Werewolf in Manhattan

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  She could create a plot which would require her hero to overcome his resistance to flying in order to save the heroine from something or other. Maybe she was a bush pilot in Alaska. That worked. She could crash land in a remote area populated by a pack of werewolves. Maybe she’d be hurt in such a way that she’d have to teach the hero/werewolf how to fly or she’d be forever stranded there.

  As the story outline took shape, she found herself on a roll. Instead of being distracted by Aidan sitting next to her, she was inspired by his solid presence and his scent. Yes, his actual scent, which she still couldn’t identify, despite having all these close encounters.

  Aidan had taken out his computer, too, and was looking through some files. One quick glance told her it was some sort of spreadsheet. At some point she admitted that this was very nice, riding up in first class, where a person could get a glass of juice anytime they wanted it. She liked having room to work on a laptop without being squished and she most especially liked sitting beside a man who smelled as good as Aidan.

  But she’d meant what she’d said. Despite enjoying the heck out of this experience today, she was only gathering material for her research. She wrote about rich people as well as middle class and poor people. Hanging out with Aidan temporarily would help her write a more realistic rich person.

  From the corner of her eye she studied his hands. They looked strong and supple, with a light dusting of hair over the backs. His nails were neatly trimmed, maybe by a manicurist. He had no cuts or scratches on his hands and no visible calluses, which made sense. He was a businessman, not a laborer.

  His cheeks were perfectly shaven, too, and his hair trimmed as if he had it done every few days. Wallace Enterprises probably had a barber on staff. The rich, or at least this rich family, appeared to be well groomed.

  “Like what you see?” His cheek creased in a smile.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “That’s okay.” He glanced at her. “My ego loves it.”

  “I have a research question, in case I want to create a character who’s rich.”

  Laughter danced in his golden eyes. “The PC word is wealthy.”

  “Is that so? Then why was there a TV show called Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous?”

  “Easier to market, maybe, but trust me, the word people with money actually use is wealthy.”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with rich. It’s short, to-the-point, punchy. Hemingway would have liked it a lot better than wealthy.”

  Aidan powered down his laptop and closed the cover. “Are you sure about that? Because if you use rich to mean that someone has a lot of money, what can you use to describe a thick wedge of chocolate cake with dark chocolate frosting?”

  “Decadent.”

  “You’re using three syllables, when one syllable would do.”

  “Okay, then. Moist. And thanks a lot, because now I want some of that and there goes my diet.” She loved talking about words, but she didn’t meet too many men who would debate language choice with her.

  “Moist isn’t good enough. A sponge can be moist, but it sure as hell isn’t rich.”

  “How about intense?” The conversation was becoming something of a turn-on.

  He shook his head. “Not the same. If I tell you the chocolate cake is rich, then you can almost taste it.”

  “I guess.” She remembered not long ago, when she’d told him he was too rich for her blood, he’d countered that she was too rich for his. Now that comment took on a whole other meaning, one that she’d do well to forget about. She had no doubt that if they ever ended up in bed, the experience would be exceedingly rich.

  Good thing the world included chocolate, which she’d always found was a decent substitute for hot sex. “You don’t suppose they have any chocolate cake on the plane? I’m getting a real craving, here.”

  He reached up and pressed the call button. “Let’s see.”

  But alas, they soon discovered the galley wasn’t stocked with cake.

  Aidan glanced at his watch. “We land in thirty minutes. Can you wait forty-five for that cake?”

  “Obviously you haven’t looked at the schedule. We go straight from the airport to a radio interview. There’s no cake time in there.”

  “Sure there is. You’ll have your cake and eat it, too.”

  “That’s cute, Aidan, but we’re not going to cruise along Michigan Avenue looking for a deli and end up being late for the interview. I’m a big girl, and I’m supposed to be dieting. I can live without cake.”

  “But you don’t have to.” He gave her a slow smile. “You’re with me.”

  Dear God, that smile was turning her into a pile of goo. She barely had the breath to respond. “What do you mean by that?”

  “As I said, cake is rich. I’m wealthy.”

  “And proud of it, I see.” She didn’t want to be impressed by his cool confidence tinged with a certain amount of sexy arrogance. She didn’t want to feel like Cinderella at the ball. But that pretty much described her situation. She could fight it, and him, or she could sit back and enjoy the view from the pumpkin coach.

  The second option made more sense than the first. But she’d have to be careful not to enjoy it too much.

  The flight attendant came by and asked them to stow their computers for the landing, and she noticed that Aidan tensed up. Most people who were afraid of flying tended to dread the takeoff and landing the most.

  If she drew him into another conversation, he might forget that they were in a descent. She’d meant to ask him something else before they got into the semantics of wealthy versus rich. What had it been?

  Oh, yes. His hair. “I never asked my research question,” she said.

  He glanced over at her. “You’re trying to distract me from the landing, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I appreciate that.” Once again, his fingers gripped the armrests. “Go for it.”

  “Does your family have a hair stylist on retainer?”

  His quick grin told her she’d hit on a subject that amused him. “You mean like the Hollywood stars who have somebody following them around with a pair of scissors and a blow dryer?”

  “Well, yeah. What’s so funny?”

  “I’m trying to picture my dad putting up with that, or my mom, for that matter. But there is a salon on the ground floor of the building where we have our offices.”

  “A building your family owns, I assume.”

  “Right, but we rent out most of it, and one of the tenants is a top-notch salon. We go in when we need to. No big deal.”

  “What about your fingernails?”

  “Why, are they dirty?” He lifted both hands and inspected them.

  “Just the opposite. They look manicured.” She congratulated herself on getting him to let go of the armrests.

  “I trim them myself, but that’s all I do. The whole family has strong nails and teeth.”

  When he’d lifted his hands she’d noticed his watch. “Is that a Rolex?”

  “No. It’s a Blancpain.”

  “Huh. I’ve never heard of that, which probably means it’s super expensive. Hundreds, probably.” When he didn’t respond, she figured she was low. “Thousands?”

  “Well, I didn’t buy it, but I’d guess it cost a little under eight hundred.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Thousand.”

  She gasped. “No.” Then she glanced at him to see if he was kidding. “You’re making that up.”

  “Nope. It was a birthday present from my folks, so I don’t know the exact cost, but there are a limited number of these made, which makes them pricey.”

  “Pricey? You’re wearing the equivalent of a really nice apartment in Brooklyn on your wrist, and you call it pricey? I call it outrageous!”

  He unbuckled the strap and handed it to her. “If you take a closer look, you’ll see why it costs so much. There’s a calendar on it, as well as a lunar phase dial, and the—”

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sp; “Keep it away from me.” Emma held up both hands. “I don’t want to lay a finger on a watch that’s worth eight hundred grand.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Take it. You said you wanted to do research on how the wealthy live. One thing we tend to do is buy limited edition watches like this.”

  “Why?” She took the watch as if handling a live bomb. The strap and metal case were seductively warm.

  “Because we value the workmanship and the tradition of watch-making. At least that’s what my dad said when he gave it to me. He expects me to pass it on to one of my kids.”

  Thinking of him with children sent a little pang of longing zinging through her heart. It was just a little pang, though, because he was so out of her league.

  She chose to underline that fact. “I’d hate to be the kid who inherits this watch. Just my luck I’d leave it in a locker at the gym or accidentally knock it into the sink when the garbage disposal was running.”

  “I’ll admit I have to be more careful with it than I would be with a cheaper watch.”

  “No kidding. You do realize you could get a Casio which would do most of this stuff.”

  “I have a phone that does most of this stuff. But…it’s a Wallace tradition. We wear really good watches. Roarke has one that’s worth about the same or maybe even a little more.”

  She handed it back to him with great care. “It’s very classy looking, but then it should be for eight hundred large.” Her mother had given her a watch for her high school graduation. It had cost around fifty bucks. True, it had gone on the fritz a couple of years after that, but she still had it in her dresser drawer because her mother had given it to her.

  “I suppose I’ve never questioned spending this kind of money on a watch.” He fastened the strap around his wrist again.

  “That’s the sort of thing I need to know for my research, the things a rich…I mean wealthy person takes for granted.”

  He gazed at her. “Let’s say you had more money than you could ever spend. What would you do with it?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I’d buy my mom an apartment somewhere on Central Park West because she’s always talked about how wonderful it would be to live there alongside people like Barbra Streisand. Then I’d get her a country home in Upstate New York where she could spend her vacations.”

  “You don’t think that would be too extravagant?” He asked the question as if he really wanted to know.

  “Of course it would be extravagant, but you said I’d have more money than I knew what to do with. After I got her all set up, I’d research what charities to support, maybe start a foundation of some kind.”

  He smiled. “Would you buy a Blancpain watch?”

  “Uh, that would be a negative.” The wheels of the plane touched down on the runway. “And we’re in Chicago.”

  “That’s the best time I’ve ever had on a plane, Emma. Thank you.”

  “So should I assume you’ve never become a member of the mile-high club?”

  He stared at her a moment before starting to laugh. “Uh, that would be a negative.”

  “Because of your fear of flying?”

  “No, because of my fear of getting stuck permanently in an airplane bathroom.” Still smiling, he studied her. “You would fit, though, if the guy wasn’t huge. Are you a member?”

  “That would be a negative.”

  He was definitely teasing her. “Then how are you ever going to write about it if you haven’t tried it?”

  “I don’t have to research everything, Aidan. Obviously I have to use creative license for some things. It’s not like I’m ever going to have sex with a werewolf, you know.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, something that looked very much like desire. Then it was gone. “No, I guess you won’t ever do that.”

  She had an epiphany. God, she should have figured it out earlier. Aidan wasn’t all that different from Theo, the nineteen-year-old kid who’d emailed her. Aidan had read her sex scenes and was convinced she was hot stuff in bed.

  If only that were true. She was hardly a virgin, but she’d never experienced the kind of mindless ecstasy she wrote about. She wasn’t even positive it existed in the real world. She could tell him that she used her imagination for the sex in the books, too, but he might not believe her. He was a man carried away by a fantasy. A fantasy she’d created.

  But he had sense enough to know that they came from completely different worlds, and once the sex was over, whether it lived up to his expectations or not, they’d have nothing much in common. She wouldn’t feel at home in his world and he wouldn’t want to scale down his lifestyle to fit into hers.

  Correction—he wouldn’t scale down his lifestyle, as evidenced by the fact they’d flown to Chicago first class. True, he’d given up the corporate jet, but now he was in Chicago, a city full of luxury options. As she thought about that, she wondered if he’d made any other changes.

  “I understand the media escort was cancelled,” she said. “Did you book a rental car?”

  “A car and driver will meet us at the airport and take us wherever we need to go.”

  She should have guessed that he wouldn’t be driving her around in a sub-compact from Hertz. “I forgot to ask about your accommodations while we’re here. Were you able to get a room at the hotel?”

  He looked wary. “We’ll be at the Palmer House instead.”

  She should have guessed that, too. The Palmer House was historic and would appeal to old money. “The penthouse?”

  “It was available.”

  “I’ll just bet it was.” She’d heard about it—eleven rooms of luxury—but had never expected to see it in person.

  “You can consider it research.”

  “Don’t worry, Aidan. That’s exactly what I’ll do.” No doubt about it, she’d be traveling in the pumpkin coach this weekend. She might as well relax and enjoy the ride.

  Chapter Seven

  Aidan switched on his phone while they were still on the plane and called the car service. While the flight attendant helped Emma on with her coat, he gave the driver quick instructions.

  Whatever it took, he wanted a single serving of chocolate cake from one of Chicago’s best bakeries to be waiting in the Town Car by the time he and Emma reached it. Yes, he was showing off, and yes, he should cut it out. But he couldn’t resist making this happen. He ended the call right as Emma turned around.

  “Just checking to make sure the car service is on time,” he said.

  “They wouldn’t dare be late, would they?”

  He had to smile. She was beginning to get the picture. The cake would blow her away. “No, but it doesn’t hurt to give them a nudge.”

  Getting off the plane took a while, and Aidan was grateful because the cake wasn’t going to be an easy trick. He expected one person to be waiting with a sign at the end of the concourse, and another to be running down the cake request. In any event, a chauffeur holding a sign printed with the name WALLACE waited as they left the secure area of O’Hare.

  Aidan approached the man, who was a short, compact guy of about forty-five. He wore a navy blazer and no hat, but his most distinguishing feature was a long handlebar mustache.

  None of the werewolves Aidan knew sported facial hair. They usually got enough of that when they shifted. Aidan didn’t pick up any werewolf vibes from the chauffeur, so apparently Aidan’s secretary had gone outside the Were community for this service.

  Fortunately Aidan hadn’t felt the presence of any Weres at all since getting off the plane. That meant Theo hadn’t somehow found out Emma’s flight information, which was a good thing. Maybe they’d be lucky and Theo wouldn’t show up all weekend, but Aidan doubted that.

  He approached the chauffeur and held out his hand. “I’m Aidan Wallace.”

  The chauffeur gave him a firm shake. “Barry Dinsmore. Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Wallace.” He glanced over at Emma. “Ma’am, I’ll take your carryon.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather keep it.” Emm
a clutched the handle of her rolling computer case as if it contained the secrets of the ages. Aidan had noticed her typing up a story idea on the plane, so in a way, the computer could be more valuable to her than gold.

  He hoisted his computer case strap over his shoulder. “Then we’re off.”

  “Wait.” Emma stood rooted to the floor in the middle of the stream of passengers. “I have checked baggage.”

  “Just give Barry your claim check. Someone will take care of it.”

  “Someone? But I don’t…” She looked uncertain.

  “It’ll be fine, Emma. I promise you’ll get your luggage.” He flicked a glance in the chauffeur’s direction. “You can handle that, right?”

  “Absolutely, sir. All I need is the claim check.”

  “Okay, although this seems very weird.” Emma rummaged through her purse and produced her ticket envelope with the claim check stapled to it. “You can’t miss which one is mine. At least I don’t think you can. It’s orange, but I’ve written my name on the luggage tag in case there are two orange suitcases.”

  “Orange. Got it.”

  “And it’s about so big.” She measured the size with her hands. “Oh, and I have a lime green ribbon tied on the handle to make it even easier to identify.”

  Aidan tried not to shudder. This was why he’d wanted to take the corporate jet, so they wouldn’t be dealing with the horrors of baggage claim and orange suitcases with green ribbons tied on the handle. Emma would no doubt call him a snob for those thoughts, so he kept them to himself.

  “I’ll remember that, ma’am,” the chauffeur said. “First I’ll settle you both in the car, and then I’ll fetch your luggage. If you’ll follow me.”

  Emma turned to Aidan as they trailed after the chauffeur. “What about you? Don’t you have luggage?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Probably not, but you might as well tell me. Are you buying a new wardrobe when we get to the hotel?”

  “No. I had my clothes delivered to the penthouse last night. They’re already hanging in the closet.”