A MAN CALLED BLUE Read Online Free PDF Page A

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