Wolf in Waiting

by Rebecca Flanders

  She nodded. “Of course. That’s why I think you should put Donald Lassair on the team. He’s one of the most original thinkers in the company and an absolute genius with computer design. I’d put him in charge of the creative team, as a matter of fact. For a product like this, the campaign should be absolutely leading edge, at least as revolutionary as the perfume itself. “Yes,” she finished with a decisive nod. “Definitely Donald.”

  I frowned a little. “I don’t know him.”

  She met my eyes with something of a challenge in her own. “He’s human.”

  “I’m sure he’s very fine, but not for this project.” I reached across and took the sketch pad from her, making a few notes of my own.

  She sat back, looking at me suspiciously. “I think,” she said slowly, “that you are a racist.”

  “Racist is a human term.”

  “Xenophobe, then,” she said, scowling. “Whatever the word, it’s a very unbecoming characteristic, particularly for someone who is supposed to be responsible for the moral welfare of his entire people.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. As for your Donald, no doubt he’s very competent, but there’s simply no room for him on this team.” I made a final change to the organizational chart and turned the sketch pad around for her to see.

  She took it from me slowly and studied it without a word for a time. Then she raised her eyes to me. Her face revealed no expression at all.

  “You’ve put me in charge of the creative team.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought I was going to be your secretary.”

  “Personal assistant. Until now your duties weren’t defined. Now they are.”

  She held out the sketch pad to me and said flatly, “This is impossible.”

  “You’re perfectly capable of doing the job. You said yourself we have to run an aggressive campaign, and you’re the person best qualified to make sure it’s done.”

  “That’s absurd. I’ve never run a campaign before. I can’t give orders to werewolves—”

  “But your friend Donald could?”

  The truth in her eyes was painful and infuriating: that even humans had more status in that office than she did.

  “They’ll never accept this.”

  “They’ll accept it,” I told her, “or they’ll deal with me.”

  I got to my feet, walking toward the closet where she’d put my coat. I dreaded the drive across town to that black cold apartment, but if I stayed any longer, I was in very great danger of falling asleep before her fire. That would be undignified.

  “I will be at the office at eight,” I told her, shrugging into my coat. “I expect you to be, too. And it should go without saying that you will stay as long as necessary.” I pulled on my gloves. “Is there anything you need to help you on your way?”

  She was still sitting on the sofa where I’d left her, staring at the sketch pad in her hand in a rather dazed way. Now she got to her feet, her face clearing, and she said decisively, “Yes. Stillman’s computer.”

  “It’s yours.”

  You would think I had just made her a present of the Eiffel Tower. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Good night, Victoria,” I said. “You will have that presentation ready for the nine o’clock meeting, won’t you?”

  “Yes. I—yes.”

  Her mask was back on, composed and dignified. But I could hear her heartbeat. It made me happy.

  I was warmly tucked into the back seat of the limo when I heard her dialing the phone. Her voice was breathless and excited. “Phillipe, you won’t believe it!”

  I chuckled, listening. I was only sorry we were out of range before she stopped gushing about work and started gossiping about Mr. Gorgeous.

  I’m only a werewolf, after all.

  The presentation the next morning was flawless. Victoria was composed, prepared and looked good enough to eat in a cherry red sweater and long winter-white skirt that clung to her thighs and calves like a second skin. She wore a gold chain around her hips and another one around her neck, dangling between her breasts. I must have given those chains more attention than I probably should have because I found I missed a lot of the details of her presentation.

  Not that it mattered. The presentation accomplished exactly what I wanted it to.

  The senior executives listened indulgently, and when she sat down, someone said, carefully noncommittal, “Very nice. Who’s idea was that?”

  Victoria sat with her hands folded atop the table, her shoulders square, her head high. She replied, “Mine.”

  The look that went around the table was clear enough for even a human to read. They didn’t want to offend me, who obviously didn’t know better, but allowing Victoria to participate in any way at all in this campaign was utterly out of the question.

  “Well,” said Harrison, who had been in charge of every major perfume campaign to come the company’s way in the past thirty years, “I’m sure we’ll be able to do something with it. Now, I’ve been thinking about a team. With your permission, sir, I’ve drawn up a—”

  “I’ve already assembled the team,” I said. I opened a folder, took out a dozen photocopies and spun them down the table. “Sorrenson, budget. Cadet, print. Jacardi, audiovisual. St. Clare, design. As I told you yesterday, I will be personally supervising the campaign. Ms. St. Clare, as head of the design team, will be second-in-command. Any questions?”

  Oh, their faces were brimming with them. But no one had the nerve to speak out loud.

  I said, “Good. Let’s get to work, then. Moonsong isn’t the only thing we’re trying to sell today.”

  I would have liked to have caught Victoria’s eye, to tell her what a fine job she’d done, but I was too busy reading the body language of everyone who filed out the door. They were not, as they say in America, a bunch of happy campers. As a matter of fact, if we had been onboard ship and I were the captain, I would have slept with a pistol under my pillow that night.

  It fell to Stillman to speak to me, as dictated by rank. We both acknowledged this in a congenial manner.

  “I wonder if you could spare a minute,” Stillman said, smiling.

  I glanced at my watch, but my expression was pleasant. “Just. My office?”

  My furniture had arrived sometime during the night, an eye-jarring collection of Louis Quatorze and Pennsylvania Dutch that smelled as though it had been sitting in a warehouse the better part of the century.

  I led the way from the audiovisual room, where we had held our meeting, into my office, acknowledging Stillman’s reaction to the furnishings with a vague wave of my hand. “I’m going to have it replaced,” I said.

  Stillman quickly turned his attention back to me, his big smile in place. “My wife and I had hoped to have you to dinner last night. We feel awful leaving you on your own your first night.”

  “I managed to keep myself occupied,” I assured him, equally as pleasantly, and settled in behind my desk.

  This was his signal to sit. “Well, we insist you join us Friday night. A small dinner party, you know, just a few people you should know in the city. And please, bring a date.”

  “Thank you.”

  I glanced surreptitiously at my watch.

  He took the hint. The time for small talk was over. “Sir, your arrival yesterday was so unexpected, I’m afraid none of us had an opportunity to express what we feel, which is how pleased and proud we are to have you single out our little operation here for attention. I personally would like to assure you that if there’s anything at all I can do to assist in your understanding of our procedures here, I stand ready.”

  I folded my hands across my chest in a polite listening posture and thought, Liar. You resent the hell out of my being here, and you’re scared to death I might find out something. What, I wonder?

  Stillman went on, so smoothly I had to admire his gall, if nothing else, “On that subject, sir, I’d like to speak a moment if I may about the St. Clare female. I feel it’s my duty
to spare you embarrassment, and I hope I haven’t delayed too long but—”

  “Yes, I’m glad you brought up the subject.” You patronizing fool, I thought, but kept my demeanor calm and businesslike. “I spent some time last evening going over the records, and frankly I was shocked by the St. Clare situation.”

  He looked relieved, the foolish dog. “Well, sir, I know that we’ve allowed her far more latitude than is normal but she is, after all, a St. Clare. Not that that means anything at all now, monsieur. Of course not. And may I say that I for one am looking forward to the day when the name St. Clare does nothing to buy special favors.”

  If he had licked my face and puddled on the floor, he could hardly have been more obvious. I despised him.

  I slid open the top drawer of my new desk and removed several file folders, which I slid across the shiny uncluttered surface of the desk to him. “Greg,” I said congenially, “I wonder if you would be good enough to take a look at these.”

  He made a show of putting on his glasses and examining each folder. “Ah, yes,” he said, “some of our most successful campaigns. There are two Clios here, and the television run for Ambition must have netted forty million in North America alone.”

  “I was particularly interested in the creators of each campaign,” I said helpfully.

  He flipped open a couple of the folders. “Well, they’re all different, naturally. It only goes to show what an unsurpassed collection of creative talent we have here at Clare de Lune, which should of course come as no surprise to you, sir.”

  I wanted to punch him in the mouth.

  Instead I said, “But the truth is that those campaigns weren’t all created by different people, were they? In fact, they all—including the two Clios—originated with the same person, didn’t they? Victoria St. Clare.”

  He looked as though he didn’t quite follow my reasoning. “Well, yes, I suppose there may be some truth to that, but you have to understand, sir, there is a wide gap between originating an idea and developing it. I certainly hope, sir, that you don’t take whatever complaints the St. Clare woman may have made too seriously.”

  I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I hate being called sir.

  “What I take seriously, Greg, is your apparent disregard for the future of this company,” I said, very politely.

  His shock was absolute, but I was too enraged to appreciate it. I went on in a deliberately even tone, “You have here one of the most inventive, incisive, brilliant minds it has ever been my surprise and pleasure to come across. Talent like this could make us all very rich, Greg, it is the stuff upon which our preeminence in the world of business thrives. This is the kind of genius we encourage, Greg, we nurture it and exploit it to the benefit of us all.”

  He was losing color with every word I spoke and I could see his knuckles whiten on the folder he still held in his hands. I enjoyed his discomfort, reveled in it.

  “But you,” I said, leaning forward a little to add emphasis to my words, “you haven’t nurtured this talent, you haven’t used it the way it was meant to be used. You’ve stolen it, haven’t you? And in doing that, you’ve stolen from us all.”

  Stillman’s face was as white as marble now. I was surprised he had the wherewithal to speak, but he managed it. “Sir, I’m afraid you don’t understand how our division operates—”

  “I understand, all right.” I cut him off. “I understand that it operates inefficiently and dishonestly. I understand that you don’t understand exactly how serious is the crime you’ve committed against the welfare of this company.”

  His mouth tightened. He straightened his rounded little shoulders and he looked me in the eye. “Sir, I apologize. I didn’t understand the, ah, nature of your interest in Ms. St. Clare. I had heard your appetites were well, eclectic, but I had no idea they might be quite so bizarre.”

  Six months ago I would have lunged across the desk and gone for his throat. I would have ripped out his kidneys and had them for breakfast. I would have…well, never mind what I would have done, and forget that remark about the kidneys. It’s just a figure of speech.

  The truth is, I am a civilized man and I knew exactly what I had to do. Get the son of a cur out of my sight, out of my office and out of the position to do any more damage.

  I said in a tone that could have frozen steel, “Greg, old chap, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you. But I’m afraid your usefulness—”

  My telephone rang.

  I couldn’t believe the impudence of the interruption, and I stared at it until it rang again. I snatched it up. “I’m in conference,” I snapped. “No calls.”

  Victoria’s voice, smooth as silk, said, “A wise old human once said, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ You asked me to tell you if you were in danger.”

  I looked at Greg. My hand tightened on the receiver. It tightened so much, in fact, that I was surprised the plastic didn’t crack. I said, very slowly, “My office. Five minutes.”

  I hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Victoria

  Noel could hardly have made me more of a target for the werewolves in the office had he tied a piece of liver around my neck. The presentation was possibly the most thoroughly humiliating, excruciating thing I’ve ever been through, but I could hardly fail to rise to the occasion, could I? He was testing me, obviously. I had no intention of failing. But that does not mean I was grateful for the experience.

  Still, he was my boss and I owed him my allegiance. I expected, at the very least, he would be grateful for my warning. When I passed Greg Stillman in the hallway, he was looking smug and satisfied, so I assumed my intervention had accomplished what I’d intended—to keep Noel from deposing the most influential man in the Montreal office and making enemies of, not only Stillman, but a dozen or more subordinates.

  I’d just done the man a favor he frankly did not deserve. I didn’t expect him to send me jewelry—although flowers and candy would not have been refused—but neither did I expect the ice-cold fury in his eyes when he rose from his desk to greet me. In fact, one could say that was the last thing I expected.

  “How the hell,” he demanded in a low, terrifying voice, “did you hear what I was saying?”

  At this juncture, I should point out that I did notice the way his office was furnished, and it was hideous, like a bad accident in a gypsy caravan. It smelled like mildew and wood rot and I did not see how he could think it was acceptable.

  But even as I was taking all this in with an automatic, background observation, my more immediate attention was focused on Noel, and his extraordinary reaction to me. I stared at him, dumbfounded, for a beat too long. He came around the desk and it was all I could do to hold my ground. He was magnificent in a rage. And deadly.

  “How did you hear through the white-noise machines?” he repeated, raising his voice. “Answer me, and don’t bother lying because I’ll know it. Answer me, damn it!”

  I couldn’t have thought of a lie even if I’d wanted to. I replied, stammering a little and feeling stupid, “There—there’s no screen on the telephone lines. I just picked up my extension and—heard you.”

  Now it was his turn to stare. “You what?”

  My courage returned and I replied impatiently, “I assumed you didn’t mask the line between your line and mine. I really don’t understand—”

  “You didn’t dial an extension?” I had the satisfaction of seeing some of the color drain from his face. “You just picked up the telephone?”

  Now that he put it that way, it did sound odd. I nodded. “Who debugged this office, anyway? Wouldn’t you think they’d remember the phone lines?”

  Noel didn’t answer. He turned instead and turned on his stereo, then strode out of his office.

  I watched him snatch up the telephone on Sara’s desk and listen, scowling, while Sara watched him with polite puzzlement. “Could I help you make a call, sir?” she inquired.

  Noel slammed down the phone wi
thout answering and crossed the reception room to my office. I leaned against the doorframe of his office with my arms folded, waiting, and when Sara cast me a questioning look, I simply rolled my eyes and shrugged. I knew perfectly well what Noel could hear from my office; I wasn’t about to say anything out loud to her.

  In a moment he returned from my office, his eyes dark with anger, and as he strode past me, he caught my arm and pulled me inside his office with him, slamming the door behind us. And that was enough. Certain indignities I am not required to suffer, even for the sake of protocol, and I jerked away irritably.

  “Stop manhandling me! What’s the matter with you, anyway? Do you think I came back here last night and rigged the phone system? Listen, I was just trying to do you a favor, warning you about—”

  Swiftly, he was beside me, his hand tight on my mouth, his scent sharp and spicy, his muscles tight. I stared at him with eyes that were wide and outraged, but he did not remove his hand. He put his mouth close to my ear and he said, in a very low tone, “Not another word.”

  Personally I thought he was carrying this James Bond routine a little too far. After all, it wasn’t as though I was about to give away the secret to Moonsong, or anything else, for that matter. It wasn’t as though I was about to say anything of much importance at all.

  He spoke again in that same low tone close to my ear, “Just tell me quietly. Is there anyone else in this building whose hearing is as sharp as yours?”

  When he removed his hand, I just glared at him, trying to repair the edges of my smeared lipstick with my fingers. And I didn’t bother to keep my voice low at all as I snapped back, “How should I know?”

  He held me with those eyes, though, and in a moment I was forced to admit, however grudgingly, “I don’t think so. Probably not.”

  The stern demand in his eyes turned to thoughtfulness as he continued to look at me. I was beginning to grow uncomfortable before he finally spoke. He said, “You are a puzzle, Victoria St. Clare.”

  He went over to the stereo and turned it up a notch or two. The Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 sailed along in the background, but did not interfere with our conversation.