Читать книгу Wolf In Waiting - Rebecca Flanders - Страница 9

Victoria

“Well, the new office is great.”

I stretched out on the sofa and swung my feet over the back, cradling the telephone receiver against my ear. My black Persian cat, Socrates, jumped onto my stomach, causing me to gasp for breath and push him away. He looked offended at my reaction and settled daintily on the sofa at my side, within easy stroking distance of my hand.

“Television, VCR, penthouse view, coffee bar, my own bathroom,” I continued, running my fingers over the cat’s silky dark fur apologetically. “And Stillman’s got this CAD program on his computer that is absolutely out of this world.”

Phillipe, my downstairs neighbor and closest friend, chuckled lazily. In the background I could hear the rattle of pots and pans as he prepared yet another one of his gourmet feasts.

“Precious, only you would turn a perfect opportunity for bricking the gold into a chance to get a little extra work done. What do you care what’s on his computer? What is a cad, anyway? Sounds perfectly dreadful.”

“I think the term is goldbricking,” I replied. “And it’s not ‘a cad,’ Phillipe. It’s CAD, which stands for Computer Assisted Design. And I care because by tomorrow morning the lovely thing will be reclaimed by its owner and I’ll be reduced to using pen and ink again. In the mean-while, though, I used it to send our new boss a little present.”

“Now, there’s my girl! Something dirty, I hope.”

I laughed. Phillipe was French Canadian and spoke English with phrases that he copied from American television and always made me giggle. I, of course, am flawlessly multilingual, as all werewolves are. A facility for language is just another one of those adaptive traits we’ve picked up over the centuries and have incorporated into our genetic code.

We were speaking English because Phillipe had just started a new job in a fur salon where a huge percentage of the clientele was American. And because, when rich Americans travel to Montreal to buy their furs in exclusive local salons, they expected the clerks to speak French, Phillipe was determined they should hear nothing but English pass his lips. Annoying rich Americans was one of Phillipe’s greatest pleasures in life.

I said, “Actually, I sent him a graphic for a new campaign we’re launching. It will, as they say in America, knock his socks off.”

“Lovely. You are hopeless. And I think you must be mistaken about what they say in America.”

“Socks, I swear it.”

He made a noncommittal, highly skeptical, perfectly French sound, and I could picture him mentally marking down the phrase for later use.

“So explain to me, if you kindly will, why is it you sent a new design for his campaign to your perfectly hideous boss? Ah, wait! It was a dirty design!”

“No. It was a fabulous design. And I did it because he is hideous.”

I had used Stillman’s advanced computer design program to give substance to my idea for Moonsong—A Revolution. Four-color display, 3-D effects, video-quality with an audio clip. I had logged it under my security code to be sent to Noel via the company network as soon as his own computer came on-line, which, as of five o’clock that afternoon, had not happened yet. His furniture had not been delivered, either, I had noticed a little smugly when I left the office promptly at five.

“He thinks I’m useless,” I explained to Phillipe’s puzzled silence. “Also stupid. I wanted to let him know it doesn’t pay to make snap judgments. Because it is a fabulous design, and as soon as he retrieves it, it’s going to self-destruct. Let whoever he assigns to steal it waste their time reprogramming it.”

He burst into loud delighted laughter. “You are a witch! Is it any wonder I treasure you? Now, I’m just putting the soufflé in the oven and opening a bottle of Beaujolais. Shall I pour you a glass or no?”

“No, you’re having company and—”

He made a dismissive sound. “It’s just Doug, and he adores you. Come down and eat with us, then be discreetly on your way.”

“What kind of soufflé?” I inquired, tempted.

“Salmon, your favorite. And a lovely roulade for the main. Darling, you don’t eat enough to keep alive a moose. I insist.”

I giggled. “Mouse. Keep alive a mouse.”

“That’s what I said. I’m setting a place.”

I was just about to accept, when I heard a distinctive footstep far below, caught a familiar scent. I swung my feet to the floor and sat up, dumping Socrates unceremoniously to the floor, my heartbeat speeding.

“Phillipe, I can’t. There’s someone at my door.”

“I didn’t hear the bell.”

“He knocked.”

“Don’t you dare open without calling out for who it is.”

“I know who it is. It’s my boss.”

“Monsieur Gorgeous?”

“Phillipe…” I looked anxiously toward the door, knowing that Noel, even in the lobby three floors below, could hear and hoping he wasn’t listening.

“Ooh la-la. He got your message then. Oh, to be a flea on your wall. Call me.”

“Tomorrow,” I promised.

I hung up the phone and got quickly to my feet, checking my appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. I was wearing one of those thermal-knit unisuits that look like nothing more than a pair of long johns from the previous century and were all the rage in the trendy boutiques that winter. Mine happened to be gray with tiny pink flowers all over it, and it stretched nicely over my breasts and bottom. Not that it mattered; when I was at home I dressed for comfort, even if it was in men’s underwear and big woolly socks. My hair was loosely braided over one shoulder and tied at the end with a pink bow, and my makeup had almost completely worn off. I had time to do no more than brush the cat hairs off my clothes and push back a few errant hairs of my own before I heard his long strides on the carpeted hall floor outside my door.

The doorbell rang in two sharp jabs. He sounded imperious, so I let it ring again.

I opened the door and he came in without waiting for an invitation. He not only sounded imperious, he looked it—and angry. Splotches of melted snow clung to his charcoal wool overcoat, which he removed with a swinging gesture reminiscent of a nobleman swirling off his cloak. He thrust the coat toward me with the kind of dismissive disregard that same nobleman might have used with a servant.

“Well, that explains one thing, anyway,” he said.

I took the coat because if I hadn’t, he doubtless would have dropped it on the floor. People like him were so accustomed to having someone around to attend to their every need, they didn’t know how to manage when left on their own.

I said, my markedly polite tone in deliberate contrast to his, “What explains what, sir?”

He scowled. “I asked you not to call me that. And I was referring to your conversation with your friend on the telephone.”

And that was enough. I had started across the room but now I turned angrily, clutching his coat in my hands. “Excuse me, sir.” I practically spat out the words. “But I would very much appreciate it if you would kindly refrain from eavesdropping on my private conversations. I find it not only an invasion of privacy but a demonstration of exceptionally bad manners.”

He looked surprised, if not exactly chastened. And while I held his gaze, my color high and my stance defiant, desperately trying to remember what I had said about him on the phone and wondering exactly how much of it he had heard, he was thoughtful for a moment or two.

Then he said, “You’re quite right, of course. It is extremely bad-mannered of me—to tell you what I heard.”

I didn’t trust myself to respond to that. I whirled and proceeded to the closet, where I jerked out a hanger, draped his coat sloppily upon it and thrust it inside. “That,” I said, with a broad gesture as I closed the closet door, “is where we keep our coats. I trust you’ll remember that if you ever call here again. Otherwise, be good enough to bring your body servant.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You have quite a wicked tongue on you, don’t you?”

I was as shocked as he was at my impudence and couldn’t imagine what had possessed me. I was quaking inside now, and did my best to keep him from noticing. I lifted my chin another fraction and replied, “It comes from having nothing to lose. Sir.”

This time the emotion that narrowed his eyes was amusement. For the first time, he seemed almost, well, to say human would be an insult, but you know what I mean. He seemed almost like the person I had always imagined him to be.

He murmured, “Yes, I can see that.”

Then the brief humor that had momentarily softened his demeanor was gone, and he said briskly, “From this point on, Ms. St. Clare, please remember that you have a great deal to lose. We all do.

“I came here because of the graphic you sent me,” he went on without pausing to give me a chance to respond. He plucked off his leather gloves and tossed them on the painted étagère by the door and strode into my living area without invitation. “You could have saved me a trip through the snow if you had been at the office where you belonged instead of chatting on the phone with humans.”

I gaped at him. The man didn’t seem to be able to open his mouth without infuriating me. “I left at five o’clock!”

He glared back at me. “When you work for me, you don’t leave until the job is done.”

“I don’t have a job. At least nothing that I could determine from that so-very-informative meeting this afternoon!”

I had him there. After seating eight high-powered executives in folding chairs and giving them portfolios on Moonsong to balance on their knees, he’d spent forty-five minutes briefing them on absolutely nothing. I’ve got to admit, I’ve never witnessed such a remarkable facility for making utter nonsense sound like the most important, interesting and vital message one has ever heard, and I admired him for it. It takes real talent to make certain people leave a meeting more confused than when they entered, and I could well imagine, even now, a bevy of werewolves tossing down Chivas at the local fern bar and trying to figure out what in the world the new boss had said at that meeting this afternoon.

He had introduced me as his personal assistant, which raised a few eyebrows, mostly because no one was quite certain what that was. He’d then gone on to extol the remarkable characteristics of Moonsong without ever quite describing them, and explaining that he would be personally overseeing the security on the project and that everything concerning the campaign must first be cleared through him, although he never quite got around to explaining what “everything” was. Oh, yes, those ferns at the local bar would be rattling tonight.

He dismissed me to my luxurious new office—which did have furniture, by the way—with absolutely no instructions whatsoever. So what am I, a mind reader? I played with the computer, helped myself to tropical-flavored mineral water and macadamia nuts from Stillman’s private collection, and watched an American talk show on television. At five o’clock, which coincidentally was the time the talk show was over, I went home.

It’s not my fault the man doesn’t know how to handle his employees.

His eyes narrowed again, briefly, and I could see him trying to mentally rearrange his approach to dealing with me. I was glad to know I could keep him off-balance.

He said, quite calmly, “All right. Now I know why you destroyed the graphic. It was a clever joke. But not nearly as clever as the design itself. I hope you kept a copy, because I want you to present it to the account execs at the staff meeting tomorrow morning.”

Fortunately, there was a chair at my back. I sank into it. My self-congratulation at keeping him off-balance disappeared in a puff of smoke. I couldn’t even answer. I just stared at him like a tongue-tied child.

He glanced around the apartment curiously, and I could detect a faint aura of self-satisfaction in his stance now. “Is there anything to drink?” he inquired. “No, don’t get up. I’m perfectly capable of serving myself.”

I ignored the hint of sarcasm and got up, anyway. The activity helped to clear my head. “I, um, think I have some wine. And some cherry brandy someone gave me for Christmas.”

He wrinkled his nose at that. “Wine.”

He followed me into the kitchen. It was a big, old-fashioned room with a weathered brickwork island and copper pots hanging from a rack. There was a bay window filled with African violets and geraniums. I have good luck with flowers; I don’t know why. While I rummaged around in a cabinet for the bottle of burgundy someone had brought to dinner once and never opened, Noel looked around appreciatively.

“This is a nice place,” he said. “How did you find it?”

My apartment was actually one-third of a renovated warehouse—Phillipe had the second-floor space and the ground floor belonged to a female artist with two Dobermans. It wasn’t just nice; it was spectacular. The walls were ancient brick, the arches that led from room to room were part of the original space; the floors were gleaming hardwood. Every room had a fireplace, although the one in the kitchen didn’t work. The huge, arched windows in the living room looked out over the water, and I rarely bothered to draw the curtains. Perhaps its most enchanting feature, however, was the garden bathing room, featuring a cedar whirlpool, a separate sauna and a glass roof. One could sink into a haven of warm, frothing bubbles and count the stars at night.