Cry of the Wolf (8 page)

Yes, she
could
have conceived a human child. The situation could have occurred because she had needed money … through an ill-fated night of flesh and nothing more… And then she had up and left; continued on her journey and finally found his grandfather…

Lawrence couldn’t detect, or even scent, an ounce of a lie in the man, so at the very least
he
believed the story to be true. If it was, it was no wonder the child had been given up. A human male growing up in a pack would not have lasted very long at all. He’d have been the runt of the litter and an easy target for any Trident. That is, if his own pack didn’t run him out or kill him first – not a wonderful way to grow up. If he remembered his grandparents half as well as he thought he did, they wouldn’t have wanted that for their own child, whether he was wolf or human.

Before he could properly gather all his thoughts, Russell reached into his pocket and produced copies of his grandmother’s birth certificate, then her illegitimate child’s birth certificate with her name crawled on it as his mother.

Shit.
Usually, these things were destroyed by the pack if such a change, like adoption, was made. He wondered if the child’s departure from Sweden to America had been too sudden to warrant procedure.
What the hell happened?

Russell then tossed a final wad of papers on to the table, and this one, Lawrence was familiar with: his parents’ Last Will and Testament.

“That will states that the
Erika Gunvald Theatre
is left to the last surviving relatives within their bloodline.”

“No,” growled Lawrence, turning to the fifth page from the last – this fucking document he knew like the back of his hand. It was imprinted in his damn mind and would be until the day he died. “It states that the theatre is left to
me and my sister
in the first instance, and that in the event of our deaths it should be passed onto any surviving relatives within the bloodline.”

Russell’s jaw clenched.

“Why the hell are you so interested in this theatre anyway? With your collateral I’m sure you could acquire one of the theatres in the West End if that’s what you want, and build a fucking Hard Rock Café while you’re at it.” Dear god, he was steaming, and he still couldn’t quite take in enough air. He had to get on his bike
now
.

“I’m interested in
family
, Mr Gunvald …
cousin
,” he smiled, although the smile resembled a punch in the gut. The smell of the lie that surrounded the word ‘family’ tainted Lawrence’s office, and the anger in him peaked. The Gunvald name was worth millions – hundreds of millions. Like hell was Maddox interested in family. He knew exactly what this tosser was interested in.

The actor rose from his seat, and buttoned up his jacket. “As you know, tonight is my last performance before I head back to LA. I shall relay to my lawyer your answer to my proposal. He shall be in touch about the next move.” He offered him his hand in farewell.

Throwing etiquette to the wind, Lawrence growled at it and allowed his wolf to shine through his light blue eyes for a fraction of a second.

Russell paled, looked confused, then composed himself quickly like his years of acting had no doubt taught him. “Goodbye, cousin.” He didn’t bother to shut the door behind him.

Lawrence gripped the edge of his desk so tightly, it splintered and broke away in his hands, two wedges of wood digging firmly into his palms.

Damn.

This was everything. This theatre was
everything
he had left.

The soft summer breeze danced through the window, Lydia’s scent caressed the skin of his cheek and his control snapped.

His wolf still near the surface, he glanced outside and zeroed in on the source of her aroma. It came from some distance away to the north-east, and he closed his eyes and focused on what else the breeze was telling him … past the cobbled High Street, past the hilly mounds that lay beyond: pine trees – firs – petrol, metal, oil, grease, bacon grease…

The biker’s café near Newlands Corner.

He pressed the wood further into his palms in an effort to keep from shifting. His skin broke, blood seeped, but he couldn’t contain the territorial, low bark that left his throat. He vaguely hoped no one was standing outside his office right this second.

He flung the wood aside with ferocity, a couple of drops of blood flying across the room with it; grabbed his leather jacket and helmet, and stormed out of the theatre to his motorbike, not bothering to mind anyone in the way because no one
got
in the way.

The thrum of his beautiful carriage calmed him to a degree, but this time, the calmness enabled him to feel the bite of the ice that had festered inside him – in his heart.

Like fuck was he gonna let some prick take his life and blood from him.

His bike accelerated, and, as one, they blazed a trail towards Lydia.

No one was taking his life and blood.

Chapter Five

The red, or the pink?

Sarah couldn’t decide.

She held both dresses up to the mirror for the zillionth time and sighed in frustration. This shouldn’t be a problem. Children were starving in Africa and this
really
shouldn’t be a problem.

She threw the red dress onto the armchair beside her. It looked too slutty, and she wasn’t really the harlot type…

Then again, the pink looked a bit too ‘friends only’. She actually
wanted
to have sex tonight – Jesus Christ, how long had it been? Five years?

Five fucking years, Miss Should-Have-Been-A-Nun.

She eyed the red dress again. Maybe harlot wasn’t a bad way to go…

The landline rang shrilly from the hallway, and she raced out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Amil was the only person who ever called her on the landline.

Please don’t cancel, please don’t cancel, please don’t cancel!

She glanced at the clock on the wall as she sprinted to the handset on the cherry wood sideboard.

Just after 2 p.m.

Amil wasn’t picking her up until five.

Please don’t cancel!

She yanked up the phone. “Amil,” she all but shouted into the receiver.

“A-who? Sarah, is that you?”

As her brain scurried around trying to figure out who was calling her, all she could hear was her heart hammering in her ears.

“Sarah? Do I have the right number?”

Oh, my god…
“Holly?”

A squeal. “Sarah! Oh, my god, it
is
you! I can’t believe it’s been so long – I am
so
sorry I’ve not been in touch, it’s just been so
crazy
this side of the world, and you will
not
believe what’s happening to me!”

Holly, her best friend from university who had moved away to Milan, and then New York, to study fashion four years ago after her degree, paused, no doubt waiting for Sarah’s reaction.

“God damn it, you don’t phone me or write me, reply to my letters, you don’t even text me for
two years
, and you call me
now
?” But it was said in jest, because Holly had always been exuberant and flaky to the max; always living for the present as if tomorrow simply wouldn’t be there.

“Is now a bad time? I didn’t think you’d be home to be honest – I was going to leave a message. Are you still making those wedding dresses?”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but smiled. It had always been like that with Holly – she just jumped straight into any conversation as if time and distance never affected anyone. She didn’t love her the way she did Beth – like family – but they had hit it off from day one of university when they had both had to sit through the most boring welcome lecture on dressmaking and design throughout the Elizabethan era. Over the past four years since she’d moved away, Sarah had missed her terribly, but whenever they did manage to talk to each other it was as if they’d never parted. “Designing them, selling them – yeah, I’m still doing that.”

Another squeal. “Will you make one for me?”

Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “You are
not
getting married! Are you getting married?!”

“YES!”

And it was Sarah’s turn to yell down the phone in jubilation. “You?
You?
The last time we spoke you were dating three guys while debating if number four would be more worth your time because of his connections in Milan.”

She could practically see Holly’s ‘that was so last year’ expression. “But I live in New York now, and Tim is … oh, my god, Sarah, I can’t wait for you to meet him. He is
the
man every woman wants. When he asked me to marry him I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven … or at least to his chalet in the Côte d'Azur,” she giggled. “You know, he has holiday homes in five different countries –
five.
And he’s just designed his own, first ever, catwalk collection which débuts this winter – can you believe he’s not gay? Anyway, he’s … and couldn’t … ive … not the way that his … other … ould … b-id-cana-din—”

“Wait, wait, Holly – you’re breaking up—”

“—llars to his … ame … What?”

“I said, you’re breaking up. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? That’s … ges away.”

“I know, but I’m getting ready to go out now, and I want to give you my full attention.”

“Oh, okay. An-ere nice?”

“Anywhere nice? The theatre. Russell Maddox is performing here.”

“The next Brad Pitt? That guy is so hot ov-ere right now.”

“I know. And I also need to tell you all about the guy I’m dating.” Sarah grinned. “You think yours is hot? We’ll have to take bets on which guy wins on sex appeal.”

There was a long pause at Holly’s end.

“Hello?”

The phone crackled in her ear. Shit.

Sarah gave her receiver a shake, which she knew was stupid, but still seemed like the right thing to do. Honestly, was Holly phoning from a New York basement? “You still there? The static on this line is awful – you’re really breaking up…”

“Oh, honey…”

“What. What is it?”

“Why the-ell-n’t you call me?”

Was she having a go at her for not phoning when
she
was the one who hadn’t contacted her for years?

“What … ppened t-ay … or?”

“What? I didn’t hear that.” This was ridiculous. “Are you still on the same number you gave me last time? Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Sar … be … vastated. He was everything to you.”

Strangely, her chest tightened with the oddest feeling of unease. “Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Well, duh. Only … hus-nd. What do you mean, who am I talk-bout?”

“Only
who
?”

She couldn’t tell if Holly was muttering or if the connection was getting worse. “…ut’ve been a bad br-p-really, Sarah, for you to … tend … nt … nothing to you. For fuck’s sake, we’re talking about … lor here. Tay … what the hell happ-to Taylor?”

Sarah scrunched her face up in concentration as she recalled their college days together; the times they’d discussed fashion and design; that time they’d gone and interviewed potential employees because they were on the verge of setting up a label together – the next Armani – which, needless to say, never took off… Still, she couldn’t be hearing her right. “You want to know what happened to my tailor?”

Her Blackberry rang from upstairs.

“Shit! Holly, I have to go. I
will
call you tomorrow, okay? If your number’s different, then text me your new one – my mobile phone’s still the same. Or email. Just get the hell in touch.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go. Speak tomorrow. And congrats, Holly!” Sarah hung up and raced upstairs, jumping on both her Blackberry and her bed in a bid to get there before it rang out.

Amil’s name blinked at her from the screen.

“Hey!” she yelled on answering, totally out of breath.

“Hey, yourself.”

She could hear the smile in his tone, and she found herself smiling back to the Smartphone in her hand, although she doubted even the phone was smart enough to tell.

“Your landline was engaged. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Old friend. We were just catching up.”

“Sounds nice. Just wanted to make sure five o’clock still suits. I can’t wait to get this meeting over with, then,” his voice lowered, “I’m grabbing a bite to eat and heading straight to yours.”