Wolf in Waiting

by Rebecca Flanders

  And think about it I did.

  I am not a complete idiot. I knew exactly what kind of opportunity was before me, and I would have been a fool to reject it out of hand.

  From the day of my birth, I had been mocked, tormented, scorned and ignored by members of my own kind. In the workplace, I had endured blatant discrimination and overt harassment. No matter how hard I worked, no matter how good I was at my job nor how much genius I displayed, I would never, ever rise above my present position with Clare de Lune; that was a simple fact of life.

  I had at my fingertips the means to avenge myself on them all. Moreover, I could secure for myself a future, a position of importance and recognition, a chance to use my talent and do what I loved, and surely everyone deserved that. All I needed was the secret to Moonsong, and I was confident I could obtain it eventually, either through Noel or some other means. All I needed was Moonsong, and the willingness to betray my people and turn my back on the only life I had ever known. Then all I had ever wanted would be mine…in the human world.

  It was like a bad fairy tale.

  Shall I pretend I wasn’t tempted? Shall I protest I didn’t consider Jason’s offer? The truth is, when I knocked on Noel Duprey’s door at four that afternoon, I still wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I would like to think that even if I had known the secret to Moonsong, I would have been just as undecided.

  When he bade me enter, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment while he finished a telephone conversation. I needed the moment to compose myself, and it was not just because of the dilemma with which I wrestled. As always, seeing Noel caused in me an almost physical thrill.

  He was lying on the sofa, his jacket and tie discarded and his vest undone, one leg swung over the back of the sofa—a hideous, humpbacked, curry-colored monstrosity—and the other stretched out long upon it. He frowned as he cradled the cordless phone to one ear and gestured me to come in with his opposite hand. He said into the phone, “I really don’t see that any of that is my problem, do you? No, of course not. Indeed. And next time, I expect more positive results.”

  He punched a button on the phone and spoke tersely to his secretary, “Get me Sansonere in Paris. Don’t buzz me. Keep him on hold till I pick up.”

  He disconnected with another punch of a button and swung his feet to the floor, simultaneously running his fingers through the gold cascade of his hair in a gesture that I found almost unbearably sensuous. He looked at me with eyes that were as green as a spring day, sharp and alert.

  “Did you have the phones screened?” I asked, simply because I couldn’t, at that moment, think of anything else to say. I could barely remember why I had come here.

  He replied, “You tell me. Did I?”

  I nodded and pushed away from the door. “As far as I can tell.”

  I could see the light on his desk phone blinking. Estelle, the human secretary who had been assigned to him, had reached Paris. It gave me an odd sense of power to know that I was keeping the president of the Paris office waiting, but also, if the truth be known, it also made me a little nervous.

  There were two stiff-backed chairs drawn up before the sofa in an awkward imitation of a conversation group. I took one of them, and it was as uncomfortable as it looked. Something really had to be done about his furniture.

  “Do we have a prototype for Moonsong?” I inquired.

  Something flickered in his eyes, then grew still again, alert and watchful. “Why?”

  “Because Jason Robesieur just offered to buy it from me.”

  He leaned back against the sofa, his expression thoughtful. I was not disturbed by his lack of reaction; he was far too well schooled to reveal emotions to a junior staff member. But I couldn’t help wondering whether he was surprised, either by what I had told him, or the fact that I had told him anything at all.

  “What else did he say?” Noel asked after a moment.

  “Only that the news about Moonsong was all over the industry. He wouldn’t tell me who told him, but I got the feeling it wouldn’t help much to know. Jason is the kind of man who doesn’t act on information unless he’s confirmed it at several levels, so I believe he was telling the truth. Everyone knows.”

  Noel templed his fingers beneath his chin, gazing at me. I couldn’t be sure whether he was really looking at me, or through me. “Rather haphazard of our traitor, wouldn’t you say? Almost like something a human would do.”

  I was surprised. I had expected him to make more of the fact that it was Jason—my friend—who had been the first to approach us.

  Or perhaps Jason wasn’t the first. Perhaps I was just the only one who had reported the contact.

  I said, “But it wasn’t a human. Only werewolves were at that meeting.”

  And try as I might, I simply could not imagine any of them selling our secrets to humans.

  Again, Noel nodded.

  “So this confirms it.” My voice was heavy, though I didn’t mean it to be. “It is a werewolf, and he’s in this office.”

  “And he wastes no time putting out the word that he has something to sell.”

  “But he doesn’t,” I protested. “None of us know anything about this so-called revolution, not even what is revolutionary about it.”

  There was no visible sign that he had made a decision, or, in fact, that he was about to say anything of moment at all. He replied, in the most casual tone, “You will. I want you to gather your team this afternoon for the first planning meeting. The product you are selling is more than a perfume. It may be, in fact, the first genuine aphrodisiac in the history of the world.”

  I stared at him, my disbelief evident.

  He smiled. “I isolated the formula myself several years ago, but it’s taken this long to distill it to a level fit for public distribution. Also, there have been problems with the FDA which makes it impossible to use any of our manufacturing plants in the United States.”

  “FDA?” I parroted, my eyes widening. “Food and Drug Administration? Since when do they have anything to say about the manufacture of perfume?”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his wrist. “As I said, it’s been a series of misunderstandings. At any rate, we will be using our facility in Paris, and we intend to start production this month…under the tightest possible security of course. The plant is being refitted now with special equipment to protect the laborers, but that shouldn’t take more than another two weeks. We have got to be ready to go into production immediately, and that means we’ve got to catch this spy.”

  I got to my feet, trying to control my agitation. “Wait a minute.” I paced a few steps away, pressing my fingers briefly to my temples as I tried to organize my thoughts. “FDA, special equipment…” I turned to him, almost afraid to ask the next question. “Just exactly what do you mean by aphrodisiac?”

  There seemed to be genuine amusement in his smile. “Nothing irresponsible, I assure you. Although in its unrefined form, the prime ingredient is, in fact, capable of driving humans—and werewolves—into a sexual frenzy. Obviously this would hardly be suitable for a perfume, particularly as a commercial venture. No, what Moonsong does in its present state is stimulate the pleasure centers on an almost subliminal level. It makes people feel good when they smell it, or when they wear it. It makes people happy to be around it. And, of course, it makes people want to buy more of it.”

  I blinked several times to clear my head. And, even though I should be ashamed of myself, the main thing I was trying to clear my head of were the dozens of delightful, innovative, revolutionary advertising concepts that were tumbling over themselves in their eagerness to be developed.

  “Is it addictive?” I asked.

  Noel gave an impatient shake of his head. “Of course not. And neither, as far as we can tell, does one develop a tolerance for it. Each time you smell it is just as delightful as the first. I hope you don’t think I would ever involve this company in anything immoral.”

  I didn’t know what to an
swer except the truth. “I don’t know you,” I said carefully. “No one does, really. There are bound to be some rather demanding questions when the secret to Moonsong comes out.”

  “Of course,” Noel agreed mildly. “But most of those questions will have answered themselves in the way Moonsong is received…as we watch the way people react to it.”

  I swallowed hard. I had to ask. “And the board approved this?”

  He arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, at my impudence. “Of course.”

  I released a long, slightly unsteady breath. “Well,” I said at last. It was all I could manage. Who was I to question the board? Who was I to question Noel? But then, there were so many questions.

  Fortunately, there were also one or two answers. I knew now why he had insisted upon putting me in charge of the creative team. A) He needed someone he could trust overseeing the most sensitive portion of the campaign, or B) He wanted to keep all of his suspects together. And the people working on this campaign comprised his shortlist of suspects. I understood that now. I also realized that he was carefully releasing information about Moonsong to us, one small bit at a time, so that he could more easily trace exactly when—and perhaps how—that information was leaving this office.

  I said, “I’ll assign each member of my team a security code. They’ll use it for everything—to log in and out on their computers, to access the fax machines, to request research and supplies. The telephone calls are already logged. If anything leaves this office regarding the campaign, we’ll know it.”

  I could tell he was impressed. His tone was brisk. “That’s good. I won’t be able to attend your meeting this afternoon, but I’ll listen in. You understand that you’re responsible for every member of your team?”

  “I do.”

  There was a lot more I wished I understood, but I wasn’t ready to ask yet. I glanced at the light still blinking on his desk phone. “I’d best get to it then.”

  He stood and started toward his desk. I turned toward the door. “There is one more thing,” he said.

  I looked back.

  He picked up the receiver on his phone but didn’t push the button. “Greg Stillman is throwing a party Friday night. I’d like you to come with me.”

  Well, he couldn’t have caught me more off guard if he had literally pulled the rug out from under my feet. I practically gaped at him. And before I could stop myself, I blurted out the stupidest thing.

  “Why?”

  Why? It was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? He had asked me on a date, hadn’t he? Why would he want to do such a thing? He knew about me, didn’t he? A man in his position, a man with his reputation, to take me to a party—a party at Greg Stillman’s house—the scandal it would cause, the outrage…How could I accept? What was he asking of me?

  He glanced at me, his expression implacable, and he answered, “I have a feeling that party is going to be a loaded situation, and I can’t be everywhere at once. I need you to be my ears.”

  “Oh.” I should have been flattered, I should have been relieved. Certainly the last thing I should have felt was disappointment.

  And to hide it, I answered, “I’ll need a new dress. I don’t suppose there’s any overtime in this for me?”

  His eyes glinted amusement as he replied, “You suppose correctly. Wear an old dress.”

  He punched the button on his phone and spoke to Paris. I left the office in a daze, with too much to think about and not enough time in which to do it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Noel

  I am a nice guy; ask anyone. I’m the first one to reach for the check. I always leave housekeeping a big tip, even if my party didn’t destroy the room. I hold doors, I’m courteous to my elders and I’ve even been known—though not often, I admit—to smile at small children in crowded airport waiting rooms. I honestly didn’t mean to hurt Victoria’s feelings with my answer. Why? she’d asked. What was I supposed to say?

  It did not occur to me that I might have put her in an awkward situation by asking her to accompany me to Stillman’s party. Why should it? When I ask a woman out, she is generally delighted. I am an excellent date, if I do say so myself. The last thing I expected was that she would ask me why.

  Why? Because I wanted to, of course. That, for the most part, is the reason that I do anything. Because she is lovely and funny and smart and because I frankly couldn’t imagine going with anyone else…Which is odd, now that I think of it. There are dozens of gorgeous werewolf females in the Montreal office alone, and, if it came to that, one phone call would put me in touch with any one of a directory full of other eminently eager female companions. But I asked Victoria because I wanted to.

  Why should I have imagined she would be in the least bit uncomfortable by what was to me at best, a natural invitation, and at worst, a logical request? She was supposed to be my partner, after all. One could even say I was walking into a politically volatile situation with Stillman’s party; naturally I would want an ally there. And hadn’t she noticed that I hadn’t been in town long enough to make any friends? What did she mean, why?

  Because I wanted to, that was why. So why did I tell her that I wanted her to accompany me because I needed her ears? The crestfallen expression on her face before she disguised it with her usual cavalier humor pricked me like a knife point. I felt bad. But I think I didn’t tell her the truth because I didn’t really know what it was.

  Why did I want her to come with me? I was still turning the question over in my mind, looking for a suitable answer, when I arrived at her house on Friday night. Need I point out that I was gentleman enough to call for her at her home, rather than leave from the office or ask her to meet me at the party? I even brought her roses—yellow, which, according to some long-forgotten human poet, mean friendship. I chose them because they are unique—particularly for Montreal in winter—much like Victoria herself.

  She opened the door and the first thing I saw was the damn cat. It arched its back and hissed at me. I restrained myself from doing the same only because my eyes were fixed, at that moment, on Victoria’s shapely ankles, and began to travel inexorably upward.

  She was wearing a skimpy little white cocktail dress that would have sent any human male into a dead swoon. It had a flared skirt that fell to a point just above her knees and made her legs look a mile long, then proceeded to hug every curve and plane on her body all the way up to her barely covered bosom. A spray of rhinestones crossed diagonally from one shoulder to the opposite breast, accenting the sweet swell of her décolletage and leaving me dry-mouthed. Her hair…she had done something incredible to her hair. It cascaded in a riot of curls and waves from a glittering barrette at her crown to her shoulders and midway down her back. Her lipstick was cherry, her skin like porcelain. She smelled of silk and a vanilla-based fragrance called Enchantment (Clare de Lune, $142 per ounce without the employee discount, of course) that could have been made with her alone in mind. Try as I might, I could not see a panty line.

  I thrust the flowers at her, wordlessly, and was gratified by the genuine delight that lit up her eyes. “Roses!” she exclaimed softly, and buried her face in the bouquet. “Oh, they’re exquisite! No one has ever given me roses before.”

  How to describe the emotions I felt then? The surge of triumph for her pleasure, the outrage that no one had ever sent this magnificent creature roses before; the burgeoning admiration for her simple, piercing beauty; the stark confusion for the intensity of my own emotions.

  “You look—stunning,” I said huskily.

  She lifted eyes to me that were pleased and anxious, though she made her voice flippant. “This old thing?” She pirouetted for me once, and the skirt flared to tease me with a glimpse of the comeliest thigh it has ever been my extreme pleasure to observe. “Just a little something I found in the back of my closet.”

  But when she finished her turn, her face was uncertain behind the bravado. “Is it all right, do you think? I could change.”

  “It’s perfe
ct,” I assured her, and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I hoped the cat might have taken the opportunity to escape, but no such luck; it followed me, glaring, as I crossed the room toward Victoria.

  She pressed her face into the bouquet again, briefly, reveling in the scent of it, and said, “I’ll just put these in water. Would you like a drink or anything?”

  “No, I have the car downstairs.” “The car” was the company limo, of course, a black Rolls with a bar more fully stocked than most commercial airlines and, unless my nose deceived me, a warming oven supplied with hot canapés as well as the usual caviar and goose pâté. “The driver tells me Stillman lives about half an hour outside the city, so we should probably leave.”

  She was smiling as she returned. “I doubt they’ll start dinner without you.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “But the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.”

  She took her white fur coat from the closet. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do tonight?”

  Saints, she was taking this seriously. She really thought this was going to be a working evening. Well, in a way, I suppose it was; from now until we caught the spy, every moment would be a working moment.

  I took the coat from her and held it while she slipped her slender bare arms into the satin-lined interior, experiencing a moment of pathos for this beautiful creature who, with no hope of ever having a coat of her own, had to wear manufactured goods to keep warm. I said, resting my hands for just a moment on her shoulders, “I want you to be lovely and charming and quick-tongued and bright. In other words, I want you to be yourself, and dazzle the hell out of everyone in that room.”

  She turned to me slowly, confusion and apprehension in her eyes. She was nervous, that much I could tell. But I was far too self-centered to understand the real reason why.

  “You want me to be…distracting,” she suggested, “while you make character assessments?”

  Again, it was work for her. “I want,” I told her, barely keeping the exasperation out of my voice, “you to have a good time. Enjoy your dinner. Chat with the ladies, show off for the men. Act like my date.”