Wolf In Waiting

Wolf In Waiting
Rebecca Flanders

Forbidden loversHe was the standard against which all others were measured–the strongest, the smartest, the sexiest and the most noble kind: Noel Duprey, whose birthright forbade him even to look Victoria St. Clare's way, for his destiny would never allow him to take her as his bride.Furthermore, Noel believed she was a traitor, out to destroy his legacy–out to destroy him. But all she was really after was his heart….Within a few lost souls, the Heart of the Wolf beats fierce and wild. Feel them, fear them, tame them….

“Let me make sure I understand….”

Victoria could barely keep from gaping at Noel. “You don’t like me. You don’t trust me.You suspect me of being, at best, a St. Clare spy, at worst of being the traitor I’m supposed to help you find. You don’t think I’m qualified for the job. And yet you are prepared to take me into your confidence regarding the most sensitive matter the company has faced in decades?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I would work with you, Victoria.”

She swallowed back a hot retort. “Do you mind if I ask exactly what you expect me to do?”

Noel returned with no hesitation whatsoever, “Whatever I tell you to.”

Rebecca Flanders has written over seventy books under a variety of pseudonyms. She lives in the mountains of north Georgia with a collie, a golden retriever and three cats. In her spare time she enjoys painting, hiking, dog training and catching up on the latest bestsellers.

Wolf in Waiting

Rebecca Flanders

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE (#u3e73c452-3b68-5271-9de0-a0c746f80727)

CHAPTER TWO (#u65f37cf8-4490-5b39-ba70-1af908aa3d6e)

CHAPTER THREE (#u3d427824-56a7-5b90-8635-8dcfe04d95f7)

CHAPTER FOUR (#uef017b6f-af5b-52e8-8395-0285a98ff40e)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

Victoria

My name is Victoria St. Clare, and I am a werewolf. Now that we have that out of the way, let me be quick to point out that you would never know I’m a werewolf if you saw me on the street—or anywhere else for that matter. If you were a man, in fact, you’d probably ask me out; quite a few human men do.

They tell me I’m quite striking looking. I’m tall, five feet nine inches, and slender—one advantage to being a werewolf is that we never have to worry about our figures, what you see is what you get—with long black hair and gray eyes. My ivory complexion is due to the northern climes from which I hail, although I’ve always suspected a few weeks in St. Tropez would do wonders for my coloring, and I have the high cheekbones, patrician nose and full lips which are St. Clare-family characteristics. Many people—humans, that is—tell me I look like a ballet dancer, which I find enormously flattering. I think human ballerinas are some of the most beautiful creatures on earth, and I sometimes try to play up the resemblance by wearing tights and gauze skirts and pulling my hair back in a chignon.

But I don’t want you to think I’m vain. I am, of course—all werewolves are; we’re an exceptionally good-looking species and proud of it, but that’s not the only reason I told you all this. It’s important that you understand that many preconceptions you might have about werewolves are wrong.

For one thing, we don’t have hair all over our bodies or have long teeth and claws. For another, we don’t eat humans. Most of us, in fact, don’t even like the smell of humans—no offense intended, but our noses are exceptionally sensitive. We don’t go mad during the full moon. And you can’t become a werewolf by being bitten by one; you have to be fortunate enough to be born that way.

What is true about us will probably surprise you even more than what is false. For example, we’re listed on the New York Stock Exchange. Oh yes, several of our companies are Fortune 500. You see, the same cunning, skills and extraordinarily adaptive senses that enabled us to survive, indeed to thrive, for thousands of years in a wild and essentially hostile environment have evolved over time to make us kings in a very different kind of jungle: the world of human big business and corporate finance.

Our parent company, the St. Clare Corporation, is the umbrella under which we manufacture and merchandise everything from computer chips to perfumes. We are completely pack-owned and operated, although of course we employ quite a few humans and even sell stocks to them. We’re not averse to taking your money or using your skills when necessary, but make no mistake about it: The company belongs to werewolves; it is run by werewolves; it exists solely for the livelihood, ambition and perpetuation of werewolves.

We collect art; we go to the opera; we sun ourselves on the Côte d’Azur. We do business with you; we share cabs with you; we dine with you every day and you would never guess that we’re not one of you. Life is simpler that way, trust me.

As for me…I’m in advertising, a junior account executive in the marketing division of Clare de Lune, a very small cog in a very big wheel. Clare de Lune is a perfume company, and it is the foundation on which the St. Clare fortune was built. This shouldn’t surprise you. The werewolf sense of smell is approximately five hundred times greater than that of humans. What more appropriate business for us to be in than perfumery? You’ve probably worn some of our fragrances: Honesty, Ice, Ambition for Men? I know you’ve seen our television commercials. The one with the man getting out of bed and putting on his clothes in the morning—Wear Ambition or Nothing At All—was my idea, by the way, although no one will ever know it except you, me and the account exec who stole it.

I am twenty-six years old, and I’ve never had a date. This isn’t particularly surprising when you consider that I am a werewolf and most of my friends are humans. Werewolves don’t find me attractive for reasons I’d rather not go into right now, and I don’t find humans attractive for reasons that should be obvious. Actually, I do find humans entertaining, articulate and a great deal kinder than many of my own species, but to date one in the classic sense of the word—wherein one puts on sexy lingerie and enticing perfumes and puts clean sheets on the bed and engages in all kinds of other arcane rituals that humans, ever-hopeful, endure for the sake of finding a mate—well, the entire concept baffles me.

As for why I don’t attract members of my own species…well, allow me to get clinical for a moment. An essential part of our nature—some might even say the essential part of our nature—is the ability to change from human to wolf form and back again. The Change occurs at will, or can be triggered by strong emotion or sexual arousal. We mate only in the wolf form.

Most wolflings are born with the ability to change; all of them achieve it by the time they reach puberty. All except a few genetically disadvantaged anthromorphs, like me. I can’t change. In all other ways I am a perfect representation of our species, but for this one little defect I am considered a freak, a pathetic imitation of a real werewolf, an object of pity and scorn.

I learned to accept who I am and live with the antipathy—indeed, the rejection—of my own kind long ago. I’m not embarrassed to talk about it. I can’t erase my nature, and I see no point in trying. It is, however, sometimes a lonely existence.

So really, I can’t be faulted for finding Jason Robesieur’s dinner invitation flattering and for feeling, at this point in my life, just self-indulgent enough to accept. True, Jason is only a human, but he is very pleasant to look at, and among his kind considered a powerful and successful man. In fact, his company had given Clare de Lune reason to be alert over the past few years, and that was no small accomplishment.

Jason is a senior partner in the Gauge Group, one of the top Madison Avenue advertising agencies whose accounts include Sanibel Cosmetics, here in Montreal. I met him at a seminar in New York last year and was surprised and gratified that he knew some of my work. I found him pleasant and interesting to talk to, and since that time we have occasionally met for lunch when he was in town.

Dinner, of course, was an entirely different matter.

We were having lunch then, at an elegant little café that had become a favorite of ours. When he asked me to dinner, I hesitated so long that the moment became uncomfortable, and he laughed a little to cover the awkwardness.

“Say, I didn’t mean to cause a life crisis here. It’s just that I’m going to be in town for a few days and I thought…” He shrugged. “I’m not sure what I thought.”

I said quickly, “No, it’s just that…what I mean to say is, I don’t want you to think I’m…that is, I was just surprised.”

He gave me one of those very charming smiles. “No one’s ever asked you to dinner before?”

I knew better than to admit the truth. So I gave him one of my very coy, very secretive smiles.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand. It wouldn’t look good for you to be seen with me. After all, I represent—even if it is several times removed—your biggest competitor. And I’ve heard Clare de Lune is a real stickler about such liaisons.”

“The company is more like a family than an employer,” I agreed carefully.

That was an understatement. Loyalty to Clare de Lune—to the St. Clare Corporation—is practically a genetic trait. In this one way, perhaps more than any other, we have the advantage over human business. We stick together. We defend our own.