this situation has to be handled as quickly and as quietly as possible. Recent events…” And he hesitated only slightly there. “…have made the matter of morale a top priority.”
I couldn’t help wondering which “recent events” he might be referring to. The battle for succession, Michael’s defection, the insanity in New Orleans? Perhaps all of them? One thing was certain, if it became common knowledge that the company was being threatened and that the threat came from inside our ranks…well, it was unthinkable. Chaos would erupt. Morale would grow too low to measure. It was bad enough that such a thing could have happened, but it must never, ever become public knowledge.
“It almost has to be a werewolf, doesn’t it?” I said, thinking out loud. “The humans are watched closely, and one of us would have been sure to overhear something before now. And no one but a werewolf would have access to formulas—ad campaigns, maybe, facts and figures and lower-level material, but formulas…” And I gave a slow, disbelieving shake of my head. “It has to be one of us.”
Noel looked both surprised and annoyed at my quick grasp of the situation. “That would seem to be the case, yes,” he said. “Although it never pays to eliminate the obvious. I should point out, by the way, that in my experience it’s not a good idea to associate too closely with one’s inferiors.”
At first I bristled, and then I understood. He had overheard my conversation with Sara, and he disapproved of our friendship.
“Then why are you associating with me?” I asked.
His expression, perfectly bland, showed not a hint of apology. “I thought I had made that clear.”
“Because you were ordered to?”
“Yes.”
My lips compressed tightly; I did not trust myself to speak. I barely trusted myself to think, but Noel must have read my thoughts anyway because he said, “I’ve studied your personnel file. I’m aware that you have had a singularly undistinguished career here at Clare de Lune, with no particular talent that qualifies you for this assignment. I’m also aware of your friendship with Jason Robesieur, and the fact that he is the account executive for Sanibel’s new products division. It might interest you to know that I’m aware he offered you a position with his company and yes, you are high on my list of suspects.”
He held me with his gaze for a moment, allowing that to sink in. Then he went on, “I don’t know why Sebastian appointed you to work with me, although I have my suspicions. Blood is thicker than water, after all, and I would be a fool to assume that, while I’m tracking down a spy, I’m not myself being spied upon. That, after all, is the essence of the espionage game.”
He paused then, ran his long, slim fingers through the silky fall of his hair and added, “Having said all of that, I came prepared to work with you and work with you I shall…until you give me reason to change my attitude.”
I could barely keep myself from gaping at him. I pressed the palms of my hands against my crossed knees and spoke very deliberately, “Let me make sure I understand. You don’t like me. You don’t trust me. You suspect me, at best, of being a St. Clare spy, at worst of being the very traitor I’m supposed to help you find. You don’t think I’m qualified for the job. And yet you are prepared to take me into your confidence regarding the most sensitive matter that the company has faced in decades?”
He regarded me steadily. “I didn’t say that. I said I would work with you.”
I swallowed back a hot retort. “Do you mind if I ask exactly what you expect me to do?”
He returned with no hesitation whatsoever, “Whatever I tell you to.”
My hands pressed down more tightly on my knees. “I see.”
With only the slightest evidence of capitulation in his voice, he added, “I expect you might be useful as a liaison, of sorts, between myself and this office. You know the people and the routine. I’m sure you’ll be able to serve some function as an adviser.”
He could hardly have chosen a less propitious person for that job, as he would know if he had taken the trouble to find out anything about me that was not listed in my personnel file. No one confided in me here—no one of any importance, anyway—and no one knew less, or cared less, about the people in this office than I did. However, I was not about to enlighten the great Noel Duprey, who knew so much and saw so much and who was obviously never wrong. Let him find out for himself.
He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and said, “Now, if we could move on…?”
I leaned back in the chair. “By all means.”
Noel tapped a few more keys on his computer. “We’re in the first stages of developing a new fragrance. If all goes well, we expect to introduce it by Christmas. Here’s the timetable.”
He turned the computer screen around and I leaned forward a little to read it. I was sure I must have only imagined that his eyes dropped to the swell of my breast as I did so.
I murmured, “Moonsong.” I arched an eyebrow in surprise as I studied the timetable. “That’s pretty ambitious.”
“More than you know.” He swiveled the computer to face him again. “Moonsong is more than a perfume, it’s a revolution in perfumery. What alpha-hydroxy did for face creams, Moonsong will do for the perfume industry.”
I sat back, my expression patient and interested. In fact, a graphic was already forming in my head: Moonsong, A Revolution in Fragrance. No. Moonsong. A Revolution in Fantasy. And in the background, a moon in a blue-black sky spins slowly through its cycles. Not bad, I thought.
Noel went on, “Moonsong contains a unique ingredient that’s impossible to patent, which is why security on this project is so important…and why it will no doubt prove impossible for our traitor to resist.”
“Ah,” I said, understanding. “It’s a trap.”
Noel paused one revealing moment. “In all important respects,” he answered, “Moonsong is exactly what it appears to be—the most important new product to be introduced to the perfume industry in the twentieth century. My job—our job,” he corrected himself almost without hesitation, “is to track every phase of every step associated with its production for signs of an information leak. We begin with the meeting I’ve called—senior account execs and above only.”
Which was another way of saying no humans. That was one way to narrow the field.
“How are you going to explain me?” I asked pragmatically.
He looked at me blankly.
I gestured. “The fancy office, the secret meetings, the special attention…People are going to talk.”
He scowled, clearly irritated to have overlooked that detail. He turned to the computer and began tapping out numbers again. “Hell, I don’t care. Tell them you’re my consort.”
My cheeks grew warm. To his credit, he realized his mistake immediately and looked up.
“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;
