A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing (5 page)

“Your…date,” the handsome redhead tacked on.

Offering a faint smile, Cian studied him with pale green eyes. On the surface, the man displayed perfect equanimity, but Trev sensed a territorial wariness as he offered his hand. Trev didn’t blame Montgomerie; any man attaching himself out of the blue to his own little sister would naturally draw suspicion. And given Raven’s past, Trev imagined his perceived playboy persona didn’t sit well.

Cian’s hand was firm and dry; the man gave a hard squeeze, signaling a bid for dominance. Trev almost laughed. Undaunted, he returned the grip measure-for-measure, not about to give ground to the grandson of Sean Montgomerie, the man who had driven his father to take his life. At the same time, Trev felt a peculiar surge of grudging respect flood through him, and knew under other circumstances they likely could be good friends. There was an air about Cian that made Trev think of Des. His older brother and Cian were cut from the same fabric: family and business before all else. But Trev shrugged the thought aside. There was no room in his plans for them.

“So, have you come for the auction?” Cian asked, his pale eyes flashing with challenge.

Trev knew Raven’s brother meant to intimidate him with all his wealth and power, but it didn’t work. As Trev had come of age and started to shoulder some of the burdens of Mershan International, his brother Des had recognized his killer instinct and put him in charge of loans. Yes, Cian was the power behind Montgomerie Enterprises, but Trev had lost track of how many CEOs had come begging him for time or an extension. He wondered if, when the Montgomerie Enterprises house of cards came tumbling down, this man would come begging.

Meeting Cian’s stare, Trev returned it with a smile. “No. I came for Raven.”

Yes, he’d come for Raven, and nothing would prevent him from taking her. Trev was stunned how strongly he intended that comment—along the lines of a medieval warrior claiming his lady from a high, well-defended tower. That unforeseen intensity rattled him. But then, understandably, it did the same to Cian. Those dark red brows lifted ever so slightly, the man’s pale eyes shifting to Raven, assessing her reaction to this unexpected situation, and then back to Trev.

“I’ve always admired a man who knows what he wants and lets nothing stand in his way,” he finally said. “That goes double for one smart enough to see the treasures my sisters are.”

Cian’s barb was directed toward Beechcroft, who was still hovering close to the group; but it also spoke to how much Cian adored Raven, was a clear warning Trev would face a bitter enemy if he hurt her. Well, she
would
be hurt—her twin in Kentucky and older sister in Scotland, too. All three Montgomerie girls were roadkill under the wheels of vengeance. When the dust settled, Cian Montgomerie would indeed be the bitterest of foes. The Mershan-Montgomerie juggernaut had been set into motion long ago.

Yes, taking Raven, using her to get next to Cian and the daily operations of Montgomerie Enterprises had been part of Desmond’s plans for some time. Currently Jago was in Kentucky, and Des was in Scotland doing his part. They would avenge their father’s suicide through seduction, betrayal and corporate overthrow, no matter the cost. Des had worked his whole life to keep their family
together, easing the burdens of their sudden grinding poverty. Now, after decades of work and maneuvering, the Mershan brothers were finally set to extract justice.

Oddly, Trev was disquieted by unexpected regret bubbling up within him. Developing a conscience at this late date was a bloody nuisance. It pissed him off royally. No matter the circumstances, he’d prided himself on always being in charge. When had the power slipped through his hands? Perhaps it was when Raven asked if he was the devil, looking up at him with those huge amber eyes. His drive to possess her was a poison coursing through him, one that might possibly see him undone—if he permitted it.

Forcing a slow breath, he vowed to reclaim the advantage. “Yes, only a fool would fail to see what a prize Raven is,” he concurred. “But I am no fool. Like a warrior of old, I’ll do whatever it takes to win the hand of this fair lady.”

Inclining his head in approval, Cian conceded a draw. Trev suppressed a grin and turned to Raven, allowing his eyes to roll over her in a manner of proud possession. He slid his arm around her waist and gently urged her closer to his side. Without doubt, he knew what her family saw: an alpha male silently staking his claim. And though most females would balk at the concept, men would understand. They would believe she was his.

This charade had popped into his mind originally as a means for Raven to save face before Beechcroft; he’d recognized the wound to her pride and wanted to ram his fist into the man’s smug, supercilious face. The stratagem had seemed particularly appropriate after receiving that tarot card with The Lovers, even if the fortune had been silly:
The lamb often proves stronger than the wolf.
But one thing about that fortune had given him pause: Raven was, in his mind, the lamb that he’d planned to cut from the flock.

Trev suffered a sudden sense of Fate. In his life, he
never questioned the ebb and flow of the cosmos, never debated metaphysical questions. He was a materialistic person who thrived in the here and now. Never once had he asked the meaning of life, never once wondered if he could fall in love. But—

Shattering Trev’s thoughts, Alec Beechcroft spoke. “Have you known Raven long, Sinclair?”

Trev turned to take the measure of the man who’d once been married to Raven, who’d been too dim-witted to realize his fortune. He rarely wasted time on someone so dense, but he warmed to dressing this man down. There was a discordant note about the fellow. Trev had never understood how fingernails on a blackboard could make others cringe, yet he was getting the same effect now from Beechcroft.

Oh, Alec was handsome, but then Trev would expect nothing less of a man who could attract Raven. But he already showed signs of aging. Also, Trev pegged him as so vain that he would count every hair he found on his comb and spend more time before the mirror worrying about wrinkles than his wife did; he likely paid a small fortune on products to minimize the march of time. Trev stared at Alec, not disguising the mix of arrogance, condescension and loathing he evoked.

“Not long,” he finally replied.

Taking umbrage at Trev’s tone, and the other man took a step closer. “Precisely where did you meet?”

“Alec, really!” Raven snapped. “My love life is hardly your concern. Isn’t that right, Ellen? As for everyone else…well…” She paused just long enough for Trev to fear she was about to give away the game. “Sorry to spring this on you, but…it came up rather suddenly.”

Trevelyn fought back admiration. She wasn’t comfortable lying, but she also had no intention of giving Beechcroft any satisfaction.

Curling her hand around Trev’s upper arm, Raven flashed the group a dazzling smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse
us, I want to show Trevelyn the items up for auction. Perhaps something will take his fancy and he’ll bid.” She winked at her brother. “I know that’ll make Cian happy.” She then led Trev around the edge of the milling crowd toward the room arranged with the items displayed for auction.

She smiled and nodded at the guests they strolled past, all eyes upon them, the stares lingering, envious. Trev knew they were a striking couple. Even so, he could tell Raven was unnerved by all the attention and struggling to pretend otherwise. He wanted to shatter her control. Yes, the Big Bad Wolf had come knocking, and there was no more hiding within the cocoon she had spun around her.

“I wish to thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” she began as they entered the large display alcove.

He corrected, “Trev or Trevelyn—whichever you prefer.”

She stopped before a huge rocking horse, dropped her hand and turned to face him. “The question, I suppose, is which do
you
prefer?”

“Trev is what most people call me,” he temporized.

Raven bestowed upon him a sphinxlike smile. “That’s not precisely the answer to my question.”

“Are you always so precise?” Trev watched Raven place her hand on the black mane of the rocking horse and slowly stroke its length. He swallowed hard, surprised how his whole body tensed at the sensual grace of such a casual gesture. Her hands weren’t small or delicate, weren’t beautiful hands, but instead showed signs of use. They didn’t belong to the image of a pampered granddaughter of Sean Montgomerie, which had lived in his mind for this past year. They were strong hands he could almost feel moving over
him.

“There’s…comfort in being precise.” She was still stroking the horse, using it as a magician’s misdirection with her inquiry. “So, how do
you
like to be addressed?”

While he’d rather Raven were touching him, Trev found contentment in studying her, soaking up the small nuances of being with her and the magic of the night. “Most people tend to shorten names, so Trev works. However, I rather enjoyed the way you said my full name.”

Her expression was radiant as she met his eyes. “Trevelyn it is, then. Sounds like a name that would belong to one of King Arthur’s knights. Sir Trevelyn upon a quest.
Do
you have a quest, Sir Trevelyn?”

He rocked back lightly on his heels, restless to touch her but restraining himself. “You might say that,” he admitted.

“One doesn’t meet many Trevelyns. Things which are unique should be treasured,” she proposed. Unable to maintain eye contact, she looked back at the horse. “Such as this. Isn’t it beautiful? Amazing workmanship. The mane and tail are real horse hair. And the eyes…Look closely. They’re blue opals, bought rough cut then polished to the proper shape. See how the green inclusions appear to shift and change, like the iris of an eye? In bright light, it’s as though these eyes follow you to any angle of the room, almost as if they’re alive. The saddle is hand-tooled, and the fittings and stirrups are all sterling silver. It’s done in the style of a Victorian rocking horse, but created with the reality and size of a carousel pony. A child’s fantasy come to life.”

The dappled gray rocking horse with black mane and tail was indeed a wondrous creation, but everything seemed hazy and out of focus as Trev watched her. The fantasy that had come to life was Raven. Her expression reminded him of a child at Christmas, espying a special toy, one too expensive to wish for.

In a flash, Trev saw the beautiful horse sitting before a Christmas tree, the image so strong it shocked him. The past and the future warred for dominance, and the muscles in his jaw flexed as he fought against surging emotion. Raven would never understand, but Christmas in
his childhood hadn’t seen St. Nick answering any wishes. His mother had struggled hard to provide. Too vividly Trev recalled pressing his nose against a fancy department store window, dreaming St. Nicholas would bring him just a few of the wondrous gifts on display. But Santa Claus never heard the wishes of poor children. What few presents they found under the tree came from Des, even though he was little more than a child himself. Memories caused a fleeting smile to touch his lips, memories of Des leaving the price tags on presents, proud they were new and not hand-me-downs. Even then, they were practical items: jeans, shoes, a new coat. Never anything so frivolous—so
magical
—as this rocking horse.

“I’m sorry to see the horse sold. There’s something extraordinary about it. Brishen created it,” Raven informed him. But then, as she detected the change in his mood, her eyes darkened.

Instead of shaking her from the safe world she worked so hard to exist in, as the darkness roiling within his soul begged him, he slid his hands into his pants pockets. That also kept him from reaching for her. “Ah, the blueeyed Gypsy with your sister? Gypsies don’t usually have blue eyes.”

Her whole face brightened. “Brishen is rare, unique in many ways. How many
vampire hunters
do you know?”

Still in the grips of the old pain, Trev forced himself not to smile in response. He hated the power she held over him, as though she were the sun and had the ability to drive away the black clouds in his heart. “Vampire hunter?” he echoed. He recalled reading a note by Julian regarding Brishen Sagari, but had thought it a joke. “You’re kidding.”

Raven laughed, and the sound shimmered over his skin and flooded his brain. Trev was beginning to suspect Raven was indeed a witch. Despite piles of pictures and years of reports, he’d undervalued this woman. He was coming to see that his arrogance with females had
caused him to be a bloody fool. Agnes would smirk and her eyes twinkle with an
I-told-you-so.

“I’m never quite sure. At times I think he’s just pulling my leg; others strike me that he’s dead serious. Those blue eyes come from his mother—who was not Rom, so I was told. I never had the chance to meet her. She died, hit by a drunk driver when Brishen was very small. She must’ve been a very special woman.”

Trev didn’t press for details, already aware that Brishen’s father had been sent to jail for manslaughter. In Julian’s opinion the verdict had been harsher than circumstances warranted, simply because Victor Sagari was a Gypsy. Also because of prejudice, Scotland Yard hadn’t applied themselves to solving the hit-and-run death of his wife. Brishen’s father succeeded where the detectives failed: he’d tracked the rich bastard to a pub one rainy night. When confronted, the driver had broken a bottle and attacked. Victor was only defending himself; however, it hadn’t come out like that in court. A Gypsy in a barroom brawl, out to avenge his wife’s death? The jury had deliberated a short period before returning a verdict of twenty-five years’ hard time—likely a fate worse than death to a Gypsy used to a life of roaming. Sagari died three years later, stabbed by a fellow inmate. Brishen had been raised by his grandmother in a Romani caravan…and Trev and the handsome Gypsy had more in common than people would ever suspect.

Unable to keep the swirling emotions at bay, it was Trev’s turn to avoid meeting Raven’s curious gaze. Looking away, he pretended to examine the craftsmanship of the pony. “Yes, beautiful work, done with loving detail. He’s a very talented artist.”

“I pray it goes to someone nice. God, I hope Alec doesn’t buy it. I think I’ll be sick if he buys it for his wife.” Once more she stroked the mane. “It deserves to go to someone who will love it.”

To someone who believes in dreams,
Trev thought.

“Why not buy it yourself?” he asked, intrigued by what her answer would be. With Montgomerie money, she could buy the building and everything in it.

“Ah, you fell for the myth of Midas Montgomerie’s grandchildren. In spite of the reputation of my family’s vast wealth, I live on modest means. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.” Her fingers flexed around the pony’s reins, awaiting Trev’s answer. This time she didn’t avoid his stare, but pinned him with those probing eyes.

He started to suggest she was Cinderella in reverse, but bit the comment back. Wolves, Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks—he was falling into the trap of thinking with fairy-tale metaphors, which was whimsical nonsense for a man on a mission. This night was strange enough without trotting out the Brothers Grimm.

“I don’t judge a person by rumors—especially not rumors about their upbringing.” Trying to keep his hands from curling into fists, Trev removed them from his pants pockets. “An adult defines him- or herself, and that’s what I judge.”

“Yes,” Raven breathed. “It’s how we face life that counts.”

Trev couldn’t resist. “Or the way we hide from it.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Obviously you know a lot about the Montgomeries, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, a hint of frosty distrust in her tone. “That’s an unfair advantage.”

“Trevelyn,
remember?” He stepped over to the fortuneteller booth. “Is everything here up for auction?” Placing a hand on each edge, he leaned closer to study the mannequin. The poignant quality of the dummy touched him on a level he couldn’t explain. The face seemed so familiar. “I want this.”