Hungry Like
de Wolfe
Inspired by Kathryn Le Veque’s WARWOLFE
De Wolfe Pack
The Series
Anna Markland
COVER ART BY STEVEN NOVAK
Text copyright by the Author.
This work was made possible by special permission through the de Wolfe Pack Connected World publishing program and WolfeBane Publishing, a dba of Dragonblade Publishing. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack connected series by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. remains the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc., or the affiliates or licensors.
All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.
De Wolfe Pack: The Series
By Alexa Aston
Rise of de Wolfe
By Amanda Mariel
Love’s Legacy
By Anna Markland
Hungry Like de Wolfe
By Autumn Sands
Reflection of Love
By Barbara Devlin
Lone Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 1
The Big Bad De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 2
Tall, Dark & De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3
By Cathy MacRae
The Saint
By Christy English
Dragon Fire
By Hildie McQueen
The Duke’s Fiery Bride
By Kathryn Le Veque
River’s End
By Lana Williams
Trusting the Wolfe
By Laura Landon
A Voice on the Wind
By Leigh Lee
Of Dreams and Desire
By Mairi Norris
Brabanter’s Rose
By Marlee Meyers
The Fall of the Black Wolf
By Mary Lancaster
Vienna Wolfe
By Meara Platt
Nobody’s Angel
Bhrodi’s Angel
Kiss an Angel
By Mia Pride
The Lone Wolf’s Lass
By Ruth Kaufman
My Enemy, My Love
By Sarah Hegger
Bad Wolfe on the Rise
By Scarlett Cole
Together Again
By Victoria Vane
Breton Wolfe Book 1
Ivar the Red Book 2
The Bastard of Brittany Book 3
By Violetta Rand
Never Cry de Wolfe
For Family Tree Researchers Everywhere
Keep Digging
Two great medieval dynasties come together.
Le Veque’s De Wolfe Pack and
Markland’s Montbryce~FitzRam family.
The world will never be the same.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
De Wolfe Pack: The Series
Dedication
Ms. Smith
First Meeting
Inheritance
It’s a Date
Tapas for Two
Apologies
Guilt
Dinner for Two
Hungry Wolf
Madness
Explosive Information
Euston Station
Virginia Water
Who Knew?
The Penny Drops
A Token
A Goldmine
Goodbye
A Wedding
Honeymoon
Victory
Epilogue
About Anna
More Anna Markland
MS. SMITH
London, England 2006
Anne picked up the phone when line one buzzed. Twirling the curly black cord around one finger, she tucked the receiver under her chin. “Good morning. Digging Up Your Roots. How can I help?”
When there was no response, she pushed back in the state-of-the-art ergonomic office chair, slipped off her high heel shoes and put her feet up on the mahogany desk, ankles crossed. Sheer stockings caused her skirt to ride up her thighs, but there was no one to see the old-fashioned suspenders she loved, so she didn’t bother fixing it. They were good-looking legs for a twenty-seven year old, if she did think so herself, and tights had never been her thing.
Wiggling her toes, she tapped the end of her Parker ballpoint on the pink message pad. “Hello? Anybody there?”
“I’d like to speak to the head of your research department.”
The deep baritone voice raised goosebumps on her nape.
Dreamy.
However, the caller’s failure to return the greeting, and the absence of the word please, quickly brought her back to reality. The fake-sounding Oxford accent was a dead giveaway. The man on the other end of the line was one of those snooty types who is certain he’s descended from aristocracy.
She’d come across many of them in her profession. They invariably assumed people who answered the telephone were brainless minions.
However, they were her bread and butter, rich clients who paid large sums of money for proof of the blue blood in their veins. It always struck her as ironic that if they were in fact descended from nobility they were easier to trace. Reliable genealogical records for peasants and the working class were virtually non-existent prior to the 1700’s.
She inhaled the subtle lavender lingering in the air from the diffuser, took her feet off the desk, slipped her shoes back on, sat up straight and pulled down her skirt. It was easier to feign a posh accent if you were sitting like a lady. “Whom may I say is calling?”
Another pause, then, “Blaise Emery Quentin de Wolfe, the Third.”
She bit down on the knuckle of her index finger to stifle the urge to laugh out loud. She was speaking to yet another wealthy snob clinging to the de in his surname and probably anxious to prove his Norman ancestry. With renewed interest in Normandy after last year’s 60th anniversary of D-Day, otherwise down-to-earth, sensible men were clamoring for acceptance into membership of the exclusive Sons of the Conquest.
She was extremely proud of her own Norman heritage, but it was beyond her comprehension why anyone would want to be associated with a bunch of elitist chauvinists. The SOC insisted on remaining a male-only club, despite attempts by many, including herself, to get the rules changed. They also restricted their ranks to those who could prove their conquering ancestors were men of pure Norman lineage, apparently unaware the Conqueror himself was a bastard.
She perched her reading glasses on the end of her nose and crossed her legs. “Anne Smith speaking, Mr. de Wolfe. Am I to understand you wish to commission a research project?”
That never failed to throw them off balance. There was no more common, unaristocratic English surname than Smith; Anne was a one-syllable Christian name beginning with a vowel that most people had forgotten within two minutes of being introduced to her.
“Smith?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “Anne Smith,” she reiterated. “What is it you want to research, Mr. de Wolfe?”
He cleared his throat. Satisfaction rippled that she seemed to have rendered him speechless.
“I’d like you to confirm my ancestral roots. Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m a descendant of Gaetan de Wolfe, a Norman knight who fought at the Battle of Hastings. There’s extensive research available, carried out by my great grandfather, but I need to have it verified.”
Ka-ching! Was that the sound of a cash register?
Blaise handed the cordless phone back to his butler, rested his head on the back of the threadbare Georgian sofa and peered up at the mural painted on the parlor ceiling generations before by For
d Madox Brown.
“Problem, sir?” Michael asked.
He might have known his long time servant would detect his unease. “We’ll have to get the Brown restored soon.”
He made the same observation every time he looked up at the faded and cracked mural, but they both knew there was no money in the dwindling De Wolfe Hall coffers for the project.
Michael smiled indulgently. “Any luck with the contact you were given, sir?”
Blaise wrinkled his nose and shifted his weight, making a mental note to add the job of getting the uncomfortable sofa cleaned and resprung to the long list. “I’m not sure. I have an appointment for tomorrow morning, but the woman didn’t come across as very professional. She answers her own phone.”
Michael coughed politely. “She came highly recommended.”
It was true the Sons of the Conquest had advised him to seek the documentation he needed from Digging Up Your Roots. Once he got to the office, he’d make a list of other possible professionals, fearing from the too-cute name it wasn’t a well-run business. Maybe she’d worked out a kickback deal with the Sons. “Being obliged to provide proof from a professional genealogist is absurd,” he complained. “Why can’t they simply accept my great grandfather’s research?”
Michael looked up at the mural. “As you’ve said, sir.”
“Her name is Smith, for heaven’s sake, and she’ll probably charge an arm and a leg. It’s an expense I can’t afford.”
He checked his watch, then heaved himself off the sofa. “Best get a move on. I’m already going to be late to the city, and if I miss the next train…”
“Yes, sir,” Michael replied, making no remark about the lack of enthusiasm Blaise found increasingly difficult to conceal. He was a good barrister with many triumphs in difficult cases to his credit. He’d always loved his chosen profession, but his cantankerous boss’s failure to grant him a well-deserved full partnership rankled.
The other matter that remained unspoken between him and his servant was a reality they were both aware of. If he wasn’t accepted into the Sons of the Conquest, he stood to lose De Wolfe Hall.
Just after five o’clock, Anne shut down the computers and unplugged the aromatherapy diffuser after inhaling a last deep breath of the lavender. She made her way to the kitchen where the appetizing aroma of short ribs simmering in the slow cooker provided a different kind of satisfaction and made her stomach growl.
She zapped a packet of frozen steamed sweet peas for three minutes in the microwave then plated up the ribs, eased open the perforation of the pea packet, poured a generous glass of Malbec and voilà, a meal fit for…
One.
She perched on a high-backed stool at the breakfast counter to eat. It never felt as lonely as sitting by herself at the kitchen table.
The formal dining room had also been out of the question since Geoff’s death. It held too many memories of elegant dinner parties, laughter, stimulating conversation, cleaning up together afterwards, and then—off to bed.
She sniffed back tears as she finished the last of the solitary meal. She hadn’t cried since the first year when she’d almost gone mad with grief—and anger. Captain Geoffrey Smith had volunteered for a second tour in Iraq. What was left of him had come home in a wooden box.
FIRST MEETING
The following morning Blaise took an early train into the city and eventually managed to get a cab outside Waterloo Station. He gave the driver the address and sank back in the seat, trying not to go over every detail of the frustrating telephone conversation he’d had shortly after dawn with some fellow calling from China. If they were going to harangue him about selling De Wolfe Hall could they not at least pay attention to time zones? With every word echoing on the long distance line, it was like trying to communicate with an alien on the moon.
He’d not slept well and was still filled with misgivings about Digging Up Your Roots. The previous day at work he’d compiled a list of alternatives from a Google search and intended to spend his lunch hour making appointments if Ms. Smith didn’t come up to snuff. She was probably an elderly spinster with a bun, although he had to admit her sultry voice was pleasant, even alluring. But then people often sounded different on the phone.
The taxi pulled up outside a well-kept Georgian mansion, one of a stunning row of identical, blindingly white four-story homes on St. George’s Terrace, not far from Victoria Station.
He rolled down the window and peered up at the impressive structure. “Are you sure this is it?”
The cockney scowled. “It’s the address you gave me, guv.”
Not convinced, he nevertheless hefted the briefcase with his great grandfather’s tome of research, climbed out and paid the fare. The small tip he included earned him another scowl before the taxi sped off.
The polished brass plate affixed to one of the portico columns bore the inscription Digging Up Your Roots, Professional Genealogical Services.
Still doubtful, he took the four or five steps to the black lacquered door, rang the bell and straightened his tie.
He turned back to the busy street and noticed the steps had been newly scrubbed, the edges pumiced white. That level of pride in appearance was rare in London these days. How did Smith afford the rent for such a place?
The security buzzer took him by surprise. Tightening his grip on the handle of the briefcase he turned the brass knob and opened the door.
The tiled hallway was nondescript, clean but devoid of decoration, almost spartan. An expensive-looking red bicycle leaned against the curved wall, a sturdy helmet hanging from its handlebars. He shook his head at the foolhardiness of anyone who rode a bike in London’s horrendous traffic.
He looked about, unsure where to go. There was a white door to the left of a spiral staircase, but the small brass plaque engraved with the word PRIVATE excluded that possibility.
“Up here.”
He put a foot on the bottom stair and looked up. Struck by a sudden wave of panic, he gripped the banister with his free hand, not sure if it was the effect of four floors of white staircase spindles making him dizzy or the unexpectedly beautiful face bestowing a stunning smile. Blonde curls flowed over the top railing like Rapunzel’s fairytale tresses.
Ms. Smith obviously wasn’t a bespectacled elderly spinster with a bun.
He began the ascent feeling as though he was climbing to the gallery in some out of the way intimate theatre.
Her pleasing voice drifted down to him like a siren call. “I know it’s silly. I like having my office on the fourth floor. The room is the right size and I’m away from the traffic, which is important when you’re researching.”
Panting, he reached the top landing, feeling much older than his thirty-one years. He ought to get back to the fitness level he’d worked hard to achieve at Uni. His days as captain of the Oxford rowing eight seemed long ago and far away.
She eyed him as he paused for breath. “You need to exercise more,” she said, extending her hand.
He was tempted to make a retort, but the twinkle in her wide eyes spoke of teasing rather than censure, so he let it go. If she noticed his palm was sweaty as she gripped his hand in a firm handshake she didn’t give any sign of it.
Anne Smith was definitely not what he’d expected. Her poise, charm and beauty filled his spinning head with errant thoughts of asking her on a date. But then the weight he’d hauled up in the briefcase reminded him of the reason for his mission.
She pointed to his burden. “Looks impressive. My office is this way.”
He made the mistake of glancing over the railing before following her. The vortex of the stairway sucked him in. The fear of heights he thought he’d overcome long ago took hold as vertigo blurred his vision. Sweat broke out on his brow. His knees trembled.
She took his hand and led him to safety. The reassuring touch of her warm skin was a relief but the loss of control was embarrassing.
“I have the same problem,” she said. “That’s why I prefer to live
on the first floor.”
He loosened his tie as the turmoil in his belly subsided. “You live here?”
“Yes. An ancestor built this house for his wife. It’s been in the family ever since.”
Take that tidbit of information and stuff it in your expensive Burberry briefcase, Anne thought as the pompous man staggered into her office.
“The lavender will help you regain your equilibrium,” she said.
He sniffed the air suspiciously. “I wondered what that smell was.”
Trust a man to refer to the soothing scent of lavender as a smell. She’d bet he was mortified at the weakness he’d shown. Stiff upper lip and all that. She’d also lay odds the great grandfather whose research he’d promised to bring was a very proper British army officer, probably served in India.
She had to admit, however, that Blaise Whatever Whatever de Wolfe the Third, wasn’t what she’d expected. His voice was huskier and deeper than on the phone, though there’d been a hint of disbelieving falsetto in his question about her actually living in the house. The color had rushed back into his ashen face upon learning she owned the mansion.
His well-muscled frame suggested he’d once been a jock. He’d let himself go a bit but was still an attractive man—tall, lots of thick, glossy black hair. Good complexion, slightly tanned. The grey English-style Savile Row suit added to his distinguished look and she recognised the striped tie of Magdalen College. She’d been right about the Oxford background.
Realizing she was staring, she ushered him to sit in one of the two leather armchairs in front of the hearth. “Feeling better?”
He nodded, still clutching the briefcase he’d brought.
The July heat ruled out a fire, and she rarely lit one now she had central heating. Roaring fires were for cuddling up with someone you loved, and there’d been no one since…
Re-focussing on the tasteful lacquered screen that concealed the grate—a treasured souvenir from China—she sat facing him in the other armchair and crossed her legs, confident in their power to draw the male eye. If they didn’t do it, the shiny black three-inch heels usually did.
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