Wolf In Waiting. Rebecca Flanders
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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