailed the now friendly giant down the aisle.

  She nodded to the seat opposite herself and he took it. A table draped in white linen and set with pale pink china and sterling silver separated them. As Blue settled in, she snapped a linen napkin neatly across her lap and raised her eyes, meeting his directly for the first time. He thought fleetingly of two ships meeting in narrow straits.

  Her eyes were gray. They were steel. They were as cold as exposed stone on the Rockies, and they heated his chest like a burning wind. The altitude, he told himself and settled deeper into his seat.

  She lifted her fork. "So, I gather you're no more pleased with this arrangement than I am?"

  "That's about it."

  "You're only here because Nolan asked you to be?"

  He nodded.

  When he didn't volunteer anything further, she went on, her voice low, coolly pleasant. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly is your relationship to Nolan?"

  "We go back a way."

  She prodded her salad, forked a shrimp, and held it to her mouth. "Explain," she stated, before popping the tiny decapod into her mouth. He watched her chew, then touch the napkin to the corners of her mouth. A lush mouth. Wide. Coral lips, maybe a shade darker than the shrimp she'd just eaten. He didn't like the constriction in his throat.

  "Mr. Bludell?" She lifted her chin and tilted her head.

  He'd been staring.

  "We worked together," he said, too brusquely. If Doucet didn't already know all of Nolan's personal history, he wasn't about to fill in the gaps.

  She studied him intensely. "And lived with him at one time. Right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  She looked so visibly relieved, he couldn't help smiling. He knew her thoughts—exactly. She nodded then and reached to her side. Pulling some pages from a file, she held them out to him.

  "My agenda, Mr. Bludell. I'd like to review it with you. Other than our meetings with Gus Hallam regarding Hallam Porcelain, it's mostly public relations, touching bases with longtime suppliers, business associates, that sort of thing."

  "Blue," he corrected, taking the papers from her hand.

  "Pardon me?"

  "Call me Blue."

  She gave him a questioning look as though deliberating on the name's acceptability.

  "Let's say one too many kids called me 'little Tommy Bluebell,'" he offered. One was enough. That smart mouth probably still had a thick lip. He caught the look of sympathy in her eyes, the hint of a smile.

  "Of course," she said smoothly."It must have been difficult for you. Blue will be fine."

  "Yeah." He forced a smile, knew it was thin, then turned his attention to the papers in his hand.

  The London agenda was full, days packed with business meetings and nights crammed with social engagements. Many of which he was to attend. Inwardly groaning, he read on. A list of names accompanied each slotted engagement, both business and social. The name Gus Hallam appeared more than any other.

  There were handwritten notes on the bottom of the last page. He couldn't make them out.

  "And this?" He indicated the handwriting. "Bruges?" He stumbled over the pronunciation, giving it a hard ending to rhyme with rugs. Nolan hadn't mentioned this.

  "It's in Belgium, and that's Bruges as in Broozh," she corrected, making an oozy sound with her breath.

  He hoped she'd say it again, liking the way her coral lips wrapped around the foreign phrasing.

  She hesitated. "But it's not important, a business matter I've since canceled." Her gaze slid away from his, and she began eating, looking, for the first time since they met, ill at ease.

  "Good. Because the way I count, this agenda already covers three weeks. Nolan said two. So two weeks it is. Not a day more. Sorry." He tossed the agenda on the table.

  She put down her fork, laced her fingers, and rested her chin on them, her eyes again meeting h
is. "How unfortunate. And Nolan so enjoyed his work."

  He stared at her, felt his jaw loosen. "Nolan Smythe has been your right hand for years, and you're telling me you'll fire him if I don't go the distance on this?" He picked up the agenda and dropped it again, watching her face as he did so. Her gray gaze left his briefly, came back narrower, chillier.

  "I expect you to do what you're told. As Nolan's replacement, he's responsible for you. So if you don't perform—to acceptable standards—he's out of a job." She unlaced her fingers and picked up her fork. Her hand trembled slightly. "Clear enough?"

  Blue leaned back in his seat and weighed his options. It wasn't easy to look at her delicate beauty and accept that under such creamy skin beat the heart of a terminator. If it were only his neck at risk, he'd call her bluff.

  Challenge tensed his gut, and for the first time since this charade began, his interest was aroused—and not in the job. Three weeks with this tiny tycoon could prove entertaining—if he didn't lose Moonlight Island in the process. Big if.

  He pulled off his sunglasses and leaned forward. "Maybe I should repeat your instructions, Miss Doucet. Make sure I understand. You need me to perform on demand. Have I got that right?" He let the double meaning stand.

  Did she blink? No. He imagined it. This lady did not blink. She simply arched a brow and gave him a challenging gaze of her own."Other than financial analysis, what I need is someone to follow me around, take notes, and keep unwanted people at bay."

  "Have you thought about getting a dog?"

  "I would if they could take notes," she said sweetly. "In the meantime, you'll have to do. Any more questions?"

  "Just one. Why none for me? You're putting a lot of trust in Smythe's word and a crumpled note. Somehow I doubt you're a woman with an excess of that commodity."

  "You're right, I'm not. But enough to accept Nolan's recommendation until I can check you out for myself. But before we land at Heathrow, I'll know all I need to know, down to the color of your underwear."