A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing (13 page)

“Dream on, Sinclair,” Raven replied.

Atticus caught Trev on the right shin as he started to leave, giving him a strong peck with his beak. Trev grimaced and stopped. Reaching down, he grabbed the silly seagull’s beak in a small pinch. “You and me, bud. I’ll hop on one leg and we can duke it out.”

Raven scooped up the puzzled gull. No one had dared discipline him before. “Trevelyn, stop threatening my poor bird!”

Trev winked at her. “Yeah, sure—side with him. Later, Red.”

After he’d gone, Raven stood wiggling her toes. She finally put down the crazy bird and tucked away her insecurities. His words hadn’t exactly sounded like a kiss-off.
Later
did hold the possibility of, well, later.

The three remaining men stared at her, waiting for her to speak.

“Now the floorshow is over, shall we get the fortuneteller inside?” she asked.

The men grumbled, stole more cookies and headed toward the greenhouse.

“Before we move the box off the cart, why don’t you decide where it’s going? That way we can shift it with purpose instead of dragging it around to suit your whim,” Phelan suggested.

“I know precisely where she goes—in the corner where the direct sunlight never reaches. That way she’ll be the focal point of the bigger greenhouse but also protected. I wouldn’t want her costume or the velvet lining in the box to fade.” Trailing after Brishen and her brothers, Raven glanced out the greenhouse to see Trevelyn’s black car pull out of the drive and disappear down her little lane. “At least it didn’t turn into a pumpkin,” she muttered.

Brishen gave her a soft smile, his vivid blue eyes speaking a concern he didn’t voice.

She was glad her friend—perhaps best friend in the world—chose silence, because she really didn’t need to deal with him and his questions. She had plenty enough rattling around inside her head. The Gypsy just reached out and squeezed her arm.

The twins had the moving straps and were lifting the six-foot-tall box from the back of Brishen’s old-fashioned wagon. Skylar flashed her friend a dirty scowl. “You could help them, you know.”

Brishen laughed and turned up empty hands. “You only have two sets of straps.”

As the twins shifted the large box with ease toward the right side of the long room, Raven instructed, “Turn her catty-corner. Careful.”

Phelan rolled his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, anything you want, ma’am.”

“Atticus!” Raven snatched up the idiotic creature, who was suddenly hopping toward Skylar, but not before the bird gave her brother a hard peck on the foot.

Skylar glared at the creature. “Raven, that dumb seagull thinks he’s a woodpecker.”

“He only pecks people he likes,” she explained with a shrug.

“Well, I’d rather he’d like someone else.”

Phelan set his end of the oak booth down and then rocked it into place. “This how you want it?” he asked.

“Yes, perfect! I have this small window awning I found at an estate sale. I’m going to put it over the top with a small spotlight hidden underneath. That will finish the look.” Carefully depositing Atticus to the stone floor, Raven went to touch the magical booth.

The oddest look crossed Brishen’s face as he studied the wooden Gypsy up close. “She reminds me of someone. I can almost place who.”

“Here, sis.” Phelan nudged her and held out two coins. “You need to christen La Belle Fortune in her new home.”

After pulling the two cards last night, Raven hesitated to try again. Silly. She wanted the automaton, so at some point she’d have to face asking for a fortune; might as well get it over with now. Accepting the coins, she inserted one, then a second, heard the clicks and then the turning of the gears. A card was ejected with a loud
clack,
then shortly another.

She breathed an inner sigh of relief when the card she pulled was not The Lovers. It was The Moon, a card that signaled trickery and deception. She slowly turned it over to read the accompanying fortune.
Trust the heart to know what it wants.
A second card was the Ace of Cups in the reversed or upside-down position, often meaning a hesitancy to accept things from the heart. The words on the reverse read:
Listen to the past—for there you shall find the answers to what you seek.

Skylar shrugged. “At least there’s nothing about sheep or wolves.”

“No need,” Brishen informed him. “The wolf already came. The Gypsy…she now shows our Raven the path to tame him.”

Agnes Dodd looked up from the computer keyboard, glared, and then removed the half-glasses from the tip of her nose, allowing them to dangle at the end of the gold chain around her neck. The pinch of disapproval set her mouth, indicating to Trev that she was working up to her usual dry set-down. The best course of action when that look was on her face was to sidestep. Oh, she’d find a way to deliver her upbraid, but this made her work for it, was merely one move in their perverse game of cat and mouse. Only, as he flashed her his megawatt smile, he pondered who was really the cat and who was the mouse.

He headed her off at the pass by asking, “Where’s Julian?”

“Harrumph.” Her black eyes flashed, a glacial stare that had Mershan secretaries fainting in terror when Agnes was in residence at corporate headquarters. Playing the game, she ignored his question and picked up her steno pad and pencil. Any other secretary used one of a dozen gadgets that were really baby computers designed for the palm of her hand. Not Agnes. She disdainfully said newfangled things broke too easily. If her pencil point broke she could sharpen it and go back to work.

“Funny.” Following him into the office, she finally deigned to reply. “That was the same thing I heard from Lord Starkadder when he came in before lunchtime. ‘Where’s Trevelyn?’” she mimicked Julian’s hint of an accent.

The accent was just one of the mysteries about Julian
Starkadder, who wasn’t really a lord as Agnes joked; it tended to shift slightly, making discernment of where he was from impossible. No one knew much about Julian’s past, and he clearly preferred it to remain that way.

At times, Trevelyn resented Desmond’s closeness to the man. With so much weighing upon his shoulders, Des needed a confidant, a friend. In some ways, his bond with Julian ran deeper than blood ties. Des had been both a brother and a father to Jago and Trev both; thus he supposed it natural that Des was protective, shielding them from the dirtier sides of big business. But Julian was privy to all of Desmond’s darker dealings.

“So, where is Julian?”

Agnes’s chest rose and fell with her dry, “Ha ha. That one only tells you what he wants you to know. Surely you’ve learnt that by now.”

“Hmm. I wonder if I can enroll in his Handling Agnes 101 class.” Trev set his white bag on the desk and then went to pour a glass of ice water from the carafe on the sideboard. “So, other than Julian isn’t about, anything else I need to know?”

Agnes wiggled her pencil back and forth, its eraser annoyingly tapping her pad about every third time. “Dr. Hackenbush—”

“Hack
sell
,” he stressed.

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Whatever. I think a doctor should have more sense than to have ‘hack’ as part of his name. My opinion, but it just doesn’t instill trust. I mean, would you go to a dentist named Dr. Pain—?”

“Agnes,” Trev growled in warning.

“Very well. The receptionist for Dr. Hacksell called and asked if you were going to keep your appointment. Judging from your doggie bag, I see you have. Did you get a shot?” she asked, a smile lighting her face.

“Sadistic woman, taking glee in my misery. Where did Des hire you from again? Nazis-R-Us?” He opened the bag and dumped its contents on the desktop.

Agnes continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “The banking issue was handled on my way in. All this moving money from Mershan to Trident Ventures and then to Sinclair, Ltd., is a bloody headache. Aside from that…the decorator confirmed he’s coming in the morning to measure the office, though I have no idea what to tell him about that.” With a clear question in mind, she pointed her pencil toward the corner where the rocking horse sat before a huge window. “Not
de rigueur
for the perfect office image.”

“It stays.”

“Preparing for your second childhood, me boyo?” she kidded, smug. “You plan to inform Desmond how much you paid for that trinket?”

Trev ruffled through several papers neatly stacked on the side of his desk, seeing nothing urgent. “Mark it down under expenses for the Montgomerie Enterprises takeover.”

“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 implying 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.