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
"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
Similar Books
