Wolf In Waiting. Rebecca Flanders

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      CHAPTER ONE

      Victoria

      My name is Victoria St. Clare, and I am a werewolf. Now that we have that out of the way, let me be quick to point out that you would never know I’m a werewolf if you saw me on the street—or anywhere else for that matter. If you were a man, in fact, you’d probably ask me out; quite a few human men do.

      They tell me I’m quite striking looking. I’m tall, five feet nine inches, and slender—one advantage to being a werewolf is that we never have to worry about our figures, what you see is what you get—with long black hair and gray eyes. My ivory complexion is due to the northern climes from which I hail, although I’ve always suspected a few weeks in St. Tropez would do wonders for my coloring, and I have the high cheekbones, patrician nose and full lips which are St. Clare-family characteristics. Many people—humans, that is—tell me I look like a ballet dancer, which I find enormously flattering. I think human ballerinas are some of the most beautiful creatures on earth, and I sometimes try to play up the resemblance by wearing tights and gauze skirts and pulling my hair back in a chignon.

      But I don’t want you to think I’m vain. I am, of course—all werewolves are; we’re an exceptionally good-looking species and proud of it, but that’s not the only reason I told you all this. It’s important that you understand that many preconceptions you might have about werewolves are wrong.

      For one thing, we don’t have hair all over our bodies or have long teeth and claws. For another, we don’t eat humans. Most of us, in fact, don’t even like the smell of humans—no offense intended, but our noses are exceptionally sensitive. We don’t go mad during the full moon. And you can’t become a werewolf by being bitten by one; you have to be fortunate enough to be born that way.

      What is true about us will probably surprise you even more than what is false. For example, we’re listed on the New York Stock Exchange. Oh yes, several of our companies are Fortune 500. You see, the same cunning, skills and extraordinarily adaptive senses that enabled us to survive, indeed to thrive, for thousands of years in a wild and essentially hostile environment have evolved over time to make us kings in a very different kind of jungle: the world of human big business and corporate finance.

      Our parent company, the St. Clare Corporation, is the umbrella under which we manufacture and merchandise everything from computer chips to perfumes. We are completely pack-owned and operated, although of course we employ quite a few humans and even sell stocks to them. We’re not averse to taking your money or using your skills when necessary, but make no mistake about it: The company belongs to werewolves; it is run by werewolves; it exists solely for the livelihood, ambition and perpetuation of werewolves.

      We collect art; we go to the opera; we sun ourselves on the Côte d’Azur. We do business with you; we share cabs with you; we dine with you every day and you would never guess that we’re not one of you. Life is simpler that way, trust me.

      As for me…I’m in advertising, a junior account executive in the marketing division of Clare de Lune, a very small cog in a very big wheel. Clare de Lune is a perfume company, and it is the foundation on which the St. Clare fortune was built. This shouldn’t surprise you. The werewolf sense of smell is approximately five hundred times greater than that of humans. СКАЧАТЬ