A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing

by Deborah MacGillivray

  He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “Gypsies believe red hair brings good luck. You may need it before the clock strikes midnight. He comes for you, lass.”

  Raven swallowed the knot in her throat. “Who?”

  “Your wolf. He comes, little Raven. My Gypsy blood tells me this.” Her friend’s blue eyes regarded her with a seriousness that stopped Raven’s laughter in her throat. “I don’t think anything can stand in his way.”

  Raven fingered the cards tucked behind her; then she looked through the glass front of the hall, watching her brothers accost the driver of the expensive black car, who had started to get out. He was tall and elegantly dressed. Rarely had she seen a man so suited to wear a tuxedo. The evening breeze ruffled his blue-black hair, pushing a couple curls to fall over a high, intelligent forehead. In a casual gesture he brushed them back and then turned to stare into the front of the building…to look at her.

  Such a thought was silly. The tinted window had a mirror reflection on the outside, similar to one-way glass; Raven doubted the stranger could see her. Nonetheless, it felt as if their eyes locked and held. He had predator’s eyes. From this distance it was hard for her to discern their color, but they had force, and a power to mesmerize. Raven’s heart slowed, then almost stopped. A breathless sensation hit her. This was a man who wouldn’t let anything stand in his way.

  Chapter Three

  Trevelyn had followed the circular driveway to the front of the massive stone building. In the dusk, radiant with the soft amber lights inside and out, the large hall was rendered magical in appearance, as if Trev had taken the wrong cutoff and ended up in Fairyland. Raven’s magic. She’d created this wonderland to see the gala a success.

  Trev’s jaw muscles flexed. A peculiar sense of being off-kilter pulsed through his blood. Just a keenness for the hunt, he told himself.

  No, that was a lie. This was something different. And he didn’t think he liked it.

  He glanced at his gold Rolex. Too early. The crowd coming tonight would, of course, be fashionably late. For his plans to work he needed to blend in and not draw the attention of the rest of the Montgomerie clan. From Julian’s reports he knew the family tended to rally protectively around Raven, since her life had taken several bumps over the past couple of years. If they viewed him as a threat to her, they’d close ranks, making Trev’s task harder.

  It wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t about to let anything stop him. Still, he was antsy and couldn’t wait any longer. Fashion be damned. He was never one to follow the herd.

  Catching sight of his face in the Lamborghini’s rearview mirror, he pushed two errant curls off his forehead. Without being vain, he knew he was a handsome man—above handsome. The term drop-dead sexy had been applied to him more than a few times. He was a man that women responded to on many levels.

  “Poor Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t stand a chance,” he said to his reflection. And it was the bloody truth. He wouldn’t allow her one. Every morning for the past month he’d stared at the gold-embossed vellum invitation to this, the Montgomerie Enterprises charity gala, and it was the last thing he looked at before turning out the light at night. He’d never felt such intense anticipation.

  The cell phone chirped, causing Trev to frown. He almost ignored it, wanting to stay focused on what lay ahead, but supposed it might be Desmond or Jago checking in. He’d e-mailed his brothers just before he left the office, letting them know he was on his way to the gala. He also wanted to make sure they, too, had arrived safely at their destinations.

  With a sigh, he slapped the speaker button. “Trevelyn,” he said, short and to the point.

  “Well, who else would I expect to answer your cell, you bloody eejit?” the crabby voice on the other end snapped. Agnes Dodd. The woman looked like an Agnes Dodd, too. The bane of his life, she was. And, though he would never admit it, he adored her.

  “Can it wait? I’m on my way to that charity affair.”

  “Affair?” She snorted, which was unladylike, but then Agnes would never bother to behave as a lady. She was a harpy, Medusa’s second cousin. She was a sixty-three-year-old pain in the bum. Translation: his secretary.

  For years he’d had problems keeping a good assistant. They’d fall in love with him and make cakes of themselves until he was forced to fire them. One had nearly turned into a damn stalker! It was a serious problem. Training a new secretary took time, slowing down office efficiency. He needed a gal Friday who had her mind on business and business only. To see Mershan International running smoothly, and with the minimal amount of high drama, his brother Desmond had stuck him with Agnes. The woman surely ran on steroids, never slept, did five times the work of all the other Mershan secretaries…and tried to be his conscience. Thus the snort. She knew where he was going. And why.

  “Save the commentary, Agnes. I presume there’s a purpose to your call—or did you get lonely for my voice?”

  “Commentary? Me? Just because I think you’re up to no good? You and your brothers have schemed for years, haven’t you? Plans on paper. Seeing them to fruition in the real world will be another matter. I shan’t wonder these Montgomerie women might teach you Mershan men a trick or two.” She added, “Never underestimate a woman. Any man who does is a fool. Never thought you three were fools, but maybe I was wrong.”

  “Agnes.” Trev rolled his eyes. “Unless you have something specific to say, I’m ringing off. You can harangue me to your little heart’s content when I get back to the office.”

  “Very well, Mister Mershan.” She only took that tone when she was ticked with him. “You forgot to sign the bank drafts for the current stock buyouts. I was supposed to make the transfer first thing in the morning. I guess you were in too big a hurry to go hunt down that poor Montgomerie girl and ruin her life.”

  “Agnes…you’re fired,” he said in a tone that would win Donald Trump’s admiration. But it was an empty threat. He’d never admit it to Desmond or Agnes, but she was worth her weight in diamonds. He couldn’t function without her.

  The woman chuckled. “Silly boy, you can’t fire me. Only Desmond can do that—as we both know.”

  “Agnes, I’m thirty-seven years old. You can’t call me a boy.”

  “When you’re as old as I am you can,” she countered.

  Trev chuckled. Agnes was like the grandmother he’d never had, and she had no scruples against trying to reform her black sheep of a grandson. She had no chance, however. Tonight he wanted Raven Montgomerie. Nothing and no one would stop him from having her.

  “Agnes, if you weren’t such a sourpuss I’d tell you to put your dancing shoes on and get your bum down here to enjoy the beautiful wonderland Raven Montgomerie has created. Who knows, you might find some lonely millionaire who needs someone to boss him about,” he teased.

  “Don’t try that sweet charm on me, laddie boy. You’re up to no good, going to break that poor girl’s heart. Shame on you,” his secretary chided.

  Trev laughed. “Yeah, shame on me, Agnes. Were the bank drafts the only reason for ringing? I can sign them in the morning—but then you already knew that, and you’re itching to give me a piece of your mind about tonight.”

  She sniffed. “Think what you like, dear boy. I’ve given up hope you will see the error of your ways and redeem yourself through a good woman. Actually, there was a different message I was going to pass on. Dr. Hackenbush—”

  “Hacksell,” Trev corrected, knowing she got the name wrong deliberately.

  “Whatever. He said you missed your appointment. Did you want to reschedule? He said you might consider nasal steroids as an alternative, though they would take time to build up. Considering you’re a pantywaist where needles are concerned, I’m assuming you need a shot for something.”

  Trev sighed, allowing the scissor door of his car to open. “Call first thing in the morn and set up another appointment for eleven a.m. Now…good night, Agnes.” He cut her off before she could start in again.


  Two young men came rushing over, drooling over the car: Raven’s younger brothers, Skylar and Phelan. They grinned eagerly as he pushed out of the driver’s seat, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know they weren’t thrilled to see him; rather the Lamborghini had their full attention.

  “Wow, what wheels!” one of the twins said.

  “Crazy doors,” the second chimed in. “We told our sister that we were coming out to pretend to be valets so we could park your car.”

  “Park?” Trev arched a brow and chuckled.

  The second twin offered a big smile. “She did mention something about jail time and embarrassment to the family.”

  “Well, we cannot have that.” Trev tossed over his keys. A little bribe to get into the boys’ good graces couldn’t hurt.

  The taller twin gaped and then looked at his brother. The one holding the keys said, “You’re kidding, right? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know you’re Mac Montgomerie’s sons. I’ve seen his picture. You look much like your father.” Yes, Trev had seen pictures of Mac—along with the whole Montgomerie Clan. But he wasn’t going to mention where.

  “I’m Phelan, and this is my brother Skylar.” Not returning the keys, Phelan stuck out his hand to shake. He leaned back and nudged his twin with an elbow, prompting Skylar to do the same.

  Trev accepted both hands and said, “Trevelyn Sinclair.”

  Phelan asked, “So, you really mean it—we can take the car for a spin?”

  “Sure, enjoy.”

  “Me first!” Skylar chirped, making a snatch at the keys.

  Phelan quickly pulled them out of reach. “I’m older.”

  “I’m prettier,” Skylar argued.

  His brother laughed. “I doubt Mr. Sinclair cares.”

  “Call me Trev,” Trev spoke up, enjoying their banter. It reminded him of how he himself fussed with Jago. “Go on now.”

  He didn’t have to encourage the boys twice. Phelan was soon carefully reversing the car, taking time to check where everything was located. As he did, another vehicle zoomed up from behind and honked—rudely, considering Raven’s brother wasn’t completely blocking the road. With an exaggerated rev of the engine, the silver Lotus then wheeled around the Lamborghini to park. Skylar rolled down the window and flipped the other driver the bird. Trev smiled as the brothers pulled onto the roadway and flew off down the narrow lane. Then, shrugging, he turned his attention back to the building.

  The front of the rental hall was huge panes of tinted glass with a hint of reflection, tawny in the golden torchlight all along the stone walk. First-class all the way—Montgomerie Enterprises’ style. Trev couldn’t help but wonder: His wasn’t the only family touched by the scandal that resulted in his father taking his life. How many others had lost fortunes while Sean Montgomerie had held on to everything? His eyes remained fixed on the elegant hall, staring at the wall of partially reflective glass. Raven Montgomerie was in there; he could sense her. Once more on the prowl, he felt his lips spread into a grin.

  “A wolfish grin,” he chuckled.

  A flicker before the windows caught his eyes—a woman dressed in vivid red. Though he couldn’t see her face clearly, he knew it was Raven.

  “My, what sharp little eyes I have. All the better to see you in that sexy dress, Little Red Riding Hood,” he said under his breath. “And my, my my…She’s even wearing red.”

  Thunder rolled in the distance, harbinger of a storm. Good. That suited Trev’s mood. He loved storms, felt almost as if he could call down the lightning and wrap it around him, draw upon that power to refashion the world.

  Unable to contain his expectancy any longer, he walked up the creek-stone walkway and into the building, knowing tonight something important was going to happen. He would make it happen. Something dangerous.

  Chapter Four

  “I’d rather be dancing around a campfire with Gypsies,” Raven grumbled, despite the evening being a huge success. A jagged flash of lightning streaked across the night sky, then thunder boomed overhead. She jumped as the whole hall shook.

  “But it rains, little Raven. No campfire this night,” Brishen teased, helping himself to champagne. He gestured with the flute to encompass the banquet hall, decorated in the splendor that Montgomerie Enterprises’ money afforded. “You must dance here in this golden wonderland you conjured. ‘Fess up—you’re spooked, waiting for your wolf to come.”

  “Bah, humbug,” Raven pretended to scoff. But she hugged herself as her skin turned to gooseflesh. “Teach me to wear a strapless gown,” she added. Still, she knew her choice of attire had nothing to do with the shiver; she recalled the tarot cards with the warning on the back, and that strange feeling of premonition hadn’t left her all evening.

  Pleased with the decorations, she admitted they harmonized to achieve her envisioned design. Netting beaded with delicate amber lights hung overhead, creating a fairyland effect. The placement of antique rocking horses, several carousel ponies and carousel benches “borrowed” from LynneAnne’s last shipment from Europe, along with the pièce de résistance clockwork fortune-teller, lent a whimsical, romantic flair. Not that she’d actually set out to conjure this dreamy, sensual tone; that the decor proclaimed the night for lovers made Raven’s restiveness surge, made her lonely in the midst of hundreds of people.

  Her mind again summoned images of the cards she’d drawn from the fortune-teller box. Butterflies fluttered within her, half scared by the warning, half wanting to embrace that ripple of danger carried on the rising storm. All her life she had played it safe. Now that she’d recently celebrated her thirtieth birthday, an itchy restlessness crawled just under her skin. It drove her to skate on the edge of the razor, to do something dark and dangerous.

  Unsettled and not wanting to reflect upon her urges, she said with a fake smile, “This evening is interminable. And there are still several hours to go. Excuse me while I groan.”

  Sharp of hearing, Brishen grinned. “True, but you come from a race of warrior women—so Paganne keeps telling me. You shall endure. Speaking of your luscious sister, I think I’ll go torture myself by slow dancing with her. It’ll be fun to see if the maddening woman lets me put my hands on her arse or keeps shifting them back to her waist.”

  Raven chuckled as he winked, then watched her friend chase her youngest sister around the room, trying to catch up with her. A real smile came to her lips when he immediately placed a hand on Paganne’s curvaceous rump and then her sister exaggeratedly moved it. Being a “Meddling Montgomerie” who felt entitled to interfere with her siblings’ love lives, she wished Paganne would wake up and see Brishen right before her nose. The handsome Gypsy would be good for her.

  “You’re someone to dispense advice, Miss Busybody,” she admonished herself.

  There was no man in her life, and most of the time she didn’t feel any yearning to change that. Her solitary lifestyle permitted her to concentrate on painting. With that one-woman show scheduled for next spring, she needed every spare moment for work. And she had her cats, a midget pony and a one-legged seagull for chitchat. With that menagerie, who really needed a man? What good were they? Well, outside of backrubs, having someone to take out the trash and chase prowlers away. Who needed a man to hold her late at night while rain pattered on the windows of her bedroom, or to cuddle before the fireplace as it snowed outside…?

  A knot of emptiness twisted within Raven, and with a sigh she glanced around the ballroom. Again, her fey intuition brushed her mind—predicting that her life might soon change? What a silly notion.

  “I’m too old to believe in knights in shining armor,” she reminded herself.

  Yet, each of her sisters had been touched with witch’s blood, knew things, felt things. She did, too. “Only, my blood must come from a dyslexic witch.” Wrong-way Raven, her siblings called her. “Always bobbing when I should weave.”

  So, why the thrum in her soul that promised tonight would be different?

  The gala
was beautiful. The theme of Autumn Magic was mysterious and quixotic, and the mood reflected a hint of Halloween, which was only weeks away. She must’ve bought out every peach sorbet and coral rose in Britain and Eastern Europe, and those and sprays of baby’s breath graced the tables with larger bouquets in black wicker baskets placed about. Yes, she’d done a good job organizing the gala, despite having to fight that bitch Melissa Barrington every step of the way.

  Raven sent a frown across the room toward the Alfred Hitchcock blonde talking with Cian, the woman’s hand clinging to his arm. Raven knew this possessive attitude irked her brother, so why he kept Melissa on she failed to understand. Ever since Cian’s divorce two years ago, the woman had slapped a target on his back. Her gaze followed him, relentless as a heat-seeking missile.

  Melissa, Raven knew, would love to hold court at Cian’s side at one of these functions, at every Montgomerie Enterprises gala or dinner. His executive secretary, she perceived it as an insult each time Cian asked his sister to take charge as hostess. But Cian continually asked. Raven herself enjoyed decorating, drew great satisfaction from giving each event its own artistic flair—and since she did little else to earn her share of the big dividends her stock paid off every six months, she thought it the least she could contribute. But this time she had a feeling Melissa took greater umbrage than usual. Those calculating, ice blue eyes held a quiet desperation.

  “Likely, you’re sharpening daggers to stick in my back when no one’s looking, eh?” Raven flashed Melissa a big fake smile and received one in return, neither woman fooling the other. “Bitch.”

  Lightning suddenly streaked overhead, causing Raven to flinch. Its flickering, blue-white brilliance flooded the hall, and the crowd in the center of the room shifted. Dancers swirled, and her vision was drawn to a second table of refreshments being set up. Raven’s eyes locked on a man in a black tuxedo. His back to her, he reached out and accepted a glass from the waiter. Magic—dark magic—thrummed through the air, both alarming and exciting.