Wolf In Waiting

Again, the faintest hint of approval in Sebastian’s eyes, even less than a pat on the schoolboy’s head.

He said, “Only a werewolf can hide from a werewolf—and then only with great difficulty. If these were the actions of an ordinary human, I should think someone would have heard or smelled or seen something long before now.”

“So you’re saying it is one of us, after all.” My tone was flat, devoid of emotion. But what I felt was a slow cold rage, a roiling contempt, a furious sense of shame and betrayal that one of our own could stoop so low. The traitor had to be rooted out, destroyed like a blight on a shrub before it did any more damage. He deserved no mercy.

“It does seem logical. Did you have another thought?” Sebastian asked.

I hesitated, hoping that my next words wouldn’t sound as badly motivated as they felt. I said, very carefully, “When did you last speak with Michael?”

The older man was a master at concealing his thoughts, and he betrayed neither surprise nor outrage. “Last week, I believe. He may no longer be my heir, but he is a dutiful son.” The words whose loyalty to the pack is unquestioned remained unspoken.

But I pursued the issue, “He’s doing well, then?”

“By some standards, I suppose. He’s working with humans, building houses for them.”

I managed a smile. “We’ll be awarding him major industrial contracts before the year is out.”

“Most likely,” agreed Sebastian without a flicker of humor.

“And his wife…”

“The human,” supplied Sebastian. Again, his distaste was carefully disguised.

“Yes. Agatha, isn’t it?”

“They seem to be very happy.”

“They probably have no secrets from each other.”

“Probably not.”

“You might want to check,” I concluded with care and deliberation, “whether either of them has been to Montreal lately.”

And Sebastian replied, with equal deliberation, “I think I’ll let you do that.”

I remained silent, not daring to speculate on what this might mean.

“There has never been a ruler who hasn’t faced at least one crisis that threatened the very survival of his people. I needn’t point out that this matter could do just that. I therefore suggest, for the sake of your regime and the future of all our kind, that you deal with this problem as quickly and efficiently as possible,” Sebastian said.

I stood slowly. I couldn’t entirely control the leap of excitement in my pulse and I was sure my elder heard it, but I didn’t care. “Are you putting me in charge of the situation, then?”

“You will have complete responsibility. I expect to be kept apprised of your plans, however, and to be kept current on developments.”

“Yes, of course.” Already my mind was racing, devising schemes, formulating battle plans. “But I shall have complete freedom in dealing with the matter?”

Sebastian made a small dismissive gesture with his hand. “I have other concerns,” he said gruffly. “I can’t be everywhere at once.”

And then I understood the full significance of what was happening. Sebastian, pressed by the troubles in New Orleans and having recently lost his right-hand man—Michael—had turned to me to handle this most delicate and dangerous problem within the company. That had to mean something, didn’t it? This was not just a token assignment, or a test. This was the kind of responsibility that would only be given to someone Sebastian trusted, in whom he had confidence to solve the problem.

Sebastian was relying on me. Perhaps that meant that, after all this time, the older man was coming to accept me as his heir.

I inclined my head. “I shan’t disappoint you, sir.”

Sebastian scowled. “For your sake, I should certainly hope not.”

I reached for my briefcase. “I’ll leave for Montreal in the morning. Is there anything in particular I should familiarize myself with before I arrive?”

“It’s all on your computer. If you have any questions, I’m sure Victoria will be able to answer them.”

Already a dread I could not quite define was creeping to my stomach. “Victoria?”

“Victoria St. Clare. She’s an account executive in the Montreal office. You’ll be working with her. Didn’t I mention it?”

St. Clare, I thought. I should have known.

I kept my face expressionless. “No, sir, you didn’t. In exactly what capacity will we be working together?”

The slight arch of Sebastian’s eyebrow was almost imperceptible. “In every capacity.”

“I understood you to say I would be in charge of this operation.”

“And so you will be. You should look upon Victoria as…a partner.”

I translated, Spy.

“Surely you’ll agree with the wisdom of having a confederate in the enemy camp.”

I nodded stiffly. “Of course. I should have thought of it myself.”

Sebastian almost smiled. “Yes. You should have. You’ll report to her as soon as you arrive, then.”

“Of course.”

“Very good. That will be all for now. We expect you for supper. My wife sends her greetings.”

I barely managed a polite reply and a gracious bow as I left the room.

I didn’t know why I was surprised. I should have expected a trick like this from Sebastian. But if the older man expected me to be defeated or distracted by it, he was to be greatly disappointed.

I had a job to do, and I would get it done with or without Victoria St. Clare, perhaps even in spite of her. I would prove myself worthy of the command I was about to inherit, to Sebastian St. Clare and everyone else in the clan, if it was the last thing I did.

And that is how I, Noel Duprey, future leader of my people, ended up sitting behind the cramped metal desk of a junior executive in a corkboard-walled cubicle that wasn’t even soundproof, gaping like a schoolboy at a woman in a white fur coat. I represent the strongest, the smartest, the bravest and the most noble of all our kind. I am the standard against which all others are measured. Yet at that moment, as I turned to gaze at the female who had just entered, I was reduced to—forgive me—an almost human incoherence.

I was quite frankly astonished. I had just spent the entire flight from Alaska studying the personnel files of everyone in the Montreal office, most especially that of Victoria St. Clare. I thought I knew everything about her, but nothing had prepared me for this.

Victoria St. Clare—several dozen times removed from the direct line of descent, fortunately for everyone concerned—is what is known as an anthromorph. What that means, quite simply, is that through some genetic anomaly, she is condemned forever to retain her human form. She can never mate; she can never bear young; she can never know what it is to be one of us through the miracle of the Change. Of course one has to feel sorry for such a creature. I suppose it’s only natural to regard those different from oneself with a certain wariness, but Victoria St. Clare’s differences condemned her to a life of pity and scorn among her own people.

I had known that much about her as soon as I refreshed my memory on her name. There weren’t more than a dozen or so anthromorphs among us, and I remembered her from childhood pack gatherings as the poor ugly duckling all the other children used to torment. According to her personnel records, fortune hadn’t favored her much as the years progressed, either.

She was portrayed as a mediocre employee about whom the kindest evaluation report read, “Generally punctual.” In a business where creativity, ambition and daring were prized, she displayed about as much imagination as a toad. In six years of employment, she had been passed over for promotion no less than two dozen times. Even humans held positions over her.

She was, nevertheless, the werewolf who had been assigned to work with me on the most delicate, volatile situation ever to arise within the St. Clare Corporation.

No werewolf would ever be fired from the St. Clare Corporation, of course, and no St. Clare would ever be demoted. But with this kind of record, what amazed me was that she had achieved the position of account executive in the first place. With the kind of record Victoria had, Sebastian St. Clare was either up to some devilishly clever trick by assigning me to work with her, or the man was utterly insane.

Because something else had also become apparent through Victoria’s personnel file. She consistently rated low scores in job satisfaction tests. No one wanted to work with her. Other werewolves didn’t trust her. She was well known for associating with humans—even business competitors.

It seemed evident to me that, if there was a traitor in our midst and if the source of the treachery was the Montreal office, Victoria St. Clare had to be a prime suspect.

With all of this in mind, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when I met her. But it certainly wasn’t this.

She was exceptionally, even strikingly, beautiful. She was tall with ivory skin and jet black satiny hair, which she wore pulled back from her face in a chignon at her neck, like a ballerina. She had the exquisite bone structure of a dancer, too: high cheekbones, delicate nose, aristocratic forehead. Her eyes were large and gray and deeply fringed with coal black lashes. Eyebrows arched gracefully over her brow ridges in a way that seemed designed to most easily express aloofness or disdain.

She was swathed from neck to ankle in a white fur coat, and she wore it regally. Where the coat opened in the front, I could see black suede boots and a slim leggy figure hugged by a teal-colored jersey dress that left no secrets—flat firm abdomen, the delicate notch of hipbones, the dip of her waist, the rounded swell of her breasts.

I don’t know. I suppose I expected her to be…unattractive.

Instinctively, I got to my feet, and at just that moment she recovered from her own shock and dropped her head, starting to bow. I suppose we both felt foolish.

She said, “Pardonnez-moi, je ne sais—”

And I said, “Non, pas de—”

We both broke off, and Victoria fell into a respectful silence, avoiding my eyes.

I released an impatient breath. There were certain things about my new status I would never get used to. Deference was one thing. Abject subservience was another.

“Are you Victoria St. Clare?” I asked.

She inclined her head. “Oui, monsieur.”

I switched back to English, just as I had been doing since I’d gotten off the plane. Montreal was such an unpredictably bilingual city, even I was becoming confused. “I am Noel Duprey.”

She shot me a surprised look. “I know, sir.”

Of course she knew. Everyone knew who I was now, even if they hadn’t before. Victoria St. Clare had rattled me more than I realized.

I pushed a hand through my hair and adopted a brisk air of authority. “All right, here are the rules. Speak English. I’ve lived in London for twelve years, and I think in English. And don’t call me sir. I’m not the ruler yet. Call me Noel or Mr. Duprey. Now pack up your desk and be ready to get out of here in fifteen minutes.”

She no longer appeared to be having any difficulty maintaining eye contact. Her eyes flashed outrage, and I couldn’t understand why, although if I had truly tried I probably could have put it together. I confess I was distracted, and by several things, the curve of her bosom being only one.

Her voice was cool and her manner remote as she said, “Monsieur, comment—I mean, sir, if I may ask why?”

I scowled fiercely at her. “I asked you not to call me that. As for why…” I gestured abruptly to my surroundings. “I should think that would be fairly obvious. Do you call this an office? There isn’t even a door. You may be able to work like this, but I most certainly cannot. I’ll be taking over the executive suite, and for as long as we’ll be working together, you will have the office adjoining. Does that meet with your approval, Ms. St. Clare?”

Now her eyes widened with astonishment. Her eyes, I don’t think I’ve mentioned, were one of her most captivating features.

She said, “I…excuse me, but I don’t think I understand.”

I had to admire her composure, which was a great deal more evident than my own at the moment. This was not the first time I had been thrown off guard by a beautiful woman, although it was, perhaps, the first time I had been so rattled by one so inaccessible, and I had handled the whole thing badly, blurting out details without giving any explanation. I was annoyed with myself, and with her. She, however, remained completely unruffled, regarding me with a cool and distant gaze that revealed nothing more than polite curiosity.

That only irritated me more. I was beginning to understand why her co-workers didn’t like her. This was one woman who could intimidate the hell out of man or beast.

“You’re not the only one,” I said shortly. “All I know is that the powers that be have decided you and I should work together on a special project. I assumed you would have been notified by now.”

“What project?”

My frown increased. “They haven’t told you anything? Well, no matter. It’s best that I explain it myself, anyway, but not here. We need some privacy.”

Now it was her turn to frown. “But who? Who assigned us to work together?”

I was surprised, though I couldn’t say why. “Sebastian St. Clare, of course.”

She murmured, “Of course,” but I could hear her heartbeat speed up. With shock, excitement, confusion? She controlled her body language well, and her emotions were difficult to read.

Victoria turned away casually to slip off her coat, and I thought it was in an effort to further hide her reaction from me.

I said sharply, “Why are you hanging up your coat? I told you, you’re moving. Call an office boy to help you with your things and meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

“I’m never late,” Victoria replied coolly.

I could barely prevent a rueful smile as I remembered the one flattering entry in her file. “Yes,” I murmured. “I know.”

I picked up my briefcase and departed.

CHAPTER THREE

Victoria

When Noel was gone, I pressed my hands to my cheeks and desperately tried to control the quick, hot beating of my heart, knowing that he could hear it and hoping that he would attribute it to anxiety, uncertainty, guilt, anything except what it was.

Noel Duprey. Noel with golden blond hair, quick green eyes, sharp, patrician features, wicked grin and irresistible sex appeal. Noel Duprey, the standard against which all others were measured, the strongest, the quickest, the bravest, the smartest and the most noble of all our kind. Noel Duprey, the future leader of all our people. Noel Duprey, on whom I had had a crush since I was ten years old.

Even as a boy there had been something special about him. He’d excelled at sports and scholastic competitions, running second only to Michael St. Clare in every important test in his level. Even then he’d had hangers-on and admirers, and the young girls had been shameless about him. But despite his exalted status, he was never too busy to play with the younger members of the clan, and he was one of the few boys who had never teased or tormented me. In fact, on more than one occasion, he had actually been nice to me.

That kind of nobility of character, I supposed, was one of the reasons he would someday lead us all.

I had been there for the battle of succession. The event was so spectacular, so unprecedented, that the entire St. Clare Corporation had shut down its offices all over the world for the day—the stock market had plummeted—and even underlings like me had been given the opportunity to see history in the making.

Michael St. Clare, Sebastian St. Clare’s son, had been a brilliant man with every indication that he would carry on the St. Clare tradition of inspired leadership—except for one thing. He did not want to be leader. He did not even, the rumormongers whispered, particularly like being a St. Clare. When he finally announced his intentions to turn his back on his legacy and, in fact, on his very nature, for the love of a human woman, many said it had been inevitable.

Of course someone had to challenge his right to succession, though how it came about that Noel was the one to do so I was not exactly sure. I only know that I watched the violent battle with my heart in my throat and when Noel, poised to strike the killing blow, had instead turned and helped his adversary to his feet, my eyes had flooded with tears of joy and breathless admiration. Four thousand years of civilization had triumphed over the nature of the beast and had taken the form of Noel Duprey. He was the man to take us into the twenty-first century, the embodiment of honor and reason, intelligence and fair play. May he live forever.

And now this magnificent creature, this most exalted one of all our kind, had come to me. And the truth was, he wasn’t all that magnificent up close.

Physically, of course, he was as striking as ever. But he was just as autocratic, just as long-nosed and arrogant as any of the St. Clares had ever been, and I had somehow expected more of him. Why, I couldn’t be sure, but I had.

This was hardly the first time I had been disappointed in anyone, however, and I did not spend a great deal of time fretting over it. The only thing I had to figure out now was why he had sought me out. Or perhaps more specifically, why Sebastian St. Clare himself had done so.

Unfortunately, I thought I already knew. A job offer from the Gauge Group and special attention from Castle St. Clare itself all in the same day? It could hardly be coincidence.

After all, even Cinderella only got one shot at the ball.

I had nothing from my desk to pack, and exactly fifteen minutes later I stepped out of the elevator that opened onto the executive suite. Immediately my ears picked up the gentle hiss of the white-noise machines, which were the only method of screening voices from the inner offices from sharp werewolf ears. I could not imagine what kind of business Noel Duprey could be conducting here that would require that kind of secrecy.

The woman at the receptionist’s desk was human, and I knew her. I had that much in common with Michael St. Clare—I found it very easy to make friends with humans, even though members of my own kind considered me standoffish and strange.

“Hi, Sara,” I said as I approached the desk. I lowered my voice a little, knowing that it wouldn’t matter how loudly I spoke with the white-noise machines running. “Any idea what’s going on?”

Sara shook her head, short brown curls bouncing, though her eyes were bright with excitement. “I think they swept the place for bugs, though.” And she giggled at the face I made. “The electronic kind, not the crawly kind. And Mr. Stillman was highly upset to be put out of his office, which is now your office by the way. Are you being promoted?”

I was impressed…and a little intimidated. Greg Stillman was head of an entire department.

I said, “Um, I don’t think so. More like temporarily reassigned.”

She gave another bouncy nod of her head, as though that confirmed what she’d suspected. “Well, Mr. Gorgeous in there has got everybody jumping around like their tails are on fire and from what I can gather, he’s not telling anyone what’s going on. Even Georgette doesn’t know.”

Georgette was the private secretary to Paul Esteban, Sr., vice president in charge of the entire division.

“Who is he, anyway?” Sara wanted to know.

“Mr. Gorgeous?” I couldn’t prevent a grin. I rather liked that nickname. “He’s the new CEO.”

“Of Clare de Lune?”

“Of the entire St. Clare Corporation.”

“Whoa.” Now Sara looked impressed. “I guess we’d better act sharp then.”

“I guess.”

“By the way, he wanted to—”

The door across the room swung open and Noel Duprey stood there, larger than life and twice as gorgeous, a ferocious frown on his face. “Ms. St. Clare,” he said. He had a powerful voice; it practically rang across the room. “If you can spare a moment?”

“See you as soon as you arrived,” Sara concluded quickly and, shrinking down a little in her chair, turned back to her computer screen.

Before the angry visage of the future leader of our people, I would have liked to shrink down, too. I was not human, though, and had no choice but to square my shoulders and precede Noel into his office.

His office was actually the executive conference room. It smelled richly of Earl Grey tea, walnut oil furniture polish and Noel. A faint trace of human sweat lingered in the air from the movers who had been engaged in transforming the space from conference room to office, as well as the aroma of old ash from the fireplace, and copy paper, and the subtle machine scent of a small computer…and Noel. Snow melting on wool. Highly polished leather. Silk. The color of sunshine which was his hair. Power, authority, refinement, maleness. The essence of Noel. It permeated every surface, tantalized every sense. I thought irrelevantly that if we could bottle that scent, we would rule the planet.

Pale blue damask draperies were swept back from the floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the room with brilliant, snow-reflected sunlight. In one corner of the enormous room stood two small damask-upholstered chairs, in the other, a mahogany and brass grandfather clock. In the center of the wall was a glass china cabinet displaying a collection of Spode ceramic ware; flanking it were two Rothko paintings. The room was elegant, airy and, at present, so empty it echoed.

The thick rose carpeting bore the indentation marks of an enormous table and twelve chairs, though how they had been dismantled and moved so quickly I couldn’t begin to guess. Noel’s briefcase was open on the floor in front of the two small chairs; a cup of tea and his laptop computer rested on the marble hearth of the fireplace, which was dark and cold-looking. Apparently he had been too busy sending the staff into a frenzy to think of ordering office furniture, or even of lighting a fire.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I murmured, glancing around.

He ignored me, and walked across the room to the two chairs. “Come and sit down. I’ve called a meeting for two o’clock, and we have a lot to discuss before then. You might want to inform your human friends, by the way, that the white-noise screen only works one way. From inside this office I can hear everything that goes on outside.”

I had noticed the absence of the white noise the minute I entered the office, of course, but I hadn’t registered its significance until now. So, he had heard the comment about Mr. Gorgeous. I wondered whether he had been flattered or offended and decided, from the expression on his face, that it was the latter. I was disappointed. I had expected, for some reason, that my idol would have had more of a sense of humor.

I said, “You’re spying on them? Why?”

“That’s one of the things we have to discuss.”

He picked up his laptop from the hearth and sat down with it in one of the chairs, tapping on the keyboard. I followed him slowly, listening to the sounds from outside the room that were no longer screened from my sensitive ears.

“It’s not just humans,” I observed, “but werewolves, too. Why would you want to spy on your own team? Unless you enjoy hearing Stillman whine about how badly he’s being treated. It’s not as though I asked for his office, you know, and I really don’t need any more enemies here.”

Noel looked up in surprise. “You can hear him?”

“Can’t you?”

“But he’s in the cafeteria. That’s six floors away.”

I thought it best not to respond to that. I had always known that my hearing was above average, even for a werewolf, but thought it best not to advertise the fact. There were some advantages to being consistently under-estimated by one’s co-workers—and enemies—and I had not yet decided which one Noel was.

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said abruptly, “There is a traitor in our midst. Over the past four months, the formulas for five new Clare de Lune products have ended up in the hands of the competition. We believe the leak is coming from this office.”