Книга - Wolf In Waiting

Wolf In Waiting
Rebecca Flanders


Forbidden loversHe was the standard against which all others were measured–the strongest, the smartest, the sexiest and the most noble kind: Noel Duprey, whose birthright forbade him even to look Victoria St. Clare's way, for his destiny would never allow him to take her as his bride.Furthermore, Noel believed she was a traitor, out to destroy his legacy–out to destroy him. But all she was really after was his heart….Within a few lost souls, the Heart of the Wolf beats fierce and wild. Feel them, fear them, tame them….









“Let me make sure I understand….”


Victoria could barely keep from gaping at Noel. “You don’t like me. You don’t trust me.You suspect me of being, at best, a St. Clare spy, at worst of being the traitor I’m supposed to help you find. You don’t think I’m qualified for the job. And yet you are prepared to take me into your confidence regarding the most sensitive matter the company has faced in decades?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I would work with you, Victoria.”

She swallowed back a hot retort. “Do you mind if I ask exactly what you expect me to do?”

Noel returned with no hesitation whatsoever, “Whatever I tell you to.”


Rebecca Flanders has written over seventy books under a variety of pseudonyms. She lives in the mountains of north Georgia with a collie, a golden retriever and three cats. In her spare time she enjoys painting, hiking, dog training and catching up on the latest bestsellers.




Wolf in Waiting

Rebecca Flanders







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u3e73c452-3b68-5271-9de0-a0c746f80727)

CHAPTER TWO (#u65f37cf8-4490-5b39-ba70-1af908aa3d6e)

CHAPTER THREE (#u3d427824-56a7-5b90-8635-8dcfe04d95f7)

CHAPTER FOUR (#uef017b6f-af5b-52e8-8395-0285a98ff40e)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


Victoria

My name is Victoria St. Clare, and I am a werewolf. Now that we have that out of the way, let me be quick to point out that you would never know I’m a werewolf if you saw me on the street—or anywhere else for that matter. If you were a man, in fact, you’d probably ask me out; quite a few human men do.

They tell me I’m quite striking looking. I’m tall, five feet nine inches, and slender—one advantage to being a werewolf is that we never have to worry about our figures, what you see is what you get—with long black hair and gray eyes. My ivory complexion is due to the northern climes from which I hail, although I’ve always suspected a few weeks in St. Tropez would do wonders for my coloring, and I have the high cheekbones, patrician nose and full lips which are St. Clare-family characteristics. Many people—humans, that is—tell me I look like a ballet dancer, which I find enormously flattering. I think human ballerinas are some of the most beautiful creatures on earth, and I sometimes try to play up the resemblance by wearing tights and gauze skirts and pulling my hair back in a chignon.

But I don’t want you to think I’m vain. I am, of course—all werewolves are; we’re an exceptionally good-looking species and proud of it, but that’s not the only reason I told you all this. It’s important that you understand that many preconceptions you might have about werewolves are wrong.

For one thing, we don’t have hair all over our bodies or have long teeth and claws. For another, we don’t eat humans. Most of us, in fact, don’t even like the smell of humans—no offense intended, but our noses are exceptionally sensitive. We don’t go mad during the full moon. And you can’t become a werewolf by being bitten by one; you have to be fortunate enough to be born that way.

What is true about us will probably surprise you even more than what is false. For example, we’re listed on the New York Stock Exchange. Oh yes, several of our companies are Fortune 500. You see, the same cunning, skills and extraordinarily adaptive senses that enabled us to survive, indeed to thrive, for thousands of years in a wild and essentially hostile environment have evolved over time to make us kings in a very different kind of jungle: the world of human big business and corporate finance.

Our parent company, the St. Clare Corporation, is the umbrella under which we manufacture and merchandise everything from computer chips to perfumes. We are completely pack-owned and operated, although of course we employ quite a few humans and even sell stocks to them. We’re not averse to taking your money or using your skills when necessary, but make no mistake about it: The company belongs to werewolves; it is run by werewolves; it exists solely for the livelihood, ambition and perpetuation of werewolves.

We collect art; we go to the opera; we sun ourselves on the Côte d’Azur. We do business with you; we share cabs with you; we dine with you every day and you would never guess that we’re not one of you. Life is simpler that way, trust me.

As for me…I’m in advertising, a junior account executive in the marketing division of Clare de Lune, a very small cog in a very big wheel. Clare de Lune is a perfume company, and it is the foundation on which the St. Clare fortune was built. This shouldn’t surprise you. The werewolf sense of smell is approximately five hundred times greater than that of humans. What more appropriate business for us to be in than perfumery? You’ve probably worn some of our fragrances: Honesty, Ice, Ambition for Men? I know you’ve seen our television commercials. The one with the man getting out of bed and putting on his clothes in the morning—Wear Ambition or Nothing At All—was my idea, by the way, although no one will ever know it except you, me and the account exec who stole it.

I am twenty-six years old, and I’ve never had a date. This isn’t particularly surprising when you consider that I am a werewolf and most of my friends are humans. Werewolves don’t find me attractive for reasons I’d rather not go into right now, and I don’t find humans attractive for reasons that should be obvious. Actually, I do find humans entertaining, articulate and a great deal kinder than many of my own species, but to date one in the classic sense of the word—wherein one puts on sexy lingerie and enticing perfumes and puts clean sheets on the bed and engages in all kinds of other arcane rituals that humans, ever-hopeful, endure for the sake of finding a mate—well, the entire concept baffles me.

As for why I don’t attract members of my own species…well, allow me to get clinical for a moment. An essential part of our nature—some might even say the essential part of our nature—is the ability to change from human to wolf form and back again. The Change occurs at will, or can be triggered by strong emotion or sexual arousal. We mate only in the wolf form.

Most wolflings are born with the ability to change; all of them achieve it by the time they reach puberty. All except a few genetically disadvantaged anthromorphs, like me. I can’t change. In all other ways I am a perfect representation of our species, but for this one little defect I am considered a freak, a pathetic imitation of a real werewolf, an object of pity and scorn.

I learned to accept who I am and live with the antipathy—indeed, the rejection—of my own kind long ago. I’m not embarrassed to talk about it. I can’t erase my nature, and I see no point in trying. It is, however, sometimes a lonely existence.

So really, I can’t be faulted for finding Jason Robesieur’s dinner invitation flattering and for feeling, at this point in my life, just self-indulgent enough to accept. True, Jason is only a human, but he is very pleasant to look at, and among his kind considered a powerful and successful man. In fact, his company had given Clare de Lune reason to be alert over the past few years, and that was no small accomplishment.

Jason is a senior partner in the Gauge Group, one of the top Madison Avenue advertising agencies whose accounts include Sanibel Cosmetics, here in Montreal. I met him at a seminar in New York last year and was surprised and gratified that he knew some of my work. I found him pleasant and interesting to talk to, and since that time we have occasionally met for lunch when he was in town.

Dinner, of course, was an entirely different matter.

We were having lunch then, at an elegant little café that had become a favorite of ours. When he asked me to dinner, I hesitated so long that the moment became uncomfortable, and he laughed a little to cover the awkwardness.

“Say, I didn’t mean to cause a life crisis here. It’s just that I’m going to be in town for a few days and I thought…” He shrugged. “I’m not sure what I thought.”

I said quickly, “No, it’s just that…what I mean to say is, I don’t want you to think I’m…that is, I was just surprised.”

He gave me one of those very charming smiles. “No one’s ever asked you to dinner before?”

I knew better than to admit the truth. So I gave him one of my very coy, very secretive smiles.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand. It wouldn’t look good for you to be seen with me. After all, I represent—even if it is several times removed—your biggest competitor. And I’ve heard Clare de Lune is a real stickler about such liaisons.”

“The company is more like a family than an employer,” I agreed carefully.

That was an understatement. Loyalty to Clare de Lune—to the St. Clare Corporation—is practically a genetic trait. In this one way, perhaps more than any other, we have the advantage over human business. We stick together. We defend our own.

This of course made what happened later all the more difficult to understand. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I didn’t care what other werewolves thought of me, as I’d demonstrated on more than one occasion. But Jason didn’t know that, and I found I was glad that he had given me an excuse to decline his invitation. He was diverting enough for an occasional lunch, but what would I do with him for an entire evening? Suppose he wanted to get romantic. That would be bizarre. How could I ever explain that I simply wasn’t interested without hurting his feelings? No, better to simply avoid the problem in the first place.

Jason nodded. “The Japanese management technique. Well, there’s no denying it works. But Victoria…” And now his expression grew grave. “I’ve got to tell you, Clare de Lune might be your family, but they’re treating you like an ugly stepsister.”

I stiffened. “I really don’t see—”

“It’s true,” he insisted. “And if you don’t see, you’re the only one who doesn’t.”

I’d been about to say, “I really don’t see that it’s any of your business.” But, being human, he wouldn’t have understood that his pointing out to me that I was being badly treated was a worse insult than being badly treated in the first place.

I sighed. My instincts had been right from the start: relationships with humans were far more complex than they were worth.

“Victoria, listen,” Jason said earnestly. “I’m a senior partner with one of the most prestigious firms on Madison Avenue. I pay more in taxes every quarter than most people make in a year, and I didn’t get where I am today by ignoring the obvious. The fact is that you’re one of the most talented people Clare de Lune has. You’ve been working there for what, five years?”

“Six,” I corrected.

“And you haven’t had a single promotion. In all that time, you haven’t played a decision-making role in even one campaign. That’s not the way we handle our talent at the Gauge Group, I’ll tell you that, and you’ve got to know this is not the way a bright, ambitious young woman handles her career, either.”

I smiled and sipped my coffee, sorry our lunch was almost at an end. Jason might not have much potential as a social companion, but I did so enjoy these little debates. “And how does a bright, ambitious young woman handle her career?” I inquired.

“She comes to work for me,” Jason replied seriously.

For once, he left me speechless.

“I mean it, Victoria. I’ve spoken to Hammond Gauge about you, and he’s ready to bring you aboard. Of course you’d start out as a junior, but within a year you’d be managing your own accounts. And we’ll put that in writing. In the meantime, you’d be working under my direct supervision, and I personally promise you hands-on decision-making input in every account you work on.”

I put down my coffee cup slowly. “Why?” I asked.

He laughed. “I just offered you the chance of a lifetime, the best deal anybody’s got since Cinderella went to the ball, and that’s all you have to say? Why?”

“Well, thank you, of course,” I amended, “but if someone offered you the chance of a lifetime—and we haven’t agreed that’s what it is, yet—wouldn’t you be curious?”

“Not if I were you,” he replied frankly. “You’re good, you know that. You’re being wasted at Clare de Lune, you know that, too. You can bring an awful lot to us, and we know how to show our appreciation. What could be simpler?”

I caught the eye of a passing waitress across the room and signaled for the check. “You forget one thing,” I said. “I already have a job. And I’m very loyal to my employer.”

“You can’t be telling me you’re happy there.”

I hesitated. “I didn’t say that. But I am loyal.”

The waitress set the check between us. Jason reached for it, but I lifted a staying hand. “My turn. Besides—” I smiled at him sweetly “—we have an account here.”

His expression was dry. “Fringe benefit?”

“One of many,” I assured him.

We walked to the vestibule together and I waited with him for his car to be brought around. Jason helped me slip on my long, hooded silver fox coat. Yes, I wear fur. I get cold, okay? It’s fake fur, of course. It would be politically incorrect to wear anything else, even in Montreal, and even for a werewolf.

He drew the front of the coat closed beneath my chin, a charmingly affectionate gesture that made me smile. I wondered if he was in love with me, and then dismissed the notion immediately. But that would be interesting, and nothing interesting had happened to me in a long, long time.

“I’m in town for the rest of the week if you change your mind,” he said.

“About the job?”

“Or about going out with me.”

I smiled. “Goodbye, Jason. I had a lovely lunch.” I pulled open the door and hurried out into the blustery day.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and walked the block to the Metro entrance, my head held high and my shoulders back, enjoying the taste of the wind. I wondered what had gotten into Jason. Not, of course, that anything he’d said about my employment was untrue. I was badly used and underappreciated, and I certainly would have a far better future in almost any human company than with Clare de Lune. But Jason and I had been friends for almost a year, and he surely knew me well enough by now to realize I would never leave Clare de Lune.

Would I?

The truth was, it was a fascinating possibility. To live in the human world, as one of them…this was hardly the first time the fantasy had crossed my mind. Even as a child, when all the other wolflings would tease and torment me to tears, I vowed to get even with them. I would show them all. I would run away to live with humans, which was the worst, most denigrating threat I could think of. Today, I practically did live with humans, and it wasn’t so bad, particularly considering the fact that humans were, in general, a great deal nicer to me than my own kind had ever been.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more appeal the idea had. All my friends were humans. Jason was right: I had gone as far as I would ever go with Clare de Lune, which was nowhere. And I had so much more to offer. But if I worked for a human company…with my natural cunning and imagination, with my enhanced senses and with all I had learned about being the best in the business from the best in the business…why, within five years I could be running any human company that let me get a foot in the door.

And of course, such a thing was not entirely without precedent. Michael St. Clare, heir apparent to the entire St. Clare empire and future leader to us all, had only last year walked away from his family and his fortune to go and live with humans. He had even married one of them. As a group, we were still reeling with shock from that one. And I suppose that knowing how much distress Michael had caused everyone did take some of the appeal from the prospect of striking out on my own.

Still, it was a pleasant fantasy, and I smiled over it during the brief subway ride to the office. Unlike the subways in most major cities, the Montreal Metro is clean, safe and relatively enjoyable. The train took me back to the main business and shopping district, and I did not even have to go outside to reach my office. I followed the underground brick sidewalk past bright store windows filled with colorful displays, then hurried through the revolving door that leads to the elevators for Clare de Lune.

The offices that house the marketing division of Clare de Lune are like any other in the city, perhaps a little more expensive, a little more elegantly decorated. We use only the best, and the company has a great deal of money to spend. No one would ever know, upon entering, that it was an office managed by werewolves.

First of all, as I’ve mentioned, werewolves are not distinguishable from humans by appearance, except, of course, that they are a little more handsome, a little more beautiful and possess, I am told, a noticeably higher level of sex appeal than the average human. Second, in the Montreal office, we employ a much higher percentage of humans than anywhere else in the company. The fact of the matter is that, although werewolves are superior in many ways—again, no offense intended—when it comes to marketing our products to the human world, we are smart enough to rely heavily on humans.

The support staff and quite a large percentage of the junior account executives are human. All of the management and senior account executives are werewolves. But as I said, it looks like any other advertising office for any other company in any other city in the world.

Before I got off the elevator I heard voices, scraps of conversation that humans would have no idea I could overhear even if they had thought to conceal their voices from me. Did I mention the werewolf sense of hearing is also several hundred times more acute than humans’? And mine, without meaning to brag, is in the high range of normal even for a werewolf.

“Must be something big—”

“You can tell he’s important just by the way he walks.”

“Yeah, and that eighty-thousand-dollar limo doesn’t hurt any, either.”

“But why was he asking about her? Of all people—”

“Well, he’s waiting for her now and he didn’t look any too—”

“Trouble’s happening, you mark my word. Don’t you have any idea—”

“I’m just a secretary, I don’t—”

“You might be a secretary looking for a job before this day is over. You know what they say…”

By the time I was halfway down the hall, all the conversations—the interesting ones, anyway—had faded. The werewolves, who would have heard me coming from almost as far away as I could hear them, continued with business as usual, but I did not miss one or two furtive looks from them as I passed. The humans were far less adept at concealing their emotions. Their body language practically radiated danger. Something had happened to upset them, and I had a cold tight feeling in the pit of my stomach that it had something to do with me.

But there was no point in expecting anyone to enlighten me. The looks that followed me from desk to desk, from cubicle to cubicle as I passed made me wonder if I had food on my face, or something equally as embarrassing, and I even managed a quick sidelong glance at my reflection in a glass door—dark hair, fur coat, neat lipstick, no food. The wary looks followed me.

The human secretary who served me and three other people was conveniently not at her desk, so there was no hope there. Fighting trepidation, I rounded the corner into my own cubicle, expecting a “While You Were Out” message to solve the puzzle. I wondered if, in fact, I would like what it contained.

But there was no message on my desk. Instead, there was a tall, blond, gorgeous werewolf in an Italian suit sitting in my chair. His back was to me, and he was on the telephone. His voice was clipped and authoritative as he said, “Yes, all right. And I expect it right away. I’ll be at this extension for another ten minutes.”

He hung up the phone and swung around in the chair to face me, scowling. I caught my breath.

It was Noel Duprey.




CHAPTER TWO


Noel

You wouldn’t know me—not unless you are a king, minister or mogul in the world of human business and finance…or perhaps a fashion model or a rock singer or another member of the beautiful, fun-loving set with whom I used to roam. And even then you wouldn’t really know me. You wouldn’t know what I am.

My name is Noel Duprey. I like my music loud, my cars fast and my women leggy. I hate carrying a briefcase. Until six months ago, I was vice president in charge of research and development of Clare de Lune Perfumes, and I ran my division in accordance with my personality—brilliantly, creatively and with a great deal of laissez-faire.

It may surprise you to know I held a position of such responsibility, but I come from a family of high achievers. I was also, if I may say so, a very good chemist and an inspired researcher; no one gets to be a vice president in the St. Clare Corporation without demonstrating exceptional ability.

The fact that I could have achieved so much so young and still have time left over for the indulgent life-style I so enjoyed is not unusual among our kind. What we do, we do very well and with a definite flair.

I applied myself and I was pleased with what I had achieved. I had a secure future, high status and just enough responsibility to keep me from growing lazy. I even had hopes of one day becoming second-in-command to Michael St. Clare, who was heir to the entire St. Clare empire.

Instead, I am now heir to the empire, and I’m sometimes still not entirely sure how it happened.

Until six months ago, my life was perfect. I had a job I liked and excellent prospects for advancement. I had a fabulous town house in London and a black Ferrari. I worked maybe three days a week, and let me assure you, when I gave a party it wasn’t the kind where anybody worried about which fork to use. I climbed the Matterhorn. I raced the Grand Prix. I spent weekends on the Riviera, where even now, in the midst of all this craziness, memories of a certain nude beach can put a smile on my face that no one else can understand.

I still have the town house, of course, though I never see it. The Ferrari is gathering dust in a garage somewhere, for now I’m chauffeured around in a Rolls with no less than two bodyguards everywhere I go. The Riviera is a thing of the past. The Grand Prix? Forget it. I’ll be lucky if I get a chance to watch it on television. And now I carry a briefcase wherever I go.

I once had something of a reputation as a playboy—or playwolf, if you will—and why not? I’m only thirty-two years old, which is young among our kind. I had plenty of time to settle down. Or so I thought.

I never lacked for female companionship, and taking advantage of that fact was one of my primary leisure activities. To those unfamiliar with our nature, this may be shocking, but I assure you, in comparison to the way the human world conducts its courtship rituals ours are practically sedate.

We mate for life, and take the matter of finding a suitable companion very seriously. The physical consummation of the love of two werewolves for each other always takes place in wolf form, and results in a telepathic and empathic bond that only death can break. This does not mean, however, that a variety of sensual pleasures cannot be enjoyed in human form between consenting males and females in the meantime, and I have done my best to discover them all. After all, how is one to know when the right woman comes along if one isn’t willing to look with an open mind?

But that was then. These days I am far too busy to have much energy left over for recreation of any kind. And besides, as I am constantly reminded by everyone around me, I have a certain image to uphold.

Sometimes I’m not at all sure I was cut out for this life.

For over four hundred years, the pack has been ruled by the St. Clares, and without great complaint. Sebastian St. Clare, our present venerable ruler, is well liked, as far as I can ascertain, and certainly well respected. His son Michael was scheduled to succeed him, and we as a people looked forward to another hundred years or so under peaceful St. Clare rule.

Then Michael St. Clare fell in love with a human woman, and everything changed.

Oh, yes. It’s shameful but it’s true. And I, in my efforts to bring Michael back to his senses—he is my cousin, after all, not to mention that I was under orders from no less than Sebastian St. Clare himself—only made matters worse.

A centuries-old rule of succession was invoked requiring the two of us to do battle for the throne—a battle to the death. Every werewolf in the empire was there at the amphitheater at Castle St. Clare to witness it, cheering us on, and what was I to do? I never wanted to fight Michael St. Clare. Hell, he’s twice the werewolf I’ll ever be. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me.

But…and this is where I still have difficulty believing it…not only did Michael not kill me, he forfeited the battle, and the throne, to me. Sometimes I wonder how history will remember that moment; already I see it being rewritten by those who, to honor me, I suppose, forget that it was Michael who first bared his throat to me. They remember only that I refused to kill him when it was my right, and even brought him under my protection when the keys to the kingdom, so to speak, were mine.

So that is how I came to this position of great importance. Accidentally, unwillingly, and, some say, unfairly. As for what, exactly, my new position is…well, that’s still a matter of some debate, particularly in my own mind. Michael St. Clare, the natural heir, is alive and well and living as a human in Seattle. Sebastian St. Clare still rules us all firmly and fairly from Castle St. Clare Alaska. And I, the heir designé and newly named CEO of the St. Clare Corporation, spend a great deal of time flying from one city to the other, attending meetings, plowing through great tomes of corporate documents and scanning gigabytes of computer data…but doing, for the most part, nothing at all. I haven’t been in a research lab in months. Some new man has taken over my office at R & D. The things I knew and enjoyed are all behind me. What lies before me is anyone’s guess. Like the human Prince of Wales, I suppose, I am little more than a man in waiting.

As for what I was doing here, in the cramped little cubicle of the most junior account executive in our Montreal office…well, my head was still spinning. The phone call had come in the middle of the night less than forty-eight hours ago, putting me on the corporate jet for Alaska almost before my eyes were open.

My first clear memory of that flight was of Castle St. Clare, erupting in all its Gothic magnificence from a cloud of mist and ice fog like a well-planned miracle. I love that first view of it from the air, and whenever I think of home that’s how I see it. Carved into the side of an ancient mountain in one of the most rugged, isolated parts of Alaska, the castle has been a fortress for and a monument to our kind from time immemorial. The sight of it never fails to take my breath away.

By that time, we had transferred to the helicopter, for Castle St. Clare is accessible only by air in winter. The whole way, we fought wind sheers and temperatures that were minus twenty in calm winds, and no one but a werewolf pilot could have made that landing safely.

Even under the uncertain circumstances, I was glad to be home. I had been born here, spent much of my childhood here, and even after my education at Oxford and the assumption of my position within the corporation, I never missed a clan gathering or a birth celebration or even a board meeting if it meant a chance to come home. My roots were here, and even covered in ice, battered by killing winds in twenty-below temperatures, it called to me. Always before, I had answered that call with a light heart.

But these days when I returned home, I did so as the heir designate to the entire St. Clare empire, the man who would one day assume the cloak of responsibility for the financial, personal and moral well-being for every werewolf, dam and wolfling in the clan. There were many who were uneasy with that concept. Sometimes I myself was among them.

The helicopter pitched and dropped several times on its way to the freshly cleared landing pad atop the tallest roof of the building. The blades whipped the surrounding snow into a blizzard-like frenzy that pelted the bubble of the helicopter and reduced visibility through the clear panels to zero. I knew we were on the ground when the floor stopped pitching and the sound of the blades was reduced to a mere ear-shattering whine. The pilot grinned over his shoulder and gave me the thumbs-up. I pulled on my coat.

Within seconds of stepping out into the icy air, I was surrounded by a phalanx of guards. Some of them veered off to retrieve my luggage. One of them took my briefcase and shouted, “Welcome home, sir,” while the others formed a living circle around me, shielding me from the wind, escorting me toward the door a few dozen yards away. They walked quickly, heads down, mindless of the ice-slick stone beneath their feet. Surefootedness is another advantage werewolves have over humans.

The warmth of the building was a shocking, if welcome, contrast to the bitterness outside, as was the silence of the carpeted corridor after the roar of the wind and the screech of the chopper blades. Though I had only been exposed to the elements for a few moments, my skin was chapped and my coat was stiff with cold.

Had I been in wolf form, of course, I would not have suffered any of those discomforts. In our natural state, we are all perfectly adapted to this environment.

“Do I have time to freshen up?” I asked, pulling off my gloves.

“I’m afraid not,” the young man who had taken my briefcase replied, “He’s waiting. However,” he added, as though hopeful of making up for bad news, “there’s a bottle of very good Madeira waiting in your quarters, and we’re having salmon cakes for tea.”

“Well,” I murmured, more to cheer my companion than myself, “that’s something, I suppose.”

The elevator was waiting. Three of the highest-ranking bodyguards stepped in with me; the others took the service elevator with my luggage.

There was no reason to assume, of course, that any of this meant bad news. The abrupt summons, the short deadline, the air of urgency…Sebastian St. Clare was a man who was accustomed to having his orders obeyed and having them obeyed immediately.

In the past six months, I had received exactly this kind of summons no less than eight times, and each meeting, it seemed, had been more unpleasant than the last. I was beginning to suspect our esteemed leader was enjoying the power he held over me. One thing was certain: Sebastian St. Clare would never let me forget that I had come into my position by accident, not by right.

The elevator covered the twenty floors in as many seconds. I had reason to wish, as I almost always did these days, that the castle was not equipped with quite so much technical sophistication. It seemed to me that everything was moving too fast lately.

We stepped out into the corridor. Lushly carpeted in royal blue, paneled in gold-tipped mahogany, this part of the complex was, in fact, the heartbeat of the corporate headquarters. I was relieved. If the meeting was to take place in a business environment, at least it would be on a level I could understand.

I took off my coat and handed it to my escort as we started down the hall. The muted chirrup of telephones and the hum of office machinery from behind heavy paneled doors were the only sounds that accompanied our passage, though if I tried, I could hear the conversations that were taking place over those telephones—on both ends of the line. My hearing, even by werewolf standards, was superior.

I wasn’t interested in eavesdropping, however, and I was too anxious about this visit to play games. I said to my escort, “I don’t suppose you have any idea—”

The young man shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve only just been assigned to this level. I promise I’ll be more prepared next time.”

One corner of my mouth turned down dryly. I was quite certain that, by the next time I was called home, this cooperative young man would be reassigned. One of Sebastian’s favorite tricks was to continually reassign my personal assistants, just to keep me on my toes…or off guard, as the case might be.

We reached the set of tall double doors at the end of the corridor. The inner sanctum. I took a breath, straightened my tie, and ran my fingers through my long blond hair, correcting what the wind had mussed. I held out my hand for my briefcase.

The young man handed it to me, then seemed to hesitate. I glanced at him.

“Sir,” he said, looking tense and uncomfortable. “I just wanted you to know that…well, there are quite a few of us who think it’s time for a change, and we’re behind you. Sir.”

Some of the tension went out of my shoulders, and I smiled. “Thanks,” I said. “That’s good to hear.”

But there was no way to postpone it any longer. I straightened my shoulders, and opened the door.

The Keeper of the Gate—as I like to refer to her with a certain dry sarcasm, and then only in my secret thoughts—was built like a battleship in shades of iron gray, with a beak of a nose and jet-black eyes and an angular, jutting bosom that could intimidate the strongest man. Her official title was administrative assistant to Sebastian St. Clare, but I did not know a werewolf in the empire who would care to take her on in battle.

She did not like me. She had made that clear from the beginning.

However, protocol dictated that she get to her feet when I entered, and she did not defy it. “Sir,” she said. Though the greeting might be interpreted as deferential, the tone never could. If anything, in fact, there was a glint of disdain in her coal black eyes. “Good afternoon. You are expected.”

I refrained from replying that, since I had been awakened at 3:00 a.m. with a royal summons and had been traveling for almost ten hours, I certainly hoped so. Instead, I inclined my head and replied pleasantly, “Ms. Treshomme. You’re looking lovely as always.”

She did not bother to disguise a contemptuous sniff as she came around the desk and crossed to the inner door. She knocked once and opened it. “Monsieur Duprey,” she announced, and stepped aside to let me enter.

I took another breath and straightened my cuffs, refusing to be rushed. I adjusted the weight of the briefcase in my hand, gave Ms. Treshomme my most charming smile and stepped inside.

No one from the human world had ever been here, of course. If they had been, they would have been astounded. Where once the castle had served as a fortress to defend its occupants from their enemies and shelter them from the elements, it was now a showcase for the enormous success we had achieved. On one wall was a simply framed postimpressionist canvas worth approximately five million dollars. On the other was an undiscovered Matisse whose value was incalculable. The carpet on which I trod was Persian and over nine hundred years old. The enormous glass pedestal desk in the center of the room was actually a sculpture by an artist who was at this moment exhibiting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Glass shelves, expertly lit, displayed artifacts and objets d’art whose age ranged from a few hundred to several thousand years old. Long ago, in times mostly forgotten, Castle St. Clare had been a sanctuary against outside persecution. Now it was an unabashed showcase of our triumph over the outside world.

The focal point of the office was a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over a breathtaking vista of snow-shrouded mountains and windswept plains. Before that window with his back to me stood Sebastian St. Clare.

He was a big man, wide-shouldered and tall, with a magnificent mane of full white hair that fell below his shoulders. He was dressed in woollen pants and a fur vest with rawhide catches. As always, I felt overdressed and underprepared in his presence.

The elder werewolf certainly heard my entrance, but he chose not to acknowledge it for a full two minutes. I stood in the center of the room and waited.

When Sebastian St. Clare turned, there was no welcome in his face, or his voice. “You’re late,” he said flatly.

I replied pleasantly, “Good afternoon, Grand-père. You’re looking well as always.”

“Which must be a grave disappointment to you, my heir.”

There was no acceptable reply for that.

Sebastian glared at me for a long moment beneath bushy, iron gray eyebrows, then gestured abruptly toward a wine-colored leather chair that was drawn up before the desk. “Sit down,” he said. “We have some things to talk about.”

Sebastian St. Clare was a legendary leader of strong and certain convictions. His shoes would be difficult to fill even without the twisted circumstances that had led to my succession. However, the task would have been a great deal easier had Sebastian made even the smallest effort to ease the transition for me, or at the very least, to make me feel welcome.

I glanced at the leather chair Sebastian had indicated, then deliberately chose the tapestry divan that formed part of an informal conversation group before a dancing, crackling fire. Keeping my expression determinedly pleasant, I placed my briefcase beside me and stretched my fingers toward the fire, warming them.

“To tell the truth,” I said, “I was glad to get your call. London is deadly dull this time of year. The weather is frightful, the streets are someone’s idea of a bad joke and I’m afraid the theater season is shaping up to be another disaster. It’s good to get away.”

Sebastian made no move to join me before the fire. He simply fixed me with that great, glowering gaze for several long moments. Meeting those powerful eyes without wavering for such a long time was a matter of physical effort for me, as it would have been for any other werewolf. Of course, no other werewolf would have dared try.

Sebastian said, “You are very clever, aren’t you, Noel? I have relied upon your cleverness to deal with many a delicate problem over the years. Your solutions have always been—shall we say—inventive. One can’t help recalling, for example, the solution you devised for bringing my son back to me when he was suffering from amnesia and lost in the world of humans.”

My jaw knotted. This was the first time Sebastian had referred directly to the incident since it had happened. I could not help thinking that his doing so now represented some sort of test, but then, it seemed to me everything Sebastian did where I was concerned was a test.

I replied evenly, “It worked, didn’t it?”

The faint softening of Sebastian’s expression might have been amusement, or simple surprise for my audacity. He said, still watching me, “So it did.”

I went on, choosing my words carefully, “I think it’s important to remember that Michael chose to leave his life here. If I hadn’t brought him back the way I did, he never would have returned. If I hadn’t challenged him, he would have abdicated.”

Sebastian moved from the window to the fireplace with measured steps. He gave no reply. I hadn’t expected one.

The older werewolf stood with his hands linked behind his back, gazing into the fire for a moment. Then, without turning to look at me, he said, “We live in troubled times. You’ll have to learn to deal with those troubles if you expect to lead our people when I’m gone.”

At last, I thought. Something to do.

Finally it sounded as though Sebastian was actually considering giving me some real authority, an assignment to carry out, a responsibility of my own. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was something that would allow me to act as a second-in-command should, to prove my worth and my usefulness. I would do anything.

Or at least that was what I thought until Sebastian went on.

“You know, of course, about the trouble in New Orleans.”

I nodded. Everyone knew about that. It was the most shameful thing that had happened to our kind in centuries. One of our own had gone renegade and had actually started killing humans, one a month for the past eight months, each killing coinciding with a full moon. Already, human reporters were calling him the “werewolf killer.” What might happen if they knew how close to the truth they really were?

“He has to be stopped,” Sebastian said matter-of-factly, “and it’s plain the human world will not be able to do so. Little surprise. They can’t even control their own lawbreakers. No, this renegade is our responsibility. We will have to intervene to save both our worlds from further damage…and to preserve the peace we’ve kept with humans for all these thousands of years.”

My throat went dry as I thought I understood what my assignment was to be. My tracking skills were only fair, but as Sebastian himself had pointed out, I was extremely clever. Could Sebastian mean to send me after this killer? I was not short on courage, but I had no desire to commit suicide. And if someone as unqualified as I should take on such a task, that was exactly what it would be.

On the other hand, if Sebastian wanted to get rid of me, there could hardly be an easier way.

And then Sebastian said, “However, that is not your concern, except to know that it’s been dealt with…and not to complain,” added Sebastian with a wryness so subtle that it was almost overlooked, “that the current administration is not keeping you abreast of the situation.”

I was so surprised at my narrow escape—and so relieved—that it was a moment before I could focus on the next part of Sebastian’s statement.

“What has not been nearly so well publicized among us,” he went on, “and what you doubtless don’t know, is that there is a far greater threat within our ranks than this renegade human-killer. One which strikes, you might say, a great deal closer to home.”

He turned from the fire then, hands still clasped behind his back, and addressed me directly. “Over the past four months, Clare de Lune has lost the formulas to three of our newest products—MA471, SR389 and DL400. In addition, we’ve had to pull production on Tango and Cobalt because, quite simply, our competitors beat us to them.”

I felt the color drain from my face. I was on my feet. “What? Why wasn’t I informed?”

Sebastian made a small decisive movement with his wrist that gestured me back into my chair. I resumed my seat reluctantly, my hands tight on the arms of the chair.

Sebastian said, “The truth only came to light a few weeks ago. Since then, we’ve made a concerted effort to keep the knowledge of the fiasco as limited as possible. The more people who know about it, the wider the circle of suspects. However, the details have been uploaded under your access code now.”

Because of the enhanced sense of hearing we all share, it is difficult to keep a secret in the werewolf community. Matters of security were therefore routinely handled through the written word, or these days, via computer. Not that security itself had ever been much of a concern among us, for pack loyalty is one of the few absolutes we hold sacred. We all work for the same company. We all share the same profits. Clare de Lune Cosmetics—and, by extension, the St. Clare Corporation—was not only our livelihood but our life. Why would anyone betray it? And more important, who?

As though reading my thoughts, Sebastian said, “We’ve been able to do some eliminating, and we think we have the source of the leak narrowed down to the Montreal office.”

Some of the tension went out of my shoulders and I thought, Of course. The Montreal office housed the marketing and advertising division of Clare de Lune and it was staffed more heavily by humans than any other department. Although quite a few humans were employed in various capacities by the St. Clare Corporation, only in advertising were they actually able to rise to positions of authority—and confidence. And humans were infinitely corruptible, their loyalties easily purchased.

Of course, if a human employee had committed this perfidy, some werewolf was still accountable. That disturbed me deeply. How could anyone be so careless?

Sebastian watched the changing expressions on my face with detached interest, following the line of reasoning as it was reflected in my eyes. Then he said, “There’s more.”

He crossed to his desk and opened a drawer. He returned in a moment with a crumpled scrap of paper that looked as though it had been torn from a larger sheet. He handed it to me.

It was—or had once been—a sheet of office stationery. Most of it had been torn away, so that only scraps of words were visible in most places, and no identifying telephone numbers or names remained on the letterhead. Two consecutive sentences remained intact, however, and they were enough:

What I’ve given you so far is nothing, the real secret is how they do it. There are things about these people—if people is even the right word—that are difficult to believe, even for me.

I looked up slowly, frowning. “It sounds as though the writer is talking about…”

“Knowledge of our true nature,” Sebastian supplied. “And he—or she—seems to indicate a willingness to share that knowledge.”

“But that would be foolish. No human would believe what we are even if they were told. What point would there be in telling such a secret?”

Sebastian shrugged. “There are those who believe a secret worth keeping is also worth telling—or selling, as the case may be. At any rate, such a thing is simply unacceptable. Whether or not the truth would be believed is immaterial. It will not be allowed to reach that point.”

I murmured, “No, of course not.” I was examining the paper. “How did this happen to be found? Why wasn’t it mailed?”

A spark of appreciation glinted briefly in Sebastian’s eyes, and I felt like a schoolboy passing approval on my observational skills.

“It was in the trash bin of the fax room at the Montreal office,” Sebastian answered. “Apparently, the sender attempted to destroy it after faxing the message, but wasn’t entirely successful. He should have used the shredder.”

“Doesn’t the machine keep a log we could check?”

“Of course. But hundreds of faxes go out of that office every day, many of them to competitors. Without knowing exactly when this particular message was received, we have no way of tracing it.”

“Which one of our competitors, I wonder, has been the lucky recipient of our trade secrets?”

“An interesting question, actually. Two of our formulas went to two different companies, one we haven’t been able to definitively trace yet, and the other two went to Sanibel Cosmetics. That doesn’t preclude one company’s buying all the formulas and selling off those it doesn’t want. Interestingly enough, Sanibel’s corporate headquarters are in Montreal.”

I studied the half-torn paper again. It did not necessarily mean what it implied. It didn’t really even mean that the author of this letter was the same person who had been selling secrets to the outside. But it was certainly enough, with all the other circumstantial evidence at hand, to narrow the search to the Montreal office.

It was then that I realized there was something I had overlooked. I looked up at Sebastian.

“If it’s a human, if he’s somehow managed to get his hands on these secrets, and if he’s even by some incredible stretch of the imagination managed to piece together enough information to speculate on our true identity, how could he possibly have avoided detection? This human is surrounded by werewolves at least eight hours a day. Unless the Montreal office is completely staffed with incompetents, how has he avoided detection?”

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.”

My knees folded and I sank heavily to the chair, staring at him. “Tango and Cobalt,” I said softly. “I wondered why they were pulled at the last minute.”

Again he looked surprised, but his tone was brisk and matter-of-fact. “Just so. Sanibel beat us to the market by three weeks with both of them.”

My eyes grew wider, betraying my own astonishment—and horror. Sanibel! Jason Robesieur handled the Sanibel account. Jason, with whom I regularly lunched; Jason, who less than an hour ago had offered me a job…

I was beginning to understand why I had been singled out for attention from Castle St. Clare. And it was worse than I had imagined.

I braced myself for the accusations, but Noel went on, “Obviously this situation has to be handled as quickly and as quietly as possible. Recent events…” And he hesitated only slightly there. “…have made the matter of morale a top priority.”

I couldn’t help wondering which “recent events” he might be referring to. The battle for succession, Michael’s defection, the insanity in New Orleans? Perhaps all of them? One thing was certain, if it became common knowledge that the company was being threatened and that the threat came from inside our ranks…well, it was unthinkable. Chaos would erupt. Morale would grow too low to measure. It was bad enough that such a thing could have happened, but it must never, ever become public knowledge.

“It almost has to be a werewolf, doesn’t it?” I said, thinking out loud. “The humans are watched closely, and one of us would have been sure to overhear something before now. And no one but a werewolf would have access to formulas—ad campaigns, maybe, facts and figures and lower-level material, but formulas…” And I gave a slow, disbelieving shake of my head. “It has to be one of us.”

Noel looked both surprised and annoyed at my quick grasp of the situation. “That would seem to be the case, yes,” he said. “Although it never pays to eliminate the obvious. I should point out, by the way, that in my experience it’s not a good idea to associate too closely with one’s inferiors.”

At first I bristled, and then I understood. He had overheard my conversation with Sara, and he disapproved of our friendship.

“Then why are you associating with me?” I asked.

His expression, perfectly bland, showed not a hint of apology. “I thought I had made that clear.”

“Because you were ordered to?”

“Yes.”

My lips compressed tightly; I did not trust myself to speak. I barely trusted myself to think, but Noel must have read my thoughts anyway because he said, “I’ve studied your personnel file. I’m aware that you have had a singularly undistinguished career here at Clare de Lune, with no particular talent that qualifies you for this assignment. I’m also aware of your friendship with Jason Robesieur, and the fact that he is the account executive for Sanibel’s new products division. It might interest you to know that I’m aware he offered you a position with his company and yes, you are high on my list of suspects.”

He held me with his gaze for a moment, allowing that to sink in. Then he went on, “I don’t know why Sebastian appointed you to work with me, although I have my suspicions. Blood is thicker than water, after all, and I would be a fool to assume that, while I’m tracking down a spy, I’m not myself being spied upon. That, after all, is the essence of the espionage game.”

He paused then, ran his long, slim fingers through the silky fall of his hair and added, “Having said all of that, I came prepared to work with you and work with you I shall…until you give me reason to change my attitude.”

I could barely keep myself from gaping at him. I pressed the palms of my hands against my crossed knees and spoke very deliberately, “Let me make sure I understand. You don’t like me. You don’t trust me. You suspect me, at best, of being a St. Clare spy, at worst of being the very traitor I’m supposed to help you find. You don’t think I’m qualified for the job. And yet you are prepared to take me into your confidence regarding the most sensitive matter that the company has faced in decades?”

He regarded me steadily. “I didn’t say that. I said I would work with you.”

I swallowed back a hot retort. “Do you mind if I ask exactly what you expect me to do?”

He returned with no hesitation whatsoever, “Whatever I tell you to.”

My hands pressed down more tightly on my knees. “I see.”

With only the slightest evidence of capitulation in his voice, he added, “I expect you might be useful as a liaison, of sorts, between myself and this office. You know the people and the routine. I’m sure you’ll be able to serve some function as an adviser.”

He could hardly have chosen a less propitious person for that job, as he would know if he had taken the trouble to find out anything about me that was not listed in my personnel file. No one confided in me here—no one of any importance, anyway—and no one knew less, or cared less, about the people in this office than I did. However, I was not about to enlighten the great Noel Duprey, who knew so much and saw so much and who was obviously never wrong. Let him find out for himself.

He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and said, “Now, if we could move on…?”

I leaned back in the chair. “By all means.”

Noel tapped a few more keys on his computer. “We’re in the first stages of developing a new fragrance. If all goes well, we expect to introduce it by Christmas. Here’s the timetable.”

He turned the computer screen around and I leaned forward a little to read it. I was sure I must have only imagined that his eyes dropped to the swell of my breast as I did so.

I murmured, “Moonsong.” I arched an eyebrow in surprise as I studied the timetable. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“More than you know.” He swiveled the computer to face him again. “Moonsong is more than a perfume, it’s a revolution in perfumery. What alpha-hydroxy did for face creams, Moonsong will do for the perfume industry.”

I sat back, my expression patient and interested. In fact, a graphic was already forming in my head: Moonsong, A Revolution in Fragrance. No. Moonsong. A Revolution in Fantasy. And in the background, a moon in a blue-black sky spins slowly through its cycles. Not bad, I thought.

Noel went on, “Moonsong contains a unique ingredient that’s impossible to patent, which is why security on this project is so important…and why it will no doubt prove impossible for our traitor to resist.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding. “It’s a trap.”

Noel paused one revealing moment. “In all important respects,” he answered, “Moonsong is exactly what it appears to be—the most important new product to be introduced to the perfume industry in the twentieth century. My job—our job,” he corrected himself almost without hesitation, “is to track every phase of every step associated with its production for signs of an information leak. We begin with the meeting I’ve called—senior account execs and above only.”

Which was another way of saying no humans. That was one way to narrow the field.

“How are you going to explain me?” I asked pragmatically.

He looked at me blankly.

I gestured. “The fancy office, the secret meetings, the special attention…People are going to talk.”

He scowled, clearly irritated to have overlooked that detail. He turned to the computer and began tapping out numbers again. “Hell, I don’t care. Tell them you’re my consort.”

My cheeks grew warm. To his credit, he realized his mistake immediately and looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though somewhat stiffly. I supposed he wasn’t accustomed to apologizing for much. “That was tactless.”

It had never occurred to me to wonder whether or not he knew of my status as an anthromorph; it was hardly a secret, and he had access to all of my records, medical and personal, for as far back as he wished to go. Besides, I had been told, though whether it was true or not I couldn’t say, that the scent of anthromorphs is different from that of regular werewolves. Still, knowing that he knew and knowing that I knew he knew were two entirely different matters, and I found it embarrassing to have the subject out in the open.

Apparently he did, too, because he said brusquely, “We’ll tell them you’re my personal secretary. Excuse me, administrative assistant.”

My eyes widened. “But that’s a demotion.”

“Exactly.” He gave a satisfied nod of his head. “No one will question that. After all, you’re not exactly blazing a trail in your present position, are you?”

I inhaled slowly through flared nostrils, but released the breath silently. I supposed, given his opinion of me, I was lucky to have a job at all.

“That’s all for now,” he said. “Bring a pad and pencil to the meeting.”

I rose. “I don’t take shorthand,” I told him coolly.

He looked surprised. “I didn’t expect you would. We have voice recorders for that. However, you might as well look as though you have a function.”

I decided then and there he was probably the most obnoxious man who had ever lived. I moved toward the door.

“By the way,” he said without looking up, “I did order office furniture. It should be here within the hour.”

I turned, a small supercilious smile on my lips. “Then where,” I inquired politely, “will we have the meeting? This used to be our conference room, after all.”

I stayed just long enough to see that he hadn’t thought of that, and then left him to find a solution—alone.




CHAPTER FOUR


Victoria

“Well, the new office is great.”

I stretched out on the sofa and swung my feet over the back, cradling the telephone receiver against my ear. My black Persian cat, Socrates, jumped onto my stomach, causing me to gasp for breath and push him away. He looked offended at my reaction and settled daintily on the sofa at my side, within easy stroking distance of my hand.

“Television, VCR, penthouse view, coffee bar, my own bathroom,” I continued, running my fingers over the cat’s silky dark fur apologetically. “And Stillman’s got this CAD program on his computer that is absolutely out of this world.”

Phillipe, my downstairs neighbor and closest friend, chuckled lazily. In the background I could hear the rattle of pots and pans as he prepared yet another one of his gourmet feasts.

“Precious, only you would turn a perfect opportunity for bricking the gold into a chance to get a little extra work done. What do you care what’s on his computer? What is a cad, anyway? Sounds perfectly dreadful.”

“I think the term is goldbricking,” I replied. “And it’s not ‘a cad,’ Phillipe. It’s CAD, which stands for Computer Assisted Design. And I care because by tomorrow morning the lovely thing will be reclaimed by its owner and I’ll be reduced to using pen and ink again. In the mean-while, though, I used it to send our new boss a little present.”

“Now, there’s my girl! Something dirty, I hope.”

I laughed. Phillipe was French Canadian and spoke English with phrases that he copied from American television and always made me giggle. I, of course, am flawlessly multilingual, as all werewolves are. A facility for language is just another one of those adaptive traits we’ve picked up over the centuries and have incorporated into our genetic code.

We were speaking English because Phillipe had just started a new job in a fur salon where a huge percentage of the clientele was American. And because, when rich Americans travel to Montreal to buy their furs in exclusive local salons, they expected the clerks to speak French, Phillipe was determined they should hear nothing but English pass his lips. Annoying rich Americans was one of Phillipe’s greatest pleasures in life.

I said, “Actually, I sent him a graphic for a new campaign we’re launching. It will, as they say in America, knock his socks off.”

“Lovely. You are hopeless. And I think you must be mistaken about what they say in America.”

“Socks, I swear it.”

He made a noncommittal, highly skeptical, perfectly French sound, and I could picture him mentally marking down the phrase for later use.

“So explain to me, if you kindly will, why is it you sent a new design for his campaign to your perfectly hideous boss? Ah, wait! It was a dirty design!”

“No. It was a fabulous design. And I did it because he is hideous.”

I had used Stillman’s advanced computer design program to give substance to my idea for Moonsong—A Revolution. Four-color display, 3-D effects, video-quality with an audio clip. I had logged it under my security code to be sent to Noel via the company network as soon as his own computer came on-line, which, as of five o’clock that afternoon, had not happened yet. His furniture had not been delivered, either, I had noticed a little smugly when I left the office promptly at five.

“He thinks I’m useless,” I explained to Phillipe’s puzzled silence. “Also stupid. I wanted to let him know it doesn’t pay to make snap judgments. Because it is a fabulous design, and as soon as he retrieves it, it’s going to self-destruct. Let whoever he assigns to steal it waste their time reprogramming it.”

He burst into loud delighted laughter. “You are a witch! Is it any wonder I treasure you? Now, I’m just putting the soufflé in the oven and opening a bottle of Beaujolais. Shall I pour you a glass or no?”

“No, you’re having company and—”

He made a dismissive sound. “It’s just Doug, and he adores you. Come down and eat with us, then be discreetly on your way.”

“What kind of soufflé?” I inquired, tempted.

“Salmon, your favorite. And a lovely roulade for the main. Darling, you don’t eat enough to keep alive a moose. I insist.”

I giggled. “Mouse. Keep alive a mouse.”

“That’s what I said. I’m setting a place.”

I was just about to accept, when I heard a distinctive footstep far below, caught a familiar scent. I swung my feet to the floor and sat up, dumping Socrates unceremoniously to the floor, my heartbeat speeding.

“Phillipe, I can’t. There’s someone at my door.”

“I didn’t hear the bell.”

“He knocked.”

“Don’t you dare open without calling out for who it is.”

“I know who it is. It’s my boss.”

“Monsieur Gorgeous?”

“Phillipe…” I looked anxiously toward the door, knowing that Noel, even in the lobby three floors below, could hear and hoping he wasn’t listening.

“Ooh la-la. He got your message then. Oh, to be a flea on your wall. Call me.”

“Tomorrow,” I promised.

I hung up the phone and got quickly to my feet, checking my appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. I was wearing one of those thermal-knit unisuits that look like nothing more than a pair of long johns from the previous century and were all the rage in the trendy boutiques that winter. Mine happened to be gray with tiny pink flowers all over it, and it stretched nicely over my breasts and bottom. Not that it mattered; when I was at home I dressed for comfort, even if it was in men’s underwear and big woolly socks. My hair was loosely braided over one shoulder and tied at the end with a pink bow, and my makeup had almost completely worn off. I had time to do no more than brush the cat hairs off my clothes and push back a few errant hairs of my own before I heard his long strides on the carpeted hall floor outside my door.

The doorbell rang in two sharp jabs. He sounded imperious, so I let it ring again.

I opened the door and he came in without waiting for an invitation. He not only sounded imperious, he looked it—and angry. Splotches of melted snow clung to his charcoal wool overcoat, which he removed with a swinging gesture reminiscent of a nobleman swirling off his cloak. He thrust the coat toward me with the kind of dismissive disregard that same nobleman might have used with a servant.

“Well, that explains one thing, anyway,” he said.

I took the coat because if I hadn’t, he doubtless would have dropped it on the floor. People like him were so accustomed to having someone around to attend to their every need, they didn’t know how to manage when left on their own.

I said, my markedly polite tone in deliberate contrast to his, “What explains what, sir?”

He scowled. “I asked you not to call me that. And I was referring to your conversation with your friend on the telephone.”

And that was enough. I had started across the room but now I turned angrily, clutching his coat in my hands. “Excuse me, sir.” I practically spat out the words. “But I would very much appreciate it if you would kindly refrain from eavesdropping on my private conversations. I find it not only an invasion of privacy but a demonstration of exceptionally bad manners.”

He looked surprised, if not exactly chastened. And while I held his gaze, my color high and my stance defiant, desperately trying to remember what I had said about him on the phone and wondering exactly how much of it he had heard, he was thoughtful for a moment or two.

Then he said, “You’re quite right, of course. It is extremely bad-mannered of me—to tell you what I heard.”

I didn’t trust myself to respond to that. I whirled and proceeded to the closet, where I jerked out a hanger, draped his coat sloppily upon it and thrust it inside. “That,” I said, with a broad gesture as I closed the closet door, “is where we keep our coats. I trust you’ll remember that if you ever call here again. Otherwise, be good enough to bring your body servant.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You have quite a wicked tongue on you, don’t you?”

I was as shocked as he was at my impudence and couldn’t imagine what had possessed me. I was quaking inside now, and did my best to keep him from noticing. I lifted my chin another fraction and replied, “It comes from having nothing to lose. Sir.”

This time the emotion that narrowed his eyes was amusement. For the first time, he seemed almost, well, to say human would be an insult, but you know what I mean. He seemed almost like the person I had always imagined him to be.

He murmured, “Yes, I can see that.”

Then the brief humor that had momentarily softened his demeanor was gone, and he said briskly, “From this point on, Ms. St. Clare, please remember that you have a great deal to lose. We all do.

“I came here because of the graphic you sent me,” he went on without pausing to give me a chance to respond. He plucked off his leather gloves and tossed them on the painted étagère by the door and strode into my living area without invitation. “You could have saved me a trip through the snow if you had been at the office where you belonged instead of chatting on the phone with humans.”

I gaped at him. The man didn’t seem to be able to open his mouth without infuriating me. “I left at five o’clock!”

He glared back at me. “When you work for me, you don’t leave until the job is done.”

“I don’t have a job. At least nothing that I could determine from that so-very-informative meeting this afternoon!”

I had him there. After seating eight high-powered executives in folding chairs and giving them portfolios on Moonsong to balance on their knees, he’d spent forty-five minutes briefing them on absolutely nothing. I’ve got to admit, I’ve never witnessed such a remarkable facility for making utter nonsense sound like the most important, interesting and vital message one has ever heard, and I admired him for it. It takes real talent to make certain people leave a meeting more confused than when they entered, and I could well imagine, even now, a bevy of werewolves tossing down Chivas at the local fern bar and trying to figure out what in the world the new boss had said at that meeting this afternoon.

He had introduced me as his personal assistant, which raised a few eyebrows, mostly because no one was quite certain what that was. He’d then gone on to extol the remarkable characteristics of Moonsong without ever quite describing them, and explaining that he would be personally overseeing the security on the project and that everything concerning the campaign must first be cleared through him, although he never quite got around to explaining what “everything” was. Oh, yes, those ferns at the local bar would be rattling tonight.

He dismissed me to my luxurious new office—which did have furniture, by the way—with absolutely no instructions whatsoever. So what am I, a mind reader? I played with the computer, helped myself to tropical-flavored mineral water and macadamia nuts from Stillman’s private collection, and watched an American talk show on television. At five o’clock, which coincidentally was the time the talk show was over, I went home.

It’s not my fault the man doesn’t know how to handle his employees.

His eyes narrowed again, briefly, and I could see him trying to mentally rearrange his approach to dealing with me. I was glad to know I could keep him off-balance.

He said, quite calmly, “All right. Now I know why you destroyed the graphic. It was a clever joke. But not nearly as clever as the design itself. I hope you kept a copy, because I want you to present it to the account execs at the staff meeting tomorrow morning.”

Fortunately, there was a chair at my back. I sank into it. My self-congratulation at keeping him off-balance disappeared in a puff of smoke. I couldn’t even answer. I just stared at him like a tongue-tied child.

He glanced around the apartment curiously, and I could detect a faint aura of self-satisfaction in his stance now. “Is there anything to drink?” he inquired. “No, don’t get up. I’m perfectly capable of serving myself.”

I ignored the hint of sarcasm and got up, anyway. The activity helped to clear my head. “I, um, think I have some wine. And some cherry brandy someone gave me for Christmas.”

He wrinkled his nose at that. “Wine.”

He followed me into the kitchen. It was a big, old-fashioned room with a weathered brickwork island and copper pots hanging from a rack. There was a bay window filled with African violets and geraniums. I have good luck with flowers; I don’t know why. While I rummaged around in a cabinet for the bottle of burgundy someone had brought to dinner once and never opened, Noel looked around appreciatively.

“This is a nice place,” he said. “How did you find it?”

My apartment was actually one-third of a renovated warehouse—Phillipe had the second-floor space and the ground floor belonged to a female artist with two Dobermans. It wasn’t just nice; it was spectacular. The walls were ancient brick, the arches that led from room to room were part of the original space; the floors were gleaming hardwood. Every room had a fireplace, although the one in the kitchen didn’t work. The huge, arched windows in the living room looked out over the water, and I rarely bothered to draw the curtains. Perhaps its most enchanting feature, however, was the garden bathing room, featuring a cedar whirlpool, a separate sauna and a glass roof. One could sink into a haven of warm, frothing bubbles and count the stars at night.





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