A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Oh, fancy that! I thought it was a hobby horse—a fifty-thousand-pound hobby horse.” She couldn’t help it, a giggle popped out.

  “It’s not a hobby horse. Obviously, Agnes, you’re missing the finer points of second childhood. Hobby horses are stick ponies. Sometimes they’re called cock ponies.” Trevelyn had to fight hard to keep from laughing aloud. “Such as in the nursery rhyme, ‘Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross—’”

  “Stuff and nonsense, they can be big. You see them in the May Day parades or with Morris dancers. You’re just saying that word thinking you’ll fluster me. On a cold day in Hell. I’ll tell you where you can stick your cock pony, me bucko.”

  “Agnes, you’re not Irish—”

  She waggled her eyebrows, clearly pleased with herself. “But you are.”

  “Only half,” he countered.

  Giving him a self-satisfied smile, seeing she had him on the mat, she inquired, “Shall I send Miss Montgomerie the standard dozen red roses?”

  “What standard? You never send them.” He allowed Agnes to wait while he opened his pill vial and took the tablets the doctor prescribed. He hated pills, but could stand them a lot easier than shots. “No. Send her one single white rose.”

  “White? And only one?”

  There was a glint of admiration in the secretary’s eyes—but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. “Losing your hearing, Agnes? I know Des will spring for a hearing aid if you need one. Mershan International has a very progressive medical program for its employees.”

  “Don’t spar with Agnes. You’re outclassed,” Julian Starkadder said from the doorway. He held up two bags. “Not the Ritz, but damn fine sandwiches and slaw from the restaurant down the road. Figured you might be hungry.”

  Agnes turned to leave, so Trev called after her, “Don’t forget about the rose.”

  She gave him a gentle smile and answered, “I won’t.”

  “Agnes,” he called as she started to close the door. “Cancel that.”

  “Don’t send anything at all?” she questioned. “And, don’t give me that static about hearing. It’s your judgment I’m challenging.”

  “That will be all, Agnes.” His voice held a note of finality, which told her not to push any farther.

  She batted her eyelashes and replied, “Yes, boss. Anything else, boss? Want me to shine your shoes, boss?”

  “Agnes!” he growled.

  She exited, closing the door softly.

  “Corned beef on rye?” Julian made no comment on the running battle between Agnes and Trev, but asked as he took the wrapped sandwiches from the brown sack, “Or ham on French bread?”

  Trev realized he’d been in such a rush since leaving Raven’s that he hadn’t given a moment’s thought to food. His stomach grumbled, so he snatched the beef on brown bread from Julian’s hand. Biting into it, he gave a nod of approval. “I’m not sure if it’s because I’m half starved or if this beef is really that good.”

  “Been living on love, eh?” Julian asked, pouring some ice water into a glass and then sitting in the chair before the desk. “So, I take it things went well enough last night?”

  “You might say that,” Trev replied.

  “I meant to pop into a tux and crash the party, just to watch the fun, but decided you didn’t need the competition.” Julian worried the small gold hoop earring in his left ear. “Me being prettier might’ve turned her head.”

  “Dream on.” Trev gave a laugh, but Julian wasn’t entirely off the mark. Women tended to be drawn to the air of mystery swirling around him. The man looked like a throwback to a time of marauding pirates.

  “About me being prettier or turning Raven’s head?” Julian gave him a lazy grin and reached for the ham on white.

  “Either. Both.”

  Julian paused before taking a bite. “So? Tell me about La Belle Raven.”

  Trev used the excuse of having a full mouth to avoid giving an answer. He was torn between wanting to tell Julian everything, down to the smallest detail, and sharing nothing. He’d never had a problem talking about women before. Locker room talk, men called it. Oddly enough, he didn’t care to tell Julian about her in that fashion.

  “So…that’s how it went.” Julian’s hazel eyes shifted from red-brown to green as he watched Trev, unblinking. It was damnable how the man seemed to see all and yet keep his own secrets shuttered away behind that redoubtable stare. He wasn’t someone to play poker with.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you? You told Agnes to send a single rose—hardly the style of love ‘em and leave ‘em Trevelyn. Then you cancel that, for which I have several guesses why. And, so far, since I entered the room, you’ve looked at the phone seventeen times.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “No, I’ve counted.”

  “I repeat—you’re around the bend, old chap.”

  “It’s why your brother pays me the big bucks.”

  “To count how many times I look at a bloody telephone?”

  “I’m paid to notice everything around me, especially what concerns the Mershan brothers. You look at the phone and almost make up your mind to call Raven, and then you change it. My guess: Your thinking of ringing her this soon tells me you can’t get her out of your mind. The fact you haven’t broken down and dialed her number means you’re trying to exert a bit of control, distancing yourself from what happened. You’re rattled.”

  “Get stuffed.”

  Julian chuckled. “Raven’s gotten to you, and you don’t like that. It wasn’t part of your scheme, eh? You’re like Des in that. Neither of you accepts things going against your carefully crafted plans. It’s your greatest strength—and your biggest flaw.”

  As Trev continued to eat in silence, Julian wadded up his wrapper and then slowly rose to his feet. Going to the window, he examined Brishen’s rocking horse. “I take it that you barfed up fifty-thou for this to impress the Montgomeries—or was it just one Montgomerie? Bloody hell, the eyes are black opals!”

  “Actually, I was bidding to keep it out of the hands of her ex-husband,” Trev confessed. “His very pregnant wife thought it would be a nice addition to their nursery.”

  “Beechcroft?” Julian looked surprise. “I wouldn’t think Cian would allow him within a mile. How did the worm get on the guest list? I really had to pull strings to see that you got an invitation.”

  “By whatever means, he was there. The bastard tried a few mind games on Raven, and then accosted her outside the lady’s lounge.” Trev picked up a paper napkin and wiped his mouth. “Since you’re at loose ends and killing time while Des is in Scotland, I’d like a deeper investigation of Alec Beechcroft. I mean everything—finances, how much he owes on his home, his business, his car…his bookie. Any complaints from neighbors? What’s his tab at the local pub? Something about the man sets off warning bells in me. I don’t like him.”

  Julian ran his hand down the horse’s mane. “It’s called jealousy, my friend. Likely a new experience for you. You’ve had women parading through your life, but they never mattered. What was it you told Jago? Never say a woman’s name while making love because it’s too bloody easy to forget who you’re with and say the wrong one? Now here’s one that has you fretting over an ex-husband—and buying a very expensive rocking horse.”

  Trev frowned and tossed the napkin down. “Yes, it’s jealousy. The creep should be beaten to a bloody pulp for ever putting his slimy hands on her. Only, it’s more than that. There’s something…off. I’m not sure how to explain. Only, his hatred and reactions toward her go way beyond normal.”

  “So, I’m curious. How did you approach Raven?”

  Trev glanced at the phone then his watch.

  “Eighteen,” Julian sniggered.

  “Actually, I presented myself as her date,” Trev finally admitted.

  Julian spun back. “What?”

  “That scumbag Beechcroft was razzing her about being without a date and implyin
g that she either couldn’t get one or was pining for him. I spiked his guns. I walked up, apologized for being late, and carried on as though we were lovers.”

  Julian laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Only you would run a gambit like that. What did the rest of the Montgomeries think of her having a lover no one had seen or heard of? I’m betting they didn’t buy it. Especially Cian.”

  “I don’t think he was convinced. Neither was Paganne. Only, they were so pleased over me playing the gallant and ruining Beechcroft’s barbs that they allowed the situation to play out.”

  Julian nodded. “And you cemented things by coughing up a small chunk of change for the orphanage.”

  Trev avoided meeting Julian’s penetrating stare, not comfortable with explaining why he’d bought the horse. “Something like that.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  Sidestepping the answer, he said, “Actually, I’d like all the information on Beechcroft as soon as you and your associates round it up. Also, get a listing of rentals—barns, workshops and empty buildings that could be turned into a studio.”

  “A studio for Raven?” Julian hazarded a guess. “She already uses that greenhouse to paint.”

  Trev steepled his hands and then laced the tips of his fingers. “No, for the man who created the rocking horse—Brishen Sagari. I think he could make it big with a little push. I want to offer him a few choices for a studio. Something that will accept a quick conversion. Immediate occupancy is a must.”

  “Trevelyn Sinclair, patron of the arts.” Julian gave him a level stare. “Tread carefully, Mr. Sinclair. You play a more dangerous game here than Jago does in Nowhereburg, Kentucky, or Des on that rock in the Hebrides. Both places are throwbacks, very isolated and likely care a lot less about Internet and such access to instant information. While Hampton Green is a very small village, and a bit backwards in its own way, the Montgomeries move in high society. Someone attached to them will draw notice. Or is that why you chose Raven as your target? Because she keeps to herself so much?”

  Trev couldn’t stop his eyes from going to the telephone. He hated to admit that reason had never even come into play when he considered Raven. It wasn’t like him to overlook details like that.

  “Nineteen,” Julian mocked.

  Trevelyn sped the car through the fading twilight. An odd sense of urgency drove him to bury the tachometer into the red, almost as if he raced to reach Raven before sunset. He glanced over at the white, rectangular box on the passenger seat. The reason he’d changed his instructions to Agnes about sending the rose: he wished to give it to Raven himself. A florist’s delivery was a bit impersonal. Instead, he wanted to watch her expressive brown eyes light with pleasure at the small gesture when he presented her with the single, perfect bud. He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling Raven would love white roses. The artist in her would adore any color, but white was somehow in keeping with her simplistic lifestyle.

  All afternoon he’d fought calling Raven. When he’d left this morn, he’d said he’d ring, and he intended to do so. Only, what could he say? Raven and he had jumped headlong into the fires of passion but they were still strangers, and after a rocky start to the morning he had a feeling she’d be furiously rebuilding those protective walls around her life. Not calling her was also—as Julian pointed out—his means of regaining a measure of control over himself. Which rankled more than he cared to admit.

  Julian was right. He couldn’t get Raven out of his mind.

  So being an arrogant arse, he’d put it off until the last minute. When he dialed her number before leaving the office, there had been no answer. Well, what did he expect—that she’d spent the whole day hanging by the phone waiting for his call?

  He glared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Bloody fool.”

  The sun was setting behind Colford Hall as he took the turn. A burning sensation filled his stomach, an ulcer flare of hatred. Even so, he didn’t slow but zoomed on past. Seeing the hall made him wonder about Des, how he was doing on Falgannon. There was a bloody fortune at stake in Mershan International’s takeover of Montgomerie Enterprises, but it was more than the money that drove Des in this desperate toss of the dice; revenge was a demon.

  Before, the concept seemed clear cut. Now Raven was more than a series of photographs and a report. She’d become important to him in ways he wasn’t prepared to examine.

  Trev swung the Lamborghini into her little lane, growling because he had to go slow, which left him alone with his thoughts. He’d gone through most of his life without being too concerned about how his actions affected others. Outside of Des, Jago and his mother—and maybe sourpuss Agnes—there simply wasn’t anyone he cared for. Things were different now, at least with Raven.

  The house was dark save for two very dim lights. Pulling into the drive, Trev parked behind the red MGB. Poor thing had to be over thirty years old, though Raven seemed to keep it in mint condition. As he recalled, an MGB wasn’t too reliable a car. Of course, it was a collector’s item. So few were produced, the percentage of “moggies” surviving over three decades had to be rather small.

  The car was part of Raven’s rescuing things, he supposed. Trev was glad of Julian’s extensive research, for it gave him a greater insight into this unusual woman. Her pony had been saved from ill-treatment at a petting zoo. The seagull had flown into the side of the house during a foggy night. Raven had wrapped him in a towel and rushed him to an animal hospital. The vet couldn’t save one leg and said the seagull would never fly again, and had recommended the bird be put down. She’d had none of it, and nursed him back to health at home. Both of the cats were foundlings that someone had dropped and left to fend for themselves.

  He shut off the car, sat for a moment and listened as he had the first night he’d come to watch her. That night he’d known Raven was inside, felt her presence even though he couldn’t see her. That same sense told him there was now a coldness to the cottage, as though it missed the vital spark of her presence.

  Climbing out through the gull-wing door, he closed it and walked to the front of the cottage. The doorbell didn’t work, so he used the brass knocker. He chuckled as the orange tabby popped up in the window and meowed. “I guess a doorbell is another of those electric devices that fail around Raven, eh, Chester?”

  He waited, knocked again, impatience surging. He should’ve called early in the afternoon instead of being an arrogant jerk. Standing at the door holding the box felt awkward, like he was a prom date coming to call. He glanced to the side of the house and then stepped off the stoop to look up at the bedroom window.

  “Screw this.” Going back to the door, he curved his hand around the doorknob and found it turned easily in his grasp. Inside he was greeted by The Three Amigos: Chester, Pyewacket, Atticus. All stared at him, though not in a challenging manner. Chester finally padded over and gave a welcoming rub against his leg.

  “Raven!” Trev called, though the stillness in the dark house told him what he had already sussed.

  Swallowing his frustration, he placed the box down on the hall coat tree and then strolled toward the dim light in the kitchen. Raven’s car keys were on the counter, next to a brochure for metal roofing. No other sign of her was about. Pyewacket rubbed against him, which caused Trev’s nose to tickle, but then the puss waddled over to the unopened sack of cat food and gave a soft meow.

  “Hint, hint? Wanting bribes, are you?” Trev picked up a knife from the wooden rack and cut an opening. There were two ceramic bowls with the cats’ names on it, so he poured them each half full. “Hey, Atticus, you don’t have one with your name on it?” The bird hopped over and pecked the vamp of his shoe twice, then pushed between the two cats to steal a piece of their chow. “Silly bird, haven’t you ever heard it’s not nice to peck the foot that feeds you?”

  Walking back to the living room, Trev searched for a clue as to where Raven had gone. Nothing. Irrationally, he wanted her here, waiting for him. A jumble of emotions roiled u
p. He put a hand to his abdomen and rubbed, disliking the sensations.

  “Or, maybe I’m just getting an ulcer,” he said, trying to dismiss Raven’s effect on him.

  Seeing a soft glow coming from the larger greenhouse, he followed the light. Raven had placed a canvas window awning over the top of the fortune-teller booth and hidden a banker’s lamp under it. With that presentation, it lent an eerie realism to the mannequin that sent a shiver up his spine. There was something about her, especially the—

  A hard peck to his foot broke his concentration. “Damn, Atticus! I almost had it.”

  He hesitated a moment, then shoved his right hand into his pocket, fishing for a coin. Coming up with one, he dropped it into the slot and watched, mesmerized, as the crystal ball began to swirl. The bluish fog shifted, twisted and began to take on a shape. He didn’t even draw breath as he waited for it to coalesce into a recognizable form. Even Atticus pecking at his foot didn’t break the spell. Then the mechanical works clicked and the Gypsy opened her eyes.

  Trev stared, spellbound for an instant, unable to draw breath. Then it hit why she seemed familiar. The eyes were just like looking into Raven’s. The face was similar, though the dummy had black hair, long and wavy. The image that flashed into his brain was of Raven as he carried her up the stairs last night.

  A card was ejected with a loud snap, drawing his attention away from the carved figure. When he glanced back to make sure his imagination wasn’t playing tricks, he found the eyelids on the mannequin shut. Taking the card he stared at it: The World. He didn’t know a lot about tarot cards. The Lovers had been easy to decipher. With this one he could only hazard a guess. On his way to work he’d passed a bookstore, an old church that had been deconsecrated. He’d pick up a book tomorrow.

  The fortune on the reverse read:

  What you seek is at heart’s end—if your eyes are wise enough to see.

  When his shin was pecked, he winced and glanced down. “Wonder what all that means, Bird-Brain?”