“I’m sorry,” he said, though somewhat stiffly. I supposed he wasn’t accustomed to apologizing for much. “That was tactless.”
It had never occurred to me to wonder whether or not he knew of my status as an anthromorph; it was hardly a secret, and he had access to all of my records, medical and personal, for as far back as he wished to go. Besides, I had been told, though whether it was true or not I couldn’t say, that the scent of anthromorphs is different from that of regular werewolves. Still, knowing that he knew and knowing that I knew he knew were two entirely different matters, and I found it embarrassing to have the subject out in the open.
Apparently he did, too, because he said brusquely, “We’ll tell them you’re my personal secretary. Excuse me, administrative assistant.”
My eyes widened. “But that’s a demotion.”
“Exactly.” He gave a satisfied nod of his head. “No one will question that. After all, you’re not exactly blazing a trail in your present position, are you?”
I inhaled slowly through flared nostrils, but released the breath silently. I supposed, given his opinion of me, I was lucky to have a job at all.
“That’s all for now,” he said. “Bring a pad and pencil to the meeting.”
I rose. “I don’t take shorthand,” I told him coolly.
He looked surprised. “I didn’t expect you would. We have voice recorders for that. However, you might as well look as though you have a function.”
I decided then and there he was probably the most obnoxious man who had ever lived. I moved toward the door.
“By the way,” he said without looking up, “I did order office furniture. It should be here within the hour.”
I turned, a small supercilious smile on my lips. “Then where,” I inquired politely, “will we have the meeting? This used to be our conference room, after all.”
I stayed just long enough to see that he hadn’t thought of that, and then left him to find a solution—alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Victoria
“Well, the new office is great.”
I stretched out on the sofa and swung my feet over the back, cradling the telephone receiver against my ear. My black Persian cat, Socrates, jumped onto my stomach, causing me to gasp for breath and push him away. He looked offended at my reaction and settled daintily on the sofa at my side, within easy stroking distance of my hand.
“Television, VCR, penthouse view, coffee bar, my own bathroom,” I continued, running my fingers over the cat’s silky dark fur apologetically. “And Stillman’s got this CAD program on his computer that is absolutely out of this world.”
Phillipe, my downstairs neighbor and closest friend, chuckled lazily. In the background I could hear the rattle of pots and pans as he prepared yet another one of his gourmet feasts.
“Precious, only you would turn a perfect opportunity for bricking the gold into a chance to get a little extra work done. What do you care what’s on his computer? What is a cad, anyway? Sounds perfectly dreadful.”
“I think the term is goldbricking,” I replied. “And it’s not ‘a cad,’ Phillipe. It’s CAD, which stands for Computer Assisted Design. And I care because by tomorrow morning the lovely thing will be reclaimed by its owner and I’ll be reduced to using pen and ink again. In the mean-while, though, I used it to send our new boss a little present.”
“Now, there’s my girl! Something dirty, I hope.”
I laughed. Phillipe was French Canadian and spoke English with phrases that he copied from American television and always made me giggle. I, of course, am flawlessly multilingual, as all werewolves are. A facility for language is just another one of those adaptive traits we’ve picked up over the centuries and have incorporated into our genetic code.
We were speaking English because Phillipe had just started a new job in a fur salon where a huge percentage of the clientele was American. And because, when rich Americans travel to Montreal to buy their furs in exclusive local salons, they expected the clerks to speak French, Phillipe was determined they should hear nothing but English pass his lips. Annoying rich Americans was one of Phillipe’s greatest pleasures in life.
I said, “Actually, I sent him a graphic for a new campaign we’re launching. It will, as they say in America, knock his socks off.”
“Lovely. You are hopeless. And I think you must be mistaken about what they say in America.”
“Socks, I swear it.”
He made a noncommittal, highly skeptical, perfectly French sound, and I could picture him mentally marking down the phrase for later use.
“So explain to me, if you kindly will, why is it you sent a new design for his campaign to your perfectly hideous boss? Ah, wait! It was a dirty design!”
“No. It was a fabulous design. And I did it because he is hideous.”
I had used Stillman’s advanced computer design program to give substance to my idea for Moonsong—A Revolution. Four-color display, 3-D effects, video-quality with an audio clip. I had logged it under my security code to be sent to Noel via the company network as soon as his own computer came on-line, which, as of five o’clock that afternoon, had not happened yet. His furniture had not been delivered, either, I had noticed a little smugly when I left the office promptly at five.
“He thinks I’m useless,” I explained to Phillipe’s puzzled silence. “Also stupid. I wanted to let him know it doesn’t pay to make snap judgments. Because it is a fabulous design, and as soon as he retrieves it, it’s going to self-destruct. Let whoever he assigns to steal it waste their time reprogramming it.”
He burst into loud delighted laughter. “You are a witch! Is it any wonder I treasure you? Now, I’m just putting the soufflé in the oven and opening a bottle of Beaujolais. Shall I pour you a glass or no?”
“No, you’re having company and—”
He made a dismissive sound. “It’s just Doug, and he adores you. Come down and eat with us, then be discreetly on your way.”
“What kind of soufflé?” I inquired, tempted.
“Salmon, your favorite. And a lovely roulade for the main. Darling, you don’t eat enough to keep alive a moose. I insist.”
I giggled. “Mouse. Keep alive a mouse.”
“That’s what I said. I’m setting a place.”
I was just about to accept, when I heard a distinctive footstep far below, caught a familiar scent. I swung my feet to the floor and sat up, dumping Socrates unceremoniously to the floor, my heartbeat speeding.
“Phillipe, I can’t. There’s someone at my door.”
“I didn’t hear the bell.”
“He knocked.”
“Don’t you dare open without calling out for who it is.”
“I know who it is. It’s my boss.”
“Monsieur Gorgeous?”
“Phillipe…” I looked anxiously toward the door, knowing that Noel, even in the lobby three floors below, could hear and hoping he wasn’t listening.
“Ooh la-la. He got your message then. Oh, to be a flea on your wall. Call me.”
“Tomorrow,” I promised.
I hung up the phone and got quickly to my feet, checking my appearance in the mirror over the fireplace. I was wearing one of those thermal-knit unisuits