Once A Wolf (2 page)

the darkness.

Tomás Alejandro Randall moved into her view, and she took an involuntary step backward.

"Faith, you gave me a fright!" she said with a quick laugh.

"You, Kate? I doubt it." He took her hand in his and kissed her work-roughened fingertips.

She snatched her hand away and pulled the scarf from her bright streak of hair. "You'll not be

liking what I have to tell you this time."

"Ah, but Kate—any news you bring is good if it means that the waiting is over."

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"Then you'll be pleased," she said. "MacLean is to leave on business to Chicago immediately

after the Greenwells' dinner party, and Lady Rowenas to join him in Newport in a week. The

marriage will take place as planned, in less than a month."

Tomás leaned against the damp brick of the alley wall, intent on the study of his buffed

fingernails, slipping easily into the character he must play one more time. The casual pose was a

mask. Inwardly his heart raced with excitement, and only the practice of years kept the grin

from his face.

The waiting was over. The time to act had come at last.

"You've done well, querida," he said. "You've more than earned your reward."

Kate snorted. "Is that all, then? It doesn't trouble you that none of your carefully planted

rumors about MacLean succeeded?"

"I would have been surprised if they had." He pushed away from the wall and brushed off the

tail of his coat. "Lady Rowena is a stubborn woman. Once she's set her mind on something…"

"She's set her mind on MacLean, sure enough, and won't listen to any ill said of him. He could

charm the birds out of the trees, that one—like a snake. But you won't let this bird fly, will

you?"

He lunged toward her without warning and seized her hands. She gave a muffled shriek as he

spun her around and caught her close against him, his lips almost touching the curve of her

neck.

"Would you fly away from me," he whispered, "if you were the bird?"

"You're mad," she said, her breath coming a little too fast. "You truly intend to go through with

this? You'll risk your life, just for revenge—"

"Ah, you do care." He kissed the corner of her mouth and released her. "Never fear, mi

pelirroja. I live for such adventures."

"No." She tugged the scarf up over her head and clutched it about her neck. "You live for a past

that's gone, Tomás Alejandro, and for the chance to die." She backed away. "I've played the

role you asked of me. I've been the lady's maid this six months, and spied for you. At heart she's

a good woman. All I want now is what you promised. I won't be any further part of this—"

" But you'll do one last thing for me. Will you not, mi vida?"

Her shoulders sagged. "What more do you ask?"

"Not much. Simply make sure that I am admitted to the lady's house after the party tonight."

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"It's a good thing I'm leaving myself, or I'd be out on the street for letting a strange 'gentleman'

in without an introduction."

"But you are leaving. This is your final task for me. And when it is done, the lady will fly freely

enough into my golden cage."

"God help her, then."

"She's lived a life of privilege, and you've had to fight for everything you ever possessed. Do you

still find so much pity for her?"

"Yes. She's just a pawn in your private war, rich or not."

"A very valuable pawn, to be treated with the greatest consideration." He reached within his

vest and drew out a small, heavy leather bag. "Here's a token of my esteem. When I come

calling at the lady's house, you'll have the rest."

She snatched the bag from his hand. "If it weren't for my brother and sister—"

"At least you have family left alive, Kate O'Neill." He looked at her and saw not a young colleen

of pale skin and red hair, but the dark-tressed, dark-eyed woman who had raised him, and

loved him, even when she had nothing left to live for but vengeance against the murderers of

her mate— his father.

How different things might have been if his parents had lived. But the MacLeans had swept into

their peaceful lives and left chaos and death in their wake. Only one Randall remained.

The old sorrow returned, sharp and unwelcome. Tomás endured it until it passed. He smiled at

Kate, showing his teeth.

"Whatever the MacLeans want," he said," I will make them pay double to get it. Whatever they

gain, I will take away from them. They won't forget the Randalls while I live."

"And when you're dead?"

He shrugged. "We all die, señorita. It's a matter of when and how well."

"Then I hope you do it far from my sight." She turned to go and stopped, shoulders rigid. "Damn

you, Tomás."

"And buena suerte to you as well, mi amor."

She gave a harsh laugh that made a parody of his. "You've seduced a hundred willing women,

Tomás, and not one of them has ever touched your soul. I think this time you've met your

match. You'll not capture this lady's heart."

"It is not her heart I mean to capture. Venga, vete!"

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She jerked a nod and hurried from the alley.

Tomás followed her to the street and turned in the opposite direction, drawing in the stifling

scents of a New York evening. At the moment he was but one of many average men who

walked the street on unknown business in this respectable but unremarkable part of the city.

Tonight he'd be someone else entirely. And a week from now…

A week from now he'd become once again what the MacLeans had made him: a scoundrel, an

outlaw, an enemy. He was prey to no doubts, no regrets. Only inaction and helplessness had

the power to trouble him, and he was subject to neither.

Within a few hours he'd arranged two first-class fares in a westbound Pullman Palace coach and

was completely familiar with every segment of the journey to Kansas City. From there, the

Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe would take him and the lady to the very border of New Mexico

Territory. Where his men would be waiting.

That was, of course, if all went according to plan. And it would. There was just the small matter

of winning Rowena's initial cooperation.

He returned to his modest hotel room and took inventory of his wardrobe. Every piece of it was

appropriate to a well-bred but unostentatious English gentleman. The tailors who'd served him

in the past two weeks were convinced their customer was, in fact, of the British peerage, just

returned from a sojourn in the Wild West.

He dressed meticulously in pristine white shirt, silk waistcoat, cravat, cream trousers, double-

breasted frock coat, and top hat; checked his watch; and examined his reflection in the mirror.

He knew what Rowena would see, and that she would believe the story he intended to tell her.

Had she been more open to her werewolf nature, perhaps she'd have recognized him by scent

alone. But he trusted that her willing blindness would make it possible for him to deceive her…

just as long as necessary.

And then she would be his.

Two

The gaze of every distinguished male at the Greenwells' select dinner party had been fixed on

Lady Rowena Forster from the moment she'd walked into the marbled entrance hall on Cole

MacLean's arm four hours ago. The same eyes were upon her now, as she and Cole made their

good-byes and waited for his carriage to take them home.

Cole was content that they should watch her, even if it meant the fools didn't pay him the

respectful attention to which he was accustomed. Let them look their fill and salivate in feeble

envy. She was as much his property as the diamond studs on his shirt, his Savile Row suit, and

the mansion on Fifth Avenue. He'd snatched up New York's greatest marital prize with little

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more effort than it took him to pry the most secret financial information from the mouths of

the richest investors in the city.

And all because Lady Rowena Forster trusted him. Trusted him, above all others, because he

knew what she was and didn't reject her for it. Because they shared the same repudiated

heritage. And because she didn't know that he had no intention of disowning the one part of

that heritage that made him her superior. And, in a few weeks' time, her master.

She'd been meant to be his years ago, when the marriage was first arranged by her brother in

England. He didn't let what was his slip from his grasp.

He paused at a gold-framed mirror in the entrance hall to adjust his tie and caught Rowena's

pale reflection beside and slightly behind him. She presented a pleasing contrast: light to his

dark, slender against his broad strength, retiring where he was assured. One would never know,

to look at her now, how much she'd altered in the two years since he'd taken her in hand.

She had been a slight challenge at first. The very pride and aristocratic hauteur that made her

such an elegant ornament on his arm had also fitted her with a sharp tongue and defiant

nature. Not that most of Society realized it; she was too skilled at negotiating the social milieu,

a valuable asset in a wife. But he had recognized it at once, and relished the game of bringing

her to heel.

He met her gaze in the glass, and she was the first to look away. That was one outward sign of

how well he'd succeeded. At their first introduction she'd seen him as yet another plebeian,

social-climbing American from the savage West, doubly damned because of who and what he

was. She tried sharpening her tongue on him once or twice, and then he'd begun blunting her

edge.

He'd started by implying that only he would ever understand her, or the animal impulses that

lived under her skin no matter how much she repressed them. He told her that no ordinary man

would want her if he guessed her true nature. He showed her that he alone could help her to

live entirely free of the werewolf taint—if she trusted him to guide her in all things. She was not

strong enough. He was.

He didn't even have to use his will to make her believe.

He taught her to defer to his taste, recognize her natural inferiority, and admit how desperately

she needed him. The very gown she wore tonight was his selection, its muted color and lines

deliberately selected to soften her appearance—and submerge her personality—still further.

Day by day, month by month, he wore down her increasingly subtle insubordination, disguising

his intentions in the pleasures of courtship. He knew what she feared most: losing her one

chance to have a normal, "human" life. That was his power over her, now and always.

It was almost too easy.

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She was very quiet as they moved among the other guests, letting him do the talking. He smiled

and exchanged a tame witticism with the Dowager Greenwell. He wondered dispassionately if

she had any notion that her husband's fortunes were on the wane, and that fabulous diamond

necklace she wore about her wattled neck might be in jeopardy. Green-well had been

remarkably indiscreet with certain sensitive information, monetary and otherwise, and at this

very moment, all unwitting, he was paying for it. Paying Cole MacLean.

Every man here had contributed to Cole's growing fortune and breathtaking rise to influence

and authority. Most of them had no idea how much he'd taken from them, simply by using the

mental abilities he had been born with. A few suggestions planted in a wealthy man's mind, and

he considered Cole his best friend and financial advisor. A slight focusing of Cole's will, and a

banker or investor or speculator let slip the latest confidential stock tip, or passed on the rumor

of a company in pecuniary difficulty, or babbled about a personal affair that left him open to

blackmail from an insidious unknown source. None of them ever connected his mysterious

difficulties to the gentleman from Texas.

Lady Rowena had done her part, however unwittingly. The moment she'd begun to respond to

his carefully orchestrated courtship, society's women had fully opened their doors to him, the

former Climber whose education, charm, and carefully acquired refinement had never been

quite enough to breach that last barrier.

But the barriers had been breached, and that led to still more opportunities. Opportunities for

unlimited power, the power that was his by right because he could take it.

He smiled to think of his father fumbling about in this rarified atmosphere like a furious

longhorn bull in a china shop, and of his brother Weylin disgusting the high-toned ladies with

his working cowman's clothes and unpolished speech.

But of course Father was long out of the way, and Weylin was occupied running after El Lobo in

the Territory. The entire MacLean fortune, and future, was in the hands of the one MacLean