Wolf In Waiting
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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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