A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing Read online

  She drew a long, pained breath before continuing. “See? I told you this dress is not me. And that’s the truth. Basically I’m a coward, not well equipped to deal with this world and its harsh realities. People joke the Montgomerie sisters are born of warrior stock. I think that gene is missing in me. So, one night a year I pull on a fancy dress and go dancing at a pretty ball. Then I’m content to go home to my pumpkin. I live alone in a tiny cottage and spend my days in jeans and baggy sweaters. Often, I lose myself in painting for hours on end. Brishen accepts me as I am. Most men wouldn’t.”

  “Happy to go home to your pumpkin?” Trev pressed. “Or do you settle for being content? There’s a difference, Red.”

  She spun on her heel without answering and headed back toward the rocking horse. The auction was beginning.

  Trev watched her go. “Pumpkins be damned,” he said, hungry as a wolf. “Time for me to go into my huffing and puffing act, I suppose. Sorry, Red, but you’re in the wrong damn fairy tale.”

  Chapter Seven

  While observing the proceedings of the auction, Trev sipped a whisky neat. He relished the soothing sensation of The Macallan, a scotch that had gained widespread popularity over the last decade. The brand was giving the old guard a run for their money, winning awards left and right. He supposed that was why he appreciated the liquor so much: he had a soft spot for a quality underdog, and the whiskey’s sudden prosperity almost paralleled the Mershan brothers’ rise to power. Finishing off his drink, he absently placed the glass on the tray of a passing waiter.

  At the front of the hall, Cian stood before the lots, giving a little provenance for each in turn—who donated or created it—along with the value of the item, all geared to prod people to open their checkbooks. Some pieces were antiques contributed by other patrons of the orphanage. About a third came from regional artists: the Montgomeries were offering local talent a showcase through the charity.

  Raven took a position on the opposite side of each item, beautiful window dressing, but once the actual bidding began, both Montgomeries stepped back and allowed the Christie’s auctioneer to take over. A prettily staged show. But the whole affair was sadly ironic, and it rankled Trev. He thought of three little boys who’d been driven into deepest poverty because of Sean Montgomerie’s ruthless and uncaring actions. No help had been offered by “Midas” Montgomerie to the Mershan sons. Which only firmed up Trev’s drive to take back what had been stolen from them all those years ago.

  Focused on tracking Raven, he was surprised when a feminine hand curled around his bicep. Glancing to his right he saw Paganne. She was grinning up at him, her chocolate brown eyes flashing with mischief and a come-hither look. The imp. She was going to probe him while her sister was away, test if she could turn his head.

  “I rather admire how you handled Alec. Very neatly done,” she remarked.

  “Won’t that handsome blue-eyed Gypsy get in a dither if he finds you on my arm?” Trev replied. He was unconcerned about the possibility, but wanted to judge Paganne’s reaction.

  “He excused himself for a smoke. Nasty habit.” Raven’s sister rolled her eyes. “While the cat’s away puffing, he has to expect the mouse might get playful. Still, perhaps if he challenged you to a duel at dawn or even fisticuffs—something romantic and dashing—I might think him truly serious about me. More likely, he’ll just call you some Gypsy insult and then threaten to have his gran curse you. And bet on it: she would. Something very dire, too—along the lines of all your hair falling out or your manhood shriveling up. Men tend to take those threats seriously.”

  “Understandably,” Trev replied. “We’re touchy about our hair and well…” He gave a comical glance downward.

  Paganne chewed at the corner of her lip and looked him over, deviltry and curiosity barely contained. “So, where did you meet Raven?”

  Trev almost chuckled. “I met her at the candy store…”

  Raven’s sister started to laugh but lightly bit her lower lip instead. “Cute. ‘You turned around and smiled at her’? I get the picture. Just because the song came out before I was born doesn’t mean I haven’t heard it. Asha, Raven’s twin—But oh, you already know she has a twin, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do—lighter colored hair, and presently lives in Kentucky,” he replied, getting a kick out of their game.

  Paganne’s perfectly arched brows lifted in surprise, because she still didn’t fully believe he’d known Raven before tonight. “Then, she’s told you about the Wurlitzer?”

  “A jukebox? Uh, no. I don’t think we’ve progressed that far. We’ve had other things on our minds.” He tried to recall if Julian had mentioned anything in his reports. Nothing. But then he hadn’t been going over Asha’s bio, gleaning small details with the same intensity that he had Raven’s.

  “Well, there’s one in The Windmill. That’s a—”

  “A restaurant Asha owns,” Trev supplied.

  “Yes. It has a Wurlitzer, and the thing is loaded with songs mostly from nineteen sixty-four. When my mum was alive, I spent my summers in Kentucky, thus I’ve heard ‘Leader of the Pack’ a time or three.” Her huge eyes flashed in challenge. “So, Mr. Tall, Dark and Mysterious, are you going to tell me where your path crossed my sister’s? I shall get it out of Raven anyway. She never keeps secrets from me.”

  The corner of Trev’s mouth lifted in a faint taunt. “She didn’t tell you about me, did she?”

  Paganne tilted her head side to side, weighing that. “Possibly there was simply nothing to tell—until you magically appeared from out of nowhere, like some knight in shining armor. Whatever your reasons, you presented Raven with the way to save face before Jerkoff. That alone earns you a merit badge in my eyes.” She turned and poked an index finger into Trev’s chest. “Be that as it may, you hurt her and I shall take a knife to you.”

  Trev couldn’t resist. “You mean that Pictish knife your grandmother gave you when you turned twenty-one?”

  Astonishment filled her features. Paganne’s brown eyes widened and she stared, clearly reevaluating her opinion of him. Her mouth opened to say something, but he could tell she was nonplused. Then those eyes narrowed on him, and it felt as though she could see inside his black heart.

  “I’m not sure I like you, Trevelyn Sinclair. You’re like some big alpha wolf that’s taken human form, looked my sister up and down and licked your chops, viewing her as your next meal. If that’s your game, think thrice. It’s a dangerous one.”

  “They’re about to start the bidding on my pony!” Brishen said, returning to Paganne’s side. Leaning a little forward, he checked their faces. One black brow lifted, a silent comment about Paganne’s grip on Trev’s arm.

  Wickedly Paganne winked at Trev, and then looked back at the Gypsy. “You jealous?”

  “He stands beside you, pretty Paganne, but his eyes stay glued on our Raven.” Brishen gave a small nod. “It does you good, for a change, to have a man not fall at your feet.”

  After Cian introduced the rocking horse, listing all the details that made the item a one-of-a-kind treasure, Raven left the auction area. A tension released in Trev: He’d been afraid he’d pushed her too far earlier and destroyed the progress he’d made getting close to her. But she threaded through the people and straight to his side, linked her arm through his and then tilted forward to frown at her little sister.

  Paganne was unrepentant, holding his other arm. “Chill, sis. Just testing. He passes. No rust or dirt on this armor.”

  “Does anyone want to open the bidding?” the auctioneer called out, running his gaze around the room.

  “Hush, jealous women. They’ve started,” Brishen chided. He was joking, but suppressed anxiety was apparent on his face.

  A man to the right bid five hundred pounds. Another raised the total to seven. A woman made it eight. Then, to the left, a man called for one thousand. Trev knew without looking who had made the offer; Raven’s hand had spasmed on his arm. Those nervous fingers relaxed when a fourth man
chimed in offering twelve hundred, which was quickly raised to fifteen from someone in the back.

  The very pregnant Ellen Beechcroft nudged her husband, who sang out loudly, “Two thousand!”

  Once again, Raven’s fingers bit into Trev’s muscles. Trev glanced to the side to see her expression. She was maintaining a serene mask, and likely most people didn’t notice her agony, but it was clear to him.

  The auctioneer glanced around. “Do I hear twenty-one hundred? This item is a dream come true for that special child. Imagine their bright eyes when your little tyke awakens Christmas morn to see this heirloom-quality rocking horse. Priceless!”

  The crowd seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next bid. There was only silence and the storm outside.

  Her hand on her basketball-shaped belly, Ellen Beechcroft grinned and hugged her husband, and the pompous bastard puffed up his chest as if he were buying her the Hope Diamond. In an odd way, Trev felt sorry for her. He wondered if she had any idea Beechcroft wasn’t buying the horse for their baby, but to show off in front of Raven and her family. The man was grandstanding.

  “Any more bids? Come, come! This lifelike horse is handcrafted, with silver fittings for bridle and stirrups. The eyes are deep blue opals, alone valued at twice the current bid. This is a gift for your children today and for their children tomorrow. A truly rare treasure. But, no further bids? Very well. Going once…”

  Raven vibrated, the tremor moving through her hand and into Trev’s arm. At the corner of her eye was an unshed tear.

  “Going twice…”

  Ellen Beechcroft bounced on her feet, giddy with anticipation.

  “Five thousand!” Trev called out, causing all heads to turn—including Raven’s. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering. Her expression was so poignant, something inside Trev’s chest shifted, and he experienced a tightness he’d never before known.

  “The gentleman offers five thousand pounds. Obviously a man who understands dreams.” The auctioneer nodded, pleased. “Do I hear six? If I don’t hear six…going once—”

  “Six,” Alec Beechcroft barked.

  Trev was only warming up. “Seven!”

  The auctioneer gave him a nod of approval. “Our lover of dreams says seven. Is there an eight?”

  “Eight,” Beechcroft growled, glaring at Trev.

  “If looks could kill.” Trev laughed—then upped the amount. “Ten!”

  That elicited a ripple of murmuring through the crowd. People glanced between the two men determined to own the rocking horse.

  Beechcroft’s face flushed red with anger. His wife’s mouth was hanging open, and she glanced uneasily toward Raven and then back to her husband, confused. She clearly wanted the horse, but not quite sure it was worth this rising price.

  “Fifteen,” Alec countered, plainly set on winning.

  But the bastard hadn’t run into a Mershan before. Mershans didn’t fool around. “Fifty thousand pounds!” Trev called out. Let Beechcroft trump that.

  The crowd gasped then began a loud hubbub, wondering who Trev was and if Alec would counter. Better sense not being his strong suit, the idiot fully intended on doing just that. He took a step forward and opened his mouth, but his wife caught his sleeve and jerked, hard. Strident words were traded by the couple, and Beechcroft didn’t tender a counterbid. The auctioneer looked at him. Alec’s mouth compressed into a deep frown, but finally he gave his head a shake.

  “Going once at fifty thousand pounds. Twice. Sold—to the gentleman who cherishes dreams.” The auctioneer touched his fingers to his forehead in a salute. Part of the crowd clapped to say well done.

  Raven hugged Trev’s arm and leaned against him, almost hiding her face. After a moment she lifted her gaze to him. Tears were still in her eyes, but they were tears of happiness. Again, he became lost in her glistening gaze, to the point everything else simply faded away. As the crystalline droplets streaked down her cheeks, his hand raised to gently cup her exquisite face. Trev brushed the fallen tear away with his thumb pad—craved to kiss them away.

  Paganne tugged on his other arm, drawing his attention. “I could kiss you!” she said.

  “Forget you—I’m going to kiss him!” Brishen stepped in front of Paganne and did just that. He grabbed Trev in a bear hug and then planted a noisy kiss on the side of his face. “Do you know what you just did?”

  Trev chuckled, unsure. “Bought a wooden horse, I presumed.”

  “You just made me the artist of a rocking pony that sold for fifty thousand pounds! That puts me on the map. You might be a Gadjo, but you’re a damn pretty one. Maybe you have a little Roma blood in your beautiful veins, after all, eh?”

  Trev reflected upon what the sale meant to Sagari, though he hadn’t considered it during the bidding. Artists and antique dealers coveted high sales, for they set the bar for future asking prices. “You’re welcome—but to keep gossip down, please hold the kisses,” he joked.

  Cian rushed over and took Trev’s hand, giving a firm shake of respect; this time there was no power play. “Well, if it were Christmas I’d call you St. Nick. You really gave our stalwart vampire killer a big boost.” He handed Brishen a business card. “Lee Grey-Morton, the auctioneer, wants to talk to you once the auction is settled. He has connections to galleries in London and Manchester that might be interested in doing a one-man show for your carousel ponies and rocking horses. He says they’re very big in part of the Middle East. Sheiks have deep pockets, and seem to have an appetite for that sort of work.”

  Raven squeezed Trev’s arm. “Trevelyn, I need to go fix my face. Thank you so much for buying the horse. You did a very special deed, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor.”

  Trev nodded, reluctant to let her escape from the magic of the moment. “Hurry back. I’d like to get a couple slow dances in before the evening is over.”

  Lee Grey-Morton walked up and introduced himself, shaking Trev’s hand and congratulating him on his win. Reaching into his pocket, Trev pulled out a gold business card case, instructing him to bill the office, and that a bank draft would be issued first thing in the morning; the horse could be delivered to that address as well. The grayhaired man turned next to Brishen and began discussing his work, how he thought he could get a show lined up for the Gypsy, and that once there were some sales and attention he might bring the items into a Manchester gallery—or possibly London.

  Cian turned to Trev and grinned. “I’m warming to your style, Sinclair. You spiked Alec’s guns twice tonight, quite effectively both times. Get Raven to bring you to supper at Colford…soon.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” Trev replied with mixed emotions. This had been his objective from the start: get close to Cian Montgomerie to monitor if Cian was aware that someone was quietly buying up Montgomerie Enterprises stock. That part of the plan was heading in the right direction. However, Trev admitted, he now owned a grudging curiosity to see Raven in a family situation, and that had nothing to do with his brothers’ goals.

  Clearly still stunned, Brishen watched the auctioneer stride away. “I am so didlo.”

  Paganne grinned. “You just made a big splash, having your pony go for a king’s ransom. How does that make you crazy?”

  Brishen glanced at Trev. “I thank you for the honor—though I know it wasn’t the pony you were really bidding on.”

  “Raven showed me the horse earlier. It’s worth the price.” Trev hadn’t meant to harm the Gypsy with his bidding, only to keep the horse from Beechcroft and to please Raven. “You were happy just a couple minutes ago,” he pointed out, seeing Brishen looked crestfallen.

  “Oh, aye. Then I went and made a bloody fool of myself by agreeing the auctioneer and his art gallery pal could meet me at my studio to discuss possible future sales.”

  Trev grinned. “And that deflates you? Sounds like a reason to celebrate.”

  “No.” Brishen tried to summon a laugh. “That makes me the worst kind of idiot. I don’t have a friggin’ studio. And who am I kidding? No G
adjo is going to want a Gypsy anywhere near their fancy gallery.”

  Trev stared at the younger man, understanding his frustration only too well, though he doubted Sagari would believe it. “When are they coming?”

  “In a week. A week, a month…it makes no difference. I am screwed!” He threw up his hands in resignation.

  Trev reached out and patted Brishen on the arm. “A lot can happen in a week.” He reflected upon the whole night, and extraordinarily realized he wasn’t the same person who’d driven up this evening. He wasn’t sure he liked the change, either. It had been too abrupt; it wasn’t comfortable to be a stranger to yourself. Still, he was no coward to hide from the fact. “Hell, a lot can happen in a few hours. Life takes strange turns when you least expect it.”

  Brishen Sagari’s brows lifted. “So says the man who drives a Lamborghini.”

  “Ah, but remember. They say to never judge books by covers.”

  “True—even if that’s how Gypsies are judged, eh?” Sagari’s expression grew more intense.

  Trev shook his head. “Only a fool would, and I’m no fool,” he replied, though Agnes Dodd might dispute it. But his secretary wasn’t there to gloat or contradict him.

  Distracted, Trevelyn nonetheless felt warning bells go off as he caught sight of Alec Beechcroft on the far side of the room. The man was watching the arched entrance that led to the lounges, the same doorway Raven had gone through only minutes before. The man’s fingers flexed around his glass to the point Trev feared it might shatter. His mask of politeness down, revealed was a raw, blistering hatred that seemed ludicrous for a man who had remarried. The way Beechcroft glared it was as though he could see through the wall, and the strength of his malevolent regard sent a chill up Trev’s spine.

  “Fingernails on a blackboard,” he muttered lowly enough that his words didn’t carry. Trev could see how having Raven and losing her might push a man to the limit, but the man’s feelings were unfounded—and unwanted. “Too bloody bad, berk. You blew your chance. It’s past time to step aside and allow another man—a better man—into her life.”