Wolf in Waiting

by Rebecca Flanders

  The ring of the telephone interrupted him. I looked at my wet nails and Phillipe considerately lifted the receiver for me and held it to my ear.

  I answered in French.

  “Are you alone?” demanded Noel’s voice.

  My heart speeded immediately and involuntarily. To hide it—for who knew what he could hear over a telephone—I responded flippantly, “Why, no, Phillipe is here. Would you like to speak to him?”

  Obligingly playing my game, Phillipe started to transfer the receiver to his ear, but Noel’s growl—it simply could not be called anything else—stopped us both. “Don’t toy with me, Victoria, I’m in no mood. Tell your friend to leave. I’m in the car. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Before I could respond, he had disconnected. I looked at Phillipe with wide eyes. He shrugged, replaced the receiver and returned with a hand mirror, which he held before me so that I could examine my newly braided hair.

  “I don’t know, cherie, too much froufrou?”

  I examined the style, which was accented with many small wispy curls around my face and forehead. It was much softer than I usually liked, but today for some reason it appealed to me.

  “I like it,” I told him. “Is there any more wine?”

  Noel arrived as we were debating whether or not to make popcorn. He scowled when he saw Phillipe, who obligingly offered him a glass of wine. Noel looked pointedly at me.

  “I’d like to speak with you in private,” he said, his tone as frosty as the day beyond my window.

  But beneath his wintry demeanor his blood beat hotly; I could feel it. I could hear the firm heaviness of his pulse, like a hammer striking an anvil with determined impassioned strokes; I could see the tension in the subtle lengthening of his muscles; I could almost smell the adrenaline on his skin. I was curious. But I was also just as determined in my own way to make my point.

  “I wish you’d done that on the telephone,” I told him pleasantly. “Phillipe and I were about to make popcorn. Of course, you’re welcome to join us.”

  Phillipe protested politely, “Perhaps another time, precious. L’amour, toujours…”

  Noel shrugged out of his snow-splotched overcoat, still scowling fiercely. “This,” he told me brusquely, “is business.” He tossed his coat on a nearby chair and thrust an impatient hand through his damp hair, tossing it back from his face.

  “Well, in that case,” I said, staring meaningfully at his coat, “I’ll be in my office at nine tomorrow. Or maybe ten. I’m having my hair done.” After all, it was a nasty trick he had played on me with Jason. He deserved some punishment.

  Phillipe exclaimed in mock dismay, “And after all my efforts. I am squelched!”

  “Crushed,” I corrected. “And I love your efforts, truly. But Raoul will be devastated if I disappoint him tomorrow. I’ve never broken an appointment in all these years.”

  Noel said in a low tone, “Victoria…”

  Phillipe grinned and turned his cheek to me, apparently tired of our game. “Give me a kiss, cherie, I’m off. Tickets for the symphony, you know, and I don’t have the first thought on what to wear.”

  I kissed his cheek lightly. “Have fun. Thanks for doing my hair.”

  When he was gone, I twirled once for Noel, still teasing him. “Do you like it?”

  His scowl was gone, but the intensity of his look all but burned my skin. “You amuse yourself in very strange ways,” he said.

  I met his eyes and no one could have been more surprised than I at the reply I made. “So do you.”

  He did not pretend to mistake my meaning. The muscles of his jaw knotted and the very faintest flush of an almost human embarrassment warmed his skin. He did not, of course, drop his gaze.

  He said simply, “If you find my behavior toward you objectionable in any way, you should tell me.”

  Now I was embarrassed, and not just faintly. What could I say? “I will,” I answered, and shifted my gaze from his.

  A heartbeat or two passed before he said, resuming his brisk tone, “A problem has developed, rather serious, I’m afraid, that you should know about immediately.”

  I took my cue and tried to put on my Monday-morning face for him. “What is it?”

  He took a folded paper from his pocket and came toward me. “I took this off the on-line clipping service this morning. It’s destined for the business news tomorrow.”

  I took the printout from him and scanned it.

  Perfume Wars: A Revolution was the headline. The article dealt in a general fashion with competition in the perfume industry, then focused on Clare de Lune’s recent losses to rival perfumeries. Though industrial espionage was never precisely suggested, anyone with an imagination could have read between the lines. But most damaging of all was the last paragraph, which spoke of Clare de Lune’s “valiant attempt to rally with a top-secret project billed as ‘a revolution in the perfume industry.’ The new product, which has already met resistance from the United States FDA and forced its manufacture abroad, is scheduled for a Christmas release with the aid of a multimillion-dollar worldwide advertising campaign.”

  I could feel the warmth drain out of my fingers as I read, and my throat grew tight. I looked up at Noel. “You were able to stop this from going to print, weren’t you?”

  He gave an impatient nod of his head. “Of course. But that’s mere damage control. Enough people saw it on-line to start any number of rumors, some of them with genuine potential for disaster. What I want to know is how such a thing could have happened.”

  He paced angrily to the window and stood there for a moment, silhouetted by the sun.

  Did I mention how gorgeous he looked today? If not, it was not because I hadn’t noticed. He wore a tweed sweater and silky wool slacks that draped over his thighs and buttocks like a woman’s caress. When he thrust his hands into his pockets, as he did now, the material was drawn tight across the most attractive portions of his anatomy, drawing my gaze, as well. It was perhaps inappropriate of me to be making these observations at such a time of crisis, but I confess doing so nonetheless.

  He turned abruptly, forcing me to just as quickly pretend my attention had been, all along, on the wrinkled paper in my hand. “Damn it, who?” he demanded, scowling fiercely. “Who is doing this?”

  I raised my eyes to him. Something was running through my head about faint hearts never winning fair maids, a human axiom, I think. I hoped it applied to fair gentlemen, too, because I could hardly remain silent with an opening like that.

  “I don’t suppose,” I offered consideringly, “it could be the same person who told Jason Robesieur about Moonsong, could it?”

  He read the truth in my eyes, acknowledged it, and not a flicker of expression crossed his face. He said, “You know better than that.”

  I thought I did.

  Then he added, “I had to do it, you know. I had to be sure.”

  Though there still was no regret in his tone, the words themselves surprised me. It sounded very close to an apology, and none was needed.

  I said, with perfect honesty, “I would have done the same.”

  The glint of approval in his eyes was as warm as an embrace, and even more so because it was unexpected. He said with a nod, “Just so.” He went to stand before the fire, stretching out his hands behind him toward the flames while he watched me turn my attention to the press release once again.

  “It could have been someone from the creative team,” I admitted doubtfully, “but unless one of them is not at all what he appears to be, none of them knew anything about the other things—the formulas we lost to the competition before Moonsong, and the problems with the FDA.”

  He nodded. “Precisely. So that brings it back to the highest executive level.”

  I asked curiously, “Who did know about the other thefts?”

  A grimness came over his face that caused a chill to go through me. “Outside of Castle St. Clare,” he said, “and you and me…I don’t know. But you can be sure I intend to fi
nd out.”

  In other words, there were still no solid suspects…aside from me and, I suppose, him. I was beginning to understand his frustration.

  “You’ve talked to the reporter who put together the story?”

  “Some silly human,” he replied dismissively, “who said he interviewed a public-relations rep from the New York office. Of course, the name he was given was phony, the telephone number has been disconnected and never belonged to anyone associated with St. Clare.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “A blessing, I suppose. If I hadn’t threatened him with a lawsuit over his nonexistent source, he might not have been so quick to pull the article.”

  He brought his hand to the back of his neck in a brief massaging motion, looking suddenly weary and defeated. The movement was revealing, and it touched my heart. “Ah, well,” he said, sighing, “C’est la guerre, eh? Or perhaps there is some equally trite expression I could better employ for the moment but now I can’t think of it.”

  He looked with undisguised longing at the glass of wine I had placed, barely sipped, on the mantel. “Is there any more?”

  I got up swiftly and went to the kitchen, returning in a moment with a glass of Montrachet from a vintage Phillipe had recommended. Since I had discovered he liked it, I had started buying wine with a discriminating eye; foolish, perhaps, but I was glad I had.

  He accepted the glass with a murmured thanks and I picked up my own. I wished I could offer more than wine; consolation, perhaps, or, even better, a solution to the dilemma that faced us both. But I didn’t know what to say. I took my wine to the chair where I’d been sitting, and sank onto it with my feet curled beneath me.

  He stood with one elbow resting on the mantel, looking out the window, in profile to me. He sipped the wine, closing his eyes as he tasted it, but I could not tell whether the gesture was from appreciation or fatigue. I only knew I had never seen such bleakness on his face before, and I never wanted to again. I deeply regretted the flippancy with which I had treated him earlier, with which I had, as a matter of fact, regarded this entire project from the beginning.

  He said quietly, almost to himself, “Sometimes I almost envy Michael.”

  I said nothing, but he glanced at me as though I had—or perhaps it was surprise at the fact that he had spoken out loud that compelled him to explain, “I know it sounds strange. Michael, the deranged one, living in disgrace with a human…Michael, the reason we’re all in this bloody mess in the first place.” Again he sipped his wine. “But sometimes I think he’s the sanest of us all. He just threw up his hands and walked away.”

  It alarmed me to hear him say that. I had been an admirer of Michael St. Clare—he was the Golden Boy, the Coming Prince. Who among us had not pledged him our admiration and support? But there was no honor in what he had done. He had turned his back on the pack, betrayed us all. Whether he chose to live among humans or in a cave was not the point; the fact was he had rejected his heritage and abandoned his responsibility and we were only lucky Noel had been there to fill the gap. To hear Noel speak now as though Michael’s behavior had been enviable was deeply disturbing.

  I said sharply, “That’s utter nonsense. You defeated Michael in just battle for the sake of us all. You have nothing for which to envy him, nothing at all!”

  He turned eyes on me that were astonished and amused. “Just battle? Is that what you call it? I was a fool to challenge him and a damn lucky one to escape with my life—for which I have nothing but Michael’s grace to thank.”

  That made me angry. My hand tightened on the glass. “Why do you say such things? I was there! I saw—”

  “Then you must have had a very poor seat,” he interrupted shortly, “if you didn’t notice that it was Michael who, for reasons of his own, allowed me to live.”

  I was momentarily at a loss. In fact, I hadn’t been able to see very well; I had heard many versions of the actual battle, but the outcome—the moment when Noel, clothed in the royal raiment placed upon his shoulders by Sebastian St. Clare himself, had raised a wounded and bleeding Michael St. Clare to his feet and covered him with his own cloak—that I had seen. It had been the single most powerful, most reverent and sanctified moment of my life. Even now, thinking about it brought a shiver of thrill to my skin.

  Noel sat down on the hearth, sipping his wine. Socrates opened one sleepy eye toward him, yawned and curled into a tighter sleeping ball. Noel reached out a hand absently and, to my utter astonishment, began to stroke the cat. I doubt he was even aware of what he was doing, and I certainly didn’t remind him.

  He spoke in a contemplative tone, as though merely voicing his thoughts out loud. “No one believes it, but there is a certain affection between Michael and me, always has been. I know we’ve been set against each other from youth as competitors for every important honor, but that was just sportsmanship. Damn it, he was my cousin and my friend. He was in trouble and I wanted to help. What I did was ill-considered and rash, but I thought it was the best for him…who could have guessed it would turn out to be the worst possible thing for us all?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, astonished. “What in the world can you mean? Of course it turned out exactly as it was supposed to! The better man won, just as ancient tradition dictates, and triumphed to lead us all!”

  His smile was vague and mirthless, his eyes bleak. “Did he?” He drank from the glass. “Did the best man win?”

  “Of course he did!” I was growing annoyed now. Pack loyalty, among other things—in fact, the least among other things—demanded that I defend my leader from insult by anyone, even if the insult came from himself. “You’re talking nonsense and I really wish you’d just stop it.”

  He looked genuinely surprised at my adamancy, then seemed to dismiss it as female foolishness as he lifted his glass again. “A great many people don’t seem to think so.”

  “Who?” I demanded impatiently. “Who dares to say such a thing?”

  He gazed at me with a kind of grayness overlaying his cool green eyes. “Sebastian St. Clare, for one.”

  Well, there was a dilemma. To champion the future ruler against the current one would have been a display of bad manners at best, disloyalty at worst. And the truth was I resented being put in that position. I couldn’t imagine Sebastian St. Clare seriously questioning Noel’s competence; to do so would be to go against every tradition we hold sacred. Noel was his heir. To diminish Noel would be to diminish himself and, therefore, us all.

  “Noel, are you sure you didn’t misunderstand? What could he possibly have done to make you think that?”

  There was noticeable tension in Noel’s shoulders as he left the soothing touch of Socrates’s fur and got to his feet. “Nothing,” he said. He drank from the glass. “And everything. Of course he had a right to resent me, I understand that. I overthrew his flesh-and-blood son. But I would have abdicated for Michael’s sake and he should understand that. It’s Michael he should blame, not me. But from the beginning, he’s done nothing to help ease the transition or make me feel welcome, not that he’s required to, of course. He’s given me no responsibility. I have a title but no function. I have a schedule it would take ten werewolves to meet but no concept of its purpose. When I’m not being ignored by Castle St. Clare, I’m being harangued or inconvenienced or ordered about like a puppy, and until this assignment, I didn’t even have a job. Now I’m beginning to think…”

  But he broke off, finishing the wine in his glass.

  This was, needless to say, deeply disturbing to me to hear. Not only because it was unfair and unchivalrous, but because it suggested an uncertain future for the power structure of Castle St. Clare.

  I got to my feet and went into the kitchen for the bottle of Montrachet. I returned and refilled his glass silently. “What?” I inquired gently. “What are you thinking?”

  He looked into the glass of clear liquid. “That the first time I am given any real responsibility, I prove him right,” he answered without expression. “Or perhaps
you’re right.” He glanced at me, and sipped his wine. “Perhaps Sebastian never expected me to fail at all. Perhaps I’m just blaming him for what I know inside to be true.”

  I could feel the frown of confusion gather between my eyebrows. I put the wine bottle on the hearth and touched his shoulder lightly. “Noel…”

  But he cut me off with a shake of his bright golden head and a squaring of his shoulders. “No, please. I’m tired of all this maudlin reflection. Too much self-examination always gives me a headache. Let’s talk about something else.”

  I admit, I was relieved. I felt him relax as much as sheer willpower could enforce, and I turned to pick up my wine. “All right,” I agreed. “What shall we talk about?”

  He was thoughtful for a moment, gazing out at the snowy afternoon. “The swim-through bar,” he replied after a moment, slowly, “at the Halekalani Hotel.”

  I gave a startled laugh. “I’m afraid that would be a short conversation. I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.”

  He turned to me, smiling. “Hawaii. You’ve never been?”

  I shook my head. “I went to New York once. But that’s it.”

  I watched amusement replace the strain that had haunted his eyes since he’d entered my apartment and was gratified to have some small responsibility for it. “Are you serious? You’ve never been to the tropics?”

  I shook my head, stretching out a hand to stroke the sleeping Socrates. “Should I have been?”

  A secretive, delighted smile curved his lips, replete with pleasant memories. “Oh, yes,” he insisted. “You definitely should have.” But the sparkle in his eyes denied the soberness of his tone. He sipped his wine and added, “We could be there in twelve hours.”

  I gave a surprised laugh, only half suspecting he was serious. “I suppose we could.”

  He turned to me and, in a single swift and graceful movement, set his glass on the mantel and bent to catch my arms, lifting me to my feet. “Let’s do it,” he insisted urgently, his eyes shining. “The jet is standing by—that’s one of the advantages of being the future leader of our people, did you know that? Pilots on salary, runways cleared, jet fueled for anywhere in the world twenty-four hours a day. So let’s make them earn their pay. Hell, as long as we’re going as far as Hawaii, why not Tahiti? Or Fiji? It doesn’t even matter. This time tomorrow we could be walking on beaches as white as sugar, trade winds on our faces, the sun baking our skin, the surf making that oh-so-delightful sound in our ears. Drinking those awful rum and sugar drinks, dining on seafood that was swimming in the ocean an hour before. Victoria…” His hands tightened on my arms. “Let’s do it.”