Wolf In Waiting. Rebecca Flanders

human form. She can never mate; she can never bear young; she can never know what it is to be one of us through the miracle of the Change. Of course one has to feel sorry for such a creature. I suppose it’s only natural to regard those different from oneself with a certain wariness, but Victoria St. Clare’s differences condemned her to a life of pity and scorn among her own people.

      I had known that much about her as soon as I refreshed my memory on her name. There weren’t more than a dozen or so anthromorphs among us, and I remembered her from childhood pack gatherings as the poor ugly duckling all the other children used to torment. According to her personnel records, fortune hadn’t favored her much as the years progressed, either.

      She was portrayed as a mediocre employee about whom the kindest evaluation report read, “Generally punctual.” In a business where creativity, ambition and daring were prized, she displayed about as much imagination as a toad. In six years of employment, she had been passed over for promotion no less than two dozen times. Even humans held positions over her.

      She was, nevertheless, the werewolf who had been assigned to work with me on the most delicate, volatile situation ever to arise within the St. Clare Corporation.

      No werewolf would ever be fired from the St. Clare Corporation, of course, and no St. Clare would ever be demoted. But with this kind of record, what amazed me was that she had achieved the position of account executive in the first place. With the kind of record Victoria had, Sebastian St. Clare was either up to some devilishly clever trick by assigning me to work with her, or the man was utterly insane.

      Because something else had also become apparent through Victoria’s personnel file. She consistently rated low scores in job satisfaction tests. No one wanted to work with her. Other werewolves didn’t trust her. She was well known for associating with humans—even business competitors.

      It seemed evident to me that, if there was a traitor in our midst and if the source of the treachery was the Montreal office, Victoria St. Clare had to be a prime suspect.

      With all of this in mind, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when I met her. But it certainly wasn’t this.

      She was exceptionally, even strikingly, beautiful. She was tall with ivory skin and jet black satiny hair, which she wore pulled back from her face in a chignon at her neck, like a ballerina. She had the exquisite bone structure of a dancer, too: high cheekbones, delicate nose, aristocratic forehead. Her eyes were large and gray and deeply fringed with coal black lashes. Eyebrows arched gracefully over her brow ridges in a way that seemed designed to most easily express aloofness or disdain.

      She was swathed from neck to ankle in a white fur coat, and she wore it regally. Where the coat opened in the front, I could see black suede boots and a slim leggy figure hugged by a teal-colored jersey dress that left no secrets—flat firm abdomen, the delicate notch of hipbones, the dip of her waist, the rounded swell of her breasts.

      I don’t know. I suppose I expected her to be…unattractive.

      Instinctively, I got to my feet, and at just that moment she recovered from her own shock and dropped her head, starting to bow. I suppose we both felt foolish.

      She said, “Pardonnez-moi, je ne sais—”

      And I said, “Non, pas de—”

      We both broke off, and Victoria fell into a respectful silence, avoiding my eyes.

      I released an impatient breath. There were certain things about my new status I would never get used to. Deference was one thing. Abject subservience was another.

      “Are you Victoria St. Clare?” I asked.

      She inclined her head. “Oui, monsieur.”

      I switched back to English, just as I had been doing since I’d gotten off the plane. Montreal was such an unpredictably bilingual city, even I was becoming confused. “I am Noel Duprey.”

      She shot me a surprised look. “I know, sir.”

      Of course she knew. Everyone knew who I was now, even if they hadn’t before. Victoria St. Clare had rattled me more than I realized.

      I pushed a hand through my hair and adopted a brisk air of authority. “All right, here are the rules. Speak English. I’ve lived in London for twelve years, and I think in English. And don’t call me sir. I’m not the ruler yet. Call me Noel or Mr. Duprey. Now pack up your desk and be ready to get out of here in fifteen minutes.”

      She no longer appeared to be having any difficulty maintaining eye contact. Her eyes flashed outrage, and I couldn’t understand why, although if I had truly tried I probably could have put it together. I confess I was distracted, and by several things, the curve of her bosom being only one.

      Her voice was cool and her manner remote as she said, “Monsieur, comment—I mean, sir, if I may ask why?”

      I scowled fiercely at her. “I asked you not to call me that. As for why…” I gestured abruptly to my surroundings. “I should think that would be fairly obvious. Do you call this an office? There isn’t even a door. You may be able to work like this, but I most certainly cannot. I’ll be taking over the executive suite, and for as long as we’ll be working together, you will have the office adjoining. Does that meet with your approval, Ms. St. Clare?”

      Now her eyes widened with astonishment. Her eyes, I don’t think I’ve mentioned, were one of her most captivating features.

      She said, “I…excuse me, but I don’t think I understand.”

      I had to admire her composure, which was a great deal more evident than my own at the moment. This was not the first time I had been thrown off guard by a beautiful woman, although it was, perhaps, the first time I had been so rattled by one so inaccessible, and I had handled the whole thing badly, blurting out details without giving any explanation. I was annoyed with myself, and with her. She, however, remained completely unruffled, regarding me with a cool and distant gaze that revealed nothing more than polite curiosity.

      That only irritated me more. I was beginning to understand why her co-workers didn’t like her. This was one woman who could intimidate the hell out of man or beast.

      “You’re not the only one,” I said shortly. “All I know is that the powers that be have decided you and I should work together on a special project. I assumed you would have been notified by now.”

      “What project?”

      My frown increased. “They haven’t told you anything? Well, no matter. It’s best that I explain it myself, anyway, but not here. We need some privacy.”

      Now it was her turn to frown. “But who? Who assigned us to work together?”

      I was surprised, though I couldn’t say why. “Sebastian St. Clare, of course.”

      She murmured, “Of course,” but I could hear her heartbeat speed up. With shock, excitement, confusion? She controlled her body language well, and her emotions were difficult to read.

      Victoria turned away casually to slip off her coat, and I thought it was in an effort to further hide her reaction from me.

      I said sharply, “Why are you hanging up your coat? I told you, you’re moving. Call an office boy to help you with your things and meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

      “I’m never late,” Victoria replied coolly.

      I could barely prevent a rueful smile as I remembered the one flattering entry in her file. “Yes,” I murmured. “I know.”

      I picked up my briefcase and departed.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Victoria

      When Noel was gone, I pressed my hands to my cheeks and desperately tried to control the quick, hot beating of my heart, knowing that he could hear it and hoping that he would attribute it to anxiety, uncertainty, guilt, anything except what it was.

      Noel