Rebecca Flanders - Wolf In Waiting

He turned the computer screen around and I leaned forward a little to read it. I was sure I must have only imagined that his eyes dropped to the swell of my breast as I did so.

I murmured, “Moonsong.” I arched an eyebrow in surprise as I studied the timetable. “That’s pretty ambitious.”

“More than you know.” He swiveled the computer to face him again. “Moonsong is more than a perfume, it’s a revolution in perfumery. What alpha-hydroxy did for face creams, Moonsong will do for the perfume industry.”

I sat back, my expression patient and interested. In fact, a graphic was already forming in my head: Moonsong, A Revolution in Fragrance. No. Moonsong. A Revolution in Fantasy. And in the background, a moon in a blue-black sky spins slowly through its cycles. Not bad, I thought.

Noel went on, “Moonsong contains a unique ingredient that’s impossible to patent, which is why security on this project is so important…and why it will no doubt prove impossible for our traitor to resist.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding. “It’s a trap.”

Noel paused one revealing moment. “In all important respects,” he answered, “Moonsong is exactly what it appears to be—the most important new product to be introduced to the perfume industry in the twentieth century. My job—our job,” he corrected himself almost without hesitation, “is to track every phase of every step associated with its production for signs of an information leak. We begin with the meeting I’ve called—senior account execs and above only.”

Which was another way of saying no humans. That was one way to narrow the field.

“How are you going to explain me?” I asked pragmatically.

He looked at me blankly.

I gestured. “The fancy office, the secret meetings, the special attention…People are going to talk.”

He scowled, clearly irritated to have overlooked that detail. He turned to the computer and began tapping out numbers again. “Hell, I don’t care. Tell them you’re my consort.”

My cheeks grew warm. To his credit, he realized his mistake immediately and looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though somewhat stiffly. I supposed he wasn’t accustomed to apologizing for much. “That was tactless.”

It had never occurred to me to wonder whether or not he knew of my status as an anthromorph; it was hardly a secret, and he had access to all of my records, medical and personal, for as far back as he wished to go. Besides, I had been told, though whether it was true or not I couldn’t say, that the scent of anthromorphs is different from that of regular werewolves. Still, knowing that he knew and knowing that I knew he knew were two entirely different matters, and I found it embarrassing to have the subject out in the open.

Apparently he did, too, because he said brusquely, “We’ll tell them you’re my personal secretary. Excuse me, administrative assistant.”

My eyes widened. “But that’s a demotion.”

“Exactly.” He gave a satisfied nod of his head. “No one will question that. After all, you’re not exactly blazing a trail in your present position, are you?”

I inhaled slowly through flared nostrils, but released the breath silently. I supposed, given his opinion of me, I was lucky to have a job at all.

“That’s all for now,” he said. “Bring a pad and pencil to the meeting.”

I rose. “I don’t take shorthand,” I told him coolly.

He looked surprised. “I didn’t expect you would. We have voice recorders for that. However, you might as well look as though you have a function.”

I decided then and there he was probably the most obnoxious man who had ever lived. I moved toward the door.

“By the way,” he said without looking up, “I did order office furniture. It should be here within the hour.”

I turned, a small supercilious smile on my lips. “Then where,” I inquired politely, “will we have the meeting? This used to be our conference room, after all.”

I stayed just long enough to see that he hadn’t thought of that, and then left him to find a solution—alone.

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