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Authors: Deborah MacGillivray

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BOOK: A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing
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“Your wolf. He comes, little Raven. My Gypsy blood tells me this.” Her friend’s blue eyes regarded her with a seriousness that stopped Raven’s laughter in her throat. “I don’t think anything can stand in his way.”

Raven fingered the cards tucked behind her; then she looked through the glass front of the hall, watching her brothers accost the driver of the expensive black car, who had started to get out. He was tall and elegantly
dressed. Rarely had she seen a man so suited to wear a tuxedo. The evening breeze ruffled his blue-black hair, pushing a couple curls to fall over a high, intelligent forehead. In a casual gesture he brushed them back and then turned to stare into the front of the building…to look at
her.

Such a thought was silly. The tinted window had a mirror reflection on the outside, similar to one-way glass; Raven doubted the stranger could see her. Nonetheless, it felt as if their eyes locked and held. He had predator’s eyes. From this distance it was hard for her to discern their color, but they had force, and a power to mesmerize. Raven’s heart slowed, then almost stopped. A breathless sensation hit her. This was a man who wouldn’t let anything stand in his way.

Chapter Three

Trevelyn had followed the circular driveway to the front of the massive stone building. In the dusk, radiant with the soft amber lights inside and out, the large hall was rendered magical in appearance, as if Trev had taken the wrong cutoff and ended up in Fairyland. Raven’s magic. She’d created this wonderland to see the gala a success.

Trev’s jaw muscles flexed. A peculiar sense of being off-kilter pulsed through his blood. Just a keenness for the hunt, he told himself.

No, that was a lie. This was something different. And he didn’t think he liked it.

He glanced at his gold Rolex.
Too early.
The crowd coming tonight would, of course, be fashionably late. For his plans to work he needed to blend in and not draw the attention of the rest of the Montgomerie clan. From Julian’s reports he knew the family tended to rally protectively around Raven, since her life had taken several bumps over the past couple of years. If they viewed him as a threat to her, they’d close ranks, making Trev’s task harder.

It wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t about to let anything stop him. Still, he was antsy and couldn’t wait any longer. Fashion be damned. He was never one to follow the herd.

Catching sight of his face in the Lamborghini’s rearview mirror, he pushed two errant curls off his forehead. Without being vain, he knew he was a handsome man—above handsome. The term drop-dead sexy had been applied to him more than a few times. He was a man that women responded to on many levels.

“Poor Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t stand a chance,” he said to his reflection. And it was the bloody truth. He wouldn’t allow her one. Every morning for the past month he’d stared at the gold-embossed vellum invitation to this, the Montgomerie Enterprises charity gala, and it was the last thing he looked at before turning out the light at night. He’d never felt such intense anticipation.

The cell phone chirped, causing Trev to frown. He almost ignored it, wanting to stay focused on what lay ahead, but supposed it might be Desmond or Jago checking in. He’d e-mailed his brothers just before he left the office, letting them know he was on his way to the gala. He also wanted to make sure they, too, had arrived safely at their destinations.

With a sigh, he slapped the speaker button. “Trevelyn,” he said, short and to the point.

“Well, who else would I expect to answer your cell, you bloody eejit?” the crabby voice on the other end snapped. Agnes Dodd. The woman
looked
like an Agnes Dodd, too. The bane of his life, she was. And, though he would never admit it, he adored her.

“Can it wait? I’m on my way to that charity affair.”

“Affair?” She snorted, which was unladylike, but then Agnes would never bother to behave as a lady. She was a harpy, Medusa’s second cousin. She was a sixty-three-year-old pain in the bum. Translation: his secretary.

For years he’d had problems keeping a good assistant. They’d fall in love with him and make cakes of themselves until he was forced to fire them. One had nearly turned into a damn stalker! It was a serious problem. Training a new secretary took time, slowing down office efficiency. He needed a gal Friday who had her mind on business and business only. To see Mershan International running smoothly, and with the minimal amount of high drama, his brother Desmond had stuck him with Agnes. The woman surely ran on steroids, never slept, did five times the work of all the other Mershan secretaries…and
tried to be his conscience. Thus the snort. She knew where he was going. And why.

“Save the commentary, Agnes. I presume there’s a purpose to your call—or did you get lonely for my voice?”

“Commentary? Me? Just because I think you’re up to no good? You and your brothers have schemed for years, haven’t you? Plans on paper. Seeing them to fruition in the real world will be another matter. I shan’t wonder these Montgomerie women might teach you Mershan men a trick or two.” She added, “Never underestimate a woman. Any man who does is a fool. Never thought you three were fools, but maybe I was wrong.”

“Agnes.” Trev rolled his eyes. “Unless you have something specific to say, I’m ringing off. You can harangue me to your little heart’s content when I get back to the office.”

“Very well,
Mister
Mershan.” She only took that tone when she was ticked with him. “You forgot to sign the bank drafts for the current stock buyouts. I was supposed to make the transfer first thing in the morning. I guess you were in too big a hurry to go hunt down that poor Montgomerie girl and ruin her life.”

“Agnes…you’re fired,” he said in a tone that would win Donald Trump’s admiration. But it was an empty threat. He’d never admit it to Desmond or Agnes, but she was worth her weight in diamonds. He couldn’t function without her.

The woman chuckled. “Silly boy, you can’t fire me. Only Desmond can do that—as we both know.”

“Agnes, I’m thirty-seven years old. You can’t call me a boy.”

“When you’re as old as I am you can,” she countered.

Trev chuckled. Agnes was like the grandmother he’d never had, and she had no scruples against trying to reform her black sheep of a grandson. She had no chance, however. Tonight he wanted Raven Montgomerie. Nothing and no one would stop him from having her.

“Agnes, if you weren’t such a sourpuss I’d tell you to put your dancing shoes on and get your bum down here to enjoy the beautiful wonderland Raven Montgomerie has created. Who knows, you might find some lonely millionaire who needs someone to boss him about,” he teased.

“Don’t try that sweet charm on me, laddie boy. You’re up to no good, going to break that poor girl’s heart. Shame on you,” his secretary chided.

Trev laughed. “Yeah, shame on me, Agnes. Were the bank drafts the only reason for ringing? I can sign them in the morning—but then you already knew that, and you’re itching to give me a piece of your mind about tonight.”

She sniffed. “Think what you like, dear boy. I’ve given up hope you will see the error of your ways and redeem yourself through a good woman. Actually, there was a different message I was going to pass on. Dr. Hackenbush—”

“Hacksell,” Trev corrected, knowing she got the name wrong deliberately.

“Whatever. He said you missed your appointment. Did you want to reschedule? He said you might consider nasal steroids as an alternative, though they would take time to build up. Considering you’re a pantywaist where needles are concerned, I’m assuming you need a shot for something.”

Trev sighed, allowing the scissor door of his car to open. “Call first thing in the morn and set up another appointment for eleven a.m. Now…good night, Agnes.” He cut her off before she could start in again.

Two young men came rushing over, drooling over the car: Raven’s younger brothers, Skylar and Phelan. They grinned eagerly as he pushed out of the driver’s seat, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know they weren’t thrilled to see
him
; rather the Lamborghini had their full attention.

“Wow, what wheels!” one of the twins said.

“Crazy doors,” the second chimed in. “We told our sister that we were coming out to pretend to be valets so we could park your car.”

“Park?” Trev arched a brow and chuckled.

The second twin offered a big smile. “She did mention something about jail time and embarrassment to the family.”

“Well, we cannot have that.” Trev tossed over his keys. A little bribe to get into the boys’ good graces couldn’t hurt.

The taller twin gaped and then looked at his brother. The one holding the keys said, “You’re kidding, right? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re Mac Montgomerie’s sons. I’ve seen his picture. You look much like your father.” Yes, Trev had seen pictures of Mac—along with the whole Montgomerie Clan. But he wasn’t going to mention where.

“I’m Phelan, and this is my brother Skylar.” Not returning the keys, Phelan stuck out his hand to shake. He leaned back and nudged his twin with an elbow, prompting Skylar to do the same.

Trev accepted both hands and said, “Trevelyn Sinclair.”

Phelan asked, “So, you really mean it—we can take the car for a spin?”

“Sure, enjoy.”

“Me first!” Skylar chirped, making a snatch at the keys.

Phelan quickly pulled them out of reach. “I’m older.”

“I’m prettier,” Skylar argued.

His brother laughed. “I doubt Mr. Sinclair cares.”

“Call me Trev,” Trev spoke up, enjoying their banter. It reminded him of how he himself fussed with Jago. “Go on now.”

He didn’t have to encourage the boys twice. Phelan was soon carefully reversing the car, taking time to check where everything was located. As he did, another vehicle zoomed up from behind and honked—rudely, considering Raven’s brother wasn’t completely blocking the road.
With an exaggerated rev of the engine, the silver Lotus then wheeled around the Lamborghini to park. Skylar rolled down the window and flipped the other driver the bird. Trev smiled as the brothers pulled onto the roadway and flew off down the narrow lane. Then, shrugging, he turned his attention back to the building.

The front of the rental hall was huge panes of tinted glass with a hint of reflection, tawny in the golden torchlight all along the stone walk. First-class all the way—Montgomerie Enterprises’ style. Trev couldn’t help but wonder: His wasn’t the only family touched by the scandal that resulted in his father taking his life. How many others had lost fortunes while Sean Montgomerie had held on to everything? His eyes remained fixed on the elegant hall, staring at the wall of partially reflective glass. Raven Montgomerie was in there; he could sense her. Once more on the prowl, he felt his lips spread into a grin.

“A wolfish grin,” he chuckled.

A flicker before the windows caught his eyes—a woman dressed in vivid red. Though he couldn’t see her face clearly, he knew it was Raven.

“My, what sharp little eyes I have. All the better to see you in that sexy dress, Little Red Riding Hood,” he said under his breath. “And my, my my…She’s even wearing red.”

Thunder rolled in the distance, harbinger of a storm. Good. That suited Trev’s mood. He loved storms, felt almost as if he could call down the lightning and wrap it around him, draw upon that power to refashion the world.

Unable to contain his expectancy any longer, he walked up the creek-stone walkway and into the building, knowing tonight something important was going to happen. He would
make
it happen. Something dangerous.

Chapter Four

“I’d rather be dancing around a campfire with Gypsies,” Raven grumbled, despite the evening being a huge success. A jagged flash of lightning streaked across the night sky, then thunder boomed overhead. She jumped as the whole hall shook.

“But it rains, little Raven. No campfire this night,” Brishen teased, helping himself to champagne. He gestured with the flute to encompass the banquet hall, decorated in the splendor that Montgomerie Enterprises’ money afforded. “You must dance here in this golden wonderland you conjured. ‘Fess up—you’re spooked, waiting for your wolf to come.”

“Bah, humbug,” Raven pretended to scoff. But she hugged herself as her skin turned to gooseflesh. “Teach me to wear a strapless gown,” she added. Still, she knew her choice of attire had nothing to do with the shiver; she recalled the tarot cards with the warning on the back, and that strange feeling of premonition hadn’t left her all evening.

Pleased with the decorations, she admitted they harmonized to achieve her envisioned design. Netting beaded with delicate amber lights hung overhead, creating a fairyland effect. The placement of antique rocking horses, several carousel ponies and carousel benches “borrowed” from LynneAnne’s last shipment from Europe, along with the pièce de résistance clockwork fortune-teller, lent a whimsical, romantic flair. Not that she’d actually set out to conjure this dreamy, sensual tone; that the decor proclaimed the night for lovers made Raven’s restiveness surge, made her lonely in the midst of hundreds of people.

Her mind again summoned images of the cards she’d drawn from the fortune-teller box. Butterflies fluttered within her, half scared by the warning, half wanting to embrace that ripple of danger carried on the rising storm. All her life she had played it safe. Now that she’d recently celebrated her thirtieth birthday, an itchy restlessness crawled just under her skin. It drove her to skate on the edge of the razor, to do something dark and dangerous.

Unsettled and not wanting to reflect upon her urges, she said with a fake smile, “This evening is interminable. And there are still several hours to go. Excuse me while I groan.”

Sharp of hearing, Brishen grinned. “True, but you come from a race of warrior women—so Paganne keeps telling me. You shall endure. Speaking of your luscious sister, I think I’ll go torture myself by slow dancing with her. It’ll be fun to see if the maddening woman lets me put my hands on her arse or keeps shifting them back to her waist.”

Raven chuckled as he winked, then watched her friend chase her youngest sister around the room, trying to catch up with her. A real smile came to her lips when he immediately placed a hand on Paganne’s curvaceous rump and then her sister exaggeratedly moved it. Being a “Meddling Montgomerie” who felt entitled to interfere with her siblings’ love lives, she wished Paganne would wake up and see Brishen right before her nose. The handsome Gypsy would be good for her.

“You’re someone to dispense advice, Miss Busybody,” she admonished herself.

There was no man in her life, and most of the time she didn’t feel any yearning to change that. Her solitary lifestyle permitted her to concentrate on painting. With that one-woman show scheduled for next spring, she needed every spare moment for work. And she had her cats, a midget pony and a one-legged seagull for chitchat. With
that menagerie, who really needed a man? What good were they? Well, outside of backrubs, having someone to take out the trash and chase prowlers away. Who needed a man to hold her late at night while rain pattered on the windows of her bedroom, or to cuddle before the fireplace as it snowed outside…?

A knot of emptiness twisted within Raven, and with a sigh she glanced around the ballroom. Again, her fey intuition brushed her mind—predicting that her life might soon change? What a silly notion.

“I’m too old to believe in knights in shining armor,” she reminded herself.

Yet, each of her sisters had been touched with witch’s blood, knew things, felt things. She did, too. “Only, my blood must come from a dyslexic witch.”
Wrong-way Raven,
her siblings called her. “Always bobbing when I should weave.”

So, why the thrum in her soul that promised tonight would be different?

The gala was beautiful. The theme of Autumn Magic was mysterious and quixotic, and the mood reflected a hint of Halloween, which was only weeks away. She must’ve bought out every peach sorbet and coral rose in Britain and Eastern Europe, and those and sprays of baby’s breath graced the tables with larger bouquets in black wicker baskets placed about. Yes, she’d done a good job organizing the gala, despite having to fight that bitch Melissa Barrington every step of the way.

Raven sent a frown across the room toward the Alfred Hitchcock blonde talking with Cian, the woman’s hand clinging to his arm. Raven knew this possessive attitude irked her brother, so why he kept Melissa on she failed to understand. Ever since Cian’s divorce two years ago, the woman had slapped a target on his back. Her gaze followed him, relentless as a heat-seeking missile.

Melissa, Raven knew, would love to hold court at Cian’s
side at one of these functions, at every Montgomerie Enterprises gala or dinner. His executive secretary, she perceived it as an insult each time Cian asked his sister to take charge as hostess. But Cian continually asked. Raven herself enjoyed decorating, drew great satisfaction from giving each event its own artistic flair—and since she did little else to earn her share of the big dividends her stock paid off every six months, she thought it the least she could contribute. But this time she had a feeling Melissa took greater umbrage than usual. Those calculating, ice blue eyes held a quiet desperation.

“Likely, you’re sharpening daggers to stick in my back when no one’s looking, eh?” Raven flashed Melissa a big fake smile and received one in return, neither woman fooling the other. “Bitch.”

Lightning suddenly streaked overhead, causing Raven to flinch. Its flickering, blue-white brilliance flooded the hall, and the crowd in the center of the room shifted. Dancers swirled, and her vision was drawn to a second table of refreshments being set up. Raven’s eyes locked on a man in a black tuxedo. His back to her, he reached out and accepted a glass from the waiter. Magic—dark magic—thrummed through the air, both alarming and exciting.

Beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Raven’s breath caught and held as the man started to turn. Everything else receded to a shimmering blur. He was close to six feet tall, with shoulders strong and square, if not a bulky, muscular frame. He had an elegant grace, a power about his carriage, the casual arrogance of a man who knew his worth and position in the world. His hair was black—not dark brown but a true blueblack. The style was short on the sides and the top, but rebelliously long in back, brushing the collar of the tux, so thick and wavy that her fingers itched to touch the locks and stroke them.

An odd image suddenly flashed bright as lightning within her mind: a darkened bedroom, rain pounding on the roof, rumpled sheets around her from making love. In this wakening dream she leaned over a man, could almost see his face in the grayish half-light. Handsome—nay, beautiful—he had a blue-black lock of hair that fell rakishly over his forehead. With a poignant smile Raven reached out and twirled it around her finger, staring into his pale green eyes as in slow motion her mouth formed the words, “
I love you.
” She couldn’t breathe as she waited for the words to be returned, to
finally
hear them. They didn’t come. Instead, the man reached up and took a strand of her hair and used it like a tether to pull her down for a kiss. She closed her eyes against the pain, kissing him with all her passion, allowing it to speak to him and praying she could reach this man and make him understand before it was too late.

Too late?

So intense was the vision, so memory-like, it nearly blotted out the party around her. But then thunder boomed, rattling the glass panes and breaking the strange enchantment, and the image in her mind shattered. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Everything inside her coiled, waiting for the stranger across the room to turn. Willing him to turn, waiting to see if his face was the same.

“Old girl, you’re slipping a cog,” she whispered.

Still, Raven continued to stare, couldn’t look away if her life depended upon it. She was compelled to watch as the man slowly rotated and then lifted his glass to his sensual mouth. And, oh boy, did that mouth conjure the vision back, provoke scenes in her mind! Long deep kisses, those lips on her neck, her breasts…A surge of pure, unadulterated lust punched through her body and hit her womb with a hard contraction; her desire was so strong she felt light-headed.

Then he lifted his eyes to focus on her.

I’ll cross these waters now,
I need to cross this ocean of time,
to be with you…

The words from the band’s song wrapped around her, increasing her dizziness. From this distance, and under the muted amber lights, it was hard to be sure of the man’s eye color: not blue, but gray or green maybe. Their force rocked her. Adrenaline buzzed through Raven’s blood, leaving her unable to breathe.

The stranger paused before taking a drink, the corner of his too sensual mouth lifting faintly, smugly. The vexing man was clearly aware of her regard, was cognizant of his effect upon her. His look said she was his for the taking. Irritated, Raven was seized by the sudden urge to march over, snatch that glass from his hand and toss its contents into that maddeningly perfect face.


Strigoi,
” Brishen growled at her side, breaking her thrall. Until he’d spoken, Raven hadn’t been aware the music ended and he’d returned with Paganne in tow.

“Where? Who’s a vampire?” her little sister enquired, squinting around at the people. “I took my contacts out. They were itching my eyes. I suppose I need a new prescription again.”


Strigoi,
” Brishen repeated in a hiss, adding nothing more.

“Vampire?” Raven took her eyes away from the handsome stranger for an instant, wondering who Brishen meant.

Her stranger? Yes, Brishen stared directly at him.

“Have mercy, what’s
he
doing here?” Paganne paled, as champagne sloshed in her glass. “Quick, we have to do something. Make him go away, Brishen.”

Raven felt as if she’d come in for the middle of a play. “Do you know him?”

“Of course I do!” She squinted again. “At least, I think it’s him. He’s paler than the last time I saw him, but yep,
that’s him. Brishen, sic him! Vampire or no, you have leave to drive a stake through his heart.”

Raven’s head spun with confusion, maybe even with sour disappointment that her little sister knew the stranger. Paganne was so heartbreakingly beautiful that men constantly fell for her, though her dear sister remained blithely unaware of that effect. If Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy had met Paganne, you could bet he was hot on her trail. And from the looks of him, her sister didn’t stand a chance. No woman would.

Lightning flared, frighteningly close, followed by thunder that shook the whole building. Lights flickered and nearly winked out before the power came back up, throwing the room into shadow. Then a second starburst exploded against the inky sky. In that heartbeat of eerie illumination, Raven’s eyes once more locked with the stranger’s across the room.

Her heart raced as they remained frozen, spellbound in a splinter of time. Regret pierced Raven that this man wanted her sister. Despite that, her rising hunger for him was undiminished. She was mesmerized by the glittering force of his stare and shocked by the peculiarity of experiencing such violent emotions over someone she’d never seen before.

Never seen before…? Some ghostly hand touched her soul, plucking a faint chord of remembrance.
Had
their paths crossed at some point? Or was this simply one of those touches of déjà vu?

“I stake him for you, my lovely Paganne,” Brishen vowed, full-throttle in his vampire hunter mode. “I stuff garlic down his vile throat, sprinkle him with holy water, and then stake him like the
mulo
he is.”

“Mule?” Strolling up and catching the tail end of the conversation, Cian selected a canapé from the refreshment table and popped it into his mouth.

Brishen shook his head. “A
mulo.
A dead person unclean with vampirism.”

Cian chuckled. “Sorry, stalwart Gypsy, you shan’t stake any of my guests, unclean or not, until after the auction. If a vampire has the blunt for any of the antiques up for bid tonight, he may buy. After he pays”—he grinned—“
then
you may stake him. How’s that?”

“You shouldn’t risk this evil menace to walk amongst us, perhaps touch your beautiful sisters with his dead hands,” Brishen argued.

Cian snagged a glass of champagne to wash down a second hors d’oeuvre, and gave a chuckle. “Oh, my sisters are more than a match for a mere vampire.”

“Dead cert,” Paganne agreed. “However, I want that particular mule-thing exorcised from this party.
Now.
Britt’s not here yet, is she? I don’t want her running into him.”

Raven glanced back to the stranger, fretting now that Britt had gotten entangled. What, had the guy tried to work his way through all her sisters? Feeling mixed emotions, she watched him give a slow sexy smile. All the people and their senseless chatter melted into mist. Dropdead megawatt smiles like his should be illegal. Females were just not equipped to handle how it shorted out their systems. Who was he? How was he involved with her siblings?

Feeling like an idiot for staring, Raven still couldn’t break the contact. No man had ever caused this strong reaction within her, this deep yearning for intimacy, this craving of a primitive, elemental nature. Long ago, however, she’d made it a rule never to date anyone who was involved with any of her sisters. The one time she’d allowed an exception, she’d married him—and lived to regret it. Boy, had she regretted
that
mistake.

“How do you know him?” Raven couldn’t stop the question from popping out.

Cian looked at her with concern, and touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “Are you all right? You’re flushed, a bit glassy-eyed. Perhaps all the preparations for the gala were a bit much?”

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