Luck of the Wolf. Susan Krinard
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away. Cort strode after him, his heart beating fast. Brecht didn’t look like an errand boy or a hatchet man, and few loups-garous would consent to being a human’s agent. Still, it was possible that Cochrane had sent him without knowing what he was.
Possible, but not likely.
Cochrane almost certainly didn’t know that werewolves existed, or he would have behaved very differently with Cort.
Brecht’s private booth was one among several others located down a short hall. Brecht swept back the curtains and ushered Cort inside. He took a seat. When Cort didn’t follow suit, he poured himself a glass of the wine that sat on the small table in the center of the booth. Cort’s nose told him that the wine was of excellent vintage and had probably cost a small fortune.
“Since this is to be a gentlemen’s conversation,” Brecht said in a clipped voice, “I would prefer that you make yourself comfortable.”
Cort leaned over the table. “I would prefer that we get to the point,” he said.
“As you wish.” Brecht sipped his wine with a casual air, but there was nothing casual about the way he watched Cort. “I presume you still have the girl?” he asked.
“She is safe and well.”
“Excellent.” Brecht studied the contents of his glass. “You have done me a great service, monsieur, and I intend to reward you for it.”
“Indeed?” Cort settled into the vacant chair at last and pretended interest in the label on the wine bottle. “Perhaps you ought to explain your interest in the girl.”
“It is very simple, Monsieur Renier. She was lost to her family some time ago, and I have been seeking her ever since. When I learned of the tournament and the prize for the second-tier match, I planned to enter the contest. Alas, I was too late.” He met Cort’s eyes. “It is essential that I restore her to her family.”
A sharp chill of shock raced up Cort’s spine, and he bought time by making a show of considering what Brecht had said. His first thought was to wonder if Yuri had been wrong all along and Aria belonged to some local werewolf clan.
His second thought was more lucid. Lost some time ago, Brecht had said. But how long? Eight years, perhaps?
Cort picked up the second glass that stood empty on the table and filled it. “Strange,” he said. “She has said nothing about being ‘lost.’“
The other man raised a brow. “Indeed? What has she said?”
Cort had no intention of providing more information than he had to. He certainly wouldn’t tell Brecht about Aria’s loss of memory.
“She has said very little,” he said. “She has not even revealed her name. What is it?”
A tic jumped in Brecht’s cheek. “I am not surprised she failed to tell you. After what has occurred, she is doubtless afraid and ashamed to go home.”
He’d deliberately dodged Cort’s question. Brecht, too, was bent on revealing as little as possible. If he was an agent of the New Orleans Reniers …
Did they know who had won the girl? It seemed unlikely, or they wouldn’t have hesitated to approach Cort directly and demand her return. Brecht was either employed by the Reniers and was bargaining in more-or-less good faith, or he was simply a mercenary, like Cort himself, who believed he had recognized Lucienne Renier and saw a chance to claim a reward from the loup-garou clan.
Yet if he was not working for the Reniers, how could he be certain that Cort himself was not?
“The family’s name?” Cort repeated.
“You have no idea, monsieur?”
Cort gave him a taste of the truth. “I have heard nothing of any local family missing a daughter.”
“The family wishes to remain anonymous.”
“What makes you certain that she is the one you seek?”
“I was able to obtain a good description.”
“Descriptions can deceive.”
“Nevertheless, I am sure.” Brecht took another sip from his glass. “I must ask … have you touched her in any way?”
Cort began to rise. “I am a gentleman, monsieur. Your insinuations …”
“Forgive me,” Brecht said, waving his hand. “Naturally I take you at your word. I presume your intention in winning her was to help an innocent girl escape a terrible fate. The family in question has authorized me to be very generous. You may ask any price for her return.”
Any price. Cort was almost torn between asking more than Brecht could ever expect to receive from the New Orleans Reniers or rising to his feet in great offense and claiming to be a member of that very clan.
But that was too great a risk when he knew so little of Brecht or his true purpose. He settled for mild reproach. “I think you mistake me, sir,” he said.
Brecht reached inside his coat. “I am sure that we can reach some sort of agreement.”
“Are you not interested in learning if she has been used by those who put her up for auction?” Cort asked.
“That would be most unfortunate.” Brecht’s mask slipped, and Cort could see the wolf in him struggling to emerge.
Cort finished his wine and rose. “I am afraid that you have provided too little information for me to accept your offer. The girl is an innocent, and I do not intend to cast her out into the world until I am certain she will be protected.”
“Very admirable,” Brecht said, barely showing his teeth, “but your concern is unnecessary. Since you have no personal interest in the child …”
She is no child, Cort thought. But he only shook his head. “Pity has been my sole motive. Nevertheless.” He moved toward the curtains. “I must in good conscience decline until you are able to provide evidence of your honorable intentions.”
“Perhaps this will ease your doubts.” Brecht pulled out a fat leather wallet, withdrew a large number of bills and laid them on the table. The amount was staggering.
“This will surely recompense you for your time and sacrifice,” Brecht said, smugly certain of victory.
He had some reason to be. Such a sum would recompense Cort a hundred times over. He would never have guessed that he would ever turn down such an offer.
“Monsieur,” he said, “you are generous indeed, but again, I must decline.” He bowed. “Good day.” He bowed again and pushed his way out through the curtains.
Brecht released a harsh breath, and Cort fully expected the man to come after him. But by the time he reached the street, he knew he was not being followed.
That didn’t set his mind at ease. It was remotely conceivable that Brecht was telling the truth. Aria might be lying about everything, from her name to her amnesia. If Brecht was in fact honorable and Cort refused to cooperate, the man could simply tell the Reniers that Cort had her.
Yet if Aria hadn’t lost her memory, why wouldn’t she tell Cort right away that she had been kidnapped and ask to be returned to her family? Could it be that she didn’t want to go back to them? But why, then, would she appear to be so eager to find someone, anyone, to whom she belonged?
If he had to choose which one was the liar, Aria or Brecht, Cort wouldn’t hesitate. Brecht stank of deception. Cort had felt the simmering emotion beneath that cultured speech, and it was not merely concern for the girl or relief at the prospect of restoring a wayward daughter to the bosom of her family. There was something too personal in his interest.
Cort reached the boardinghouse in ten minutes. He stopped in front of the porch steps, his mind working furiously. He had made his position clear enough, but it was evident