Wolf's Clothing Page 4

  “Oh. Right. Christophe, this is Julie Ainsworth. She’s my best . . . person, I guess you’d call her. Attendant. Witness. Whatever.”

  “Try friend, doofus.” Julie held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Christophe . . .?”

  “Clavret. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

  Her handshake was firm, accompanied by an appreciative nod. “I like this guy, Rile. He’s a lot more polite than dick-bag shit-bucket Logan.”

  Christophe’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed?”

  “Jules,” Riley growled. “Not now, okay?”

  “Fine.” She smiled at Christophe, the two of them nearly of a height. “So how do you know Riley?”

  “We dated once upon a time, when I first arrived in America.”

  She buffeted Riley’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? See, the killer accent, the beard, the manners. Why couldn’t you stick with him instead of—”

  “Jules! Give it a rest. It wasn’t that serious, right, Christophe?”

  Christophe inclined his head, but couldn’t resist casting a sly smile at Julie. “As you say.”

  Riley rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage her, please. She can’t resist antagonizing Logan at every opportunity, and he’s on edge enough about the wedding.”

  “Ah. So his feet are getting a trifle cold?”

  Julie snorted. “Hardly. He barely lets Riley out of his sight.”

  “He’s just stressed. The bar—”

  “Keep telling yourself that. He’s secretly afraid you’ll come to your senses and dump him before the deal is sealed.”

  “Not going to happen. You know that and so does he.”

  She slanted a glance at Christophe from under her lashes. “As you say.”

  A flush chased up Riley’s face, reddening his cheeks, forehead, and the tips of his ears, but before the poor man exploded, Christophe relented. “Don’t worry, mon ami. It is the nature of grooms to experience prewedding jitters, and with two of them in the equation, the effect is bound to be magnified.”

  “I suppose.” He glared at Julie. “My best person is supposed to be making this easier for me, not busting my chops every chance she gets.”

  Julie grinned. “I’m a full-service kind of best person. Plus I can multitask. Please, Rile. A ‘Witch’s Castle: Where Are They Now?’ special. Just think about it, okay? It’ll totally springboard my career.”

  “Whatever. Go rescue Heather from Zack, and remind him he’s here to film the wedding, not harass Logan’s best person.”

  Julie peered through the crowd, toward where a petite woman with a brown ponytail was maneuvering a laden tray past a bearded man in a flannel shirt. “I thought she was the assistant manager now. Why is she waiting tables?”

  “Because one of the servers called in sick and the place is packed. Go. She doesn’t have time for Zack’s pathetic banter.”

  “Got it. Great to meet you, Christophe. See you at the wedding?”

  “You may depend on it.”

  She threaded her way through the crowd. As she approached, Christophe noted that the other woman’s face lit up like the August moon. “I fear the importunate Zack is, how do you say, shit out of luck?”

  Riley grinned at him. “Don’t pretend you don’t speak English better than I do.”

  Christophe shrugged. “Sometimes it’s amusing to play the part, no?”

  “No.” Riley frowned as he studied Julie and Heather. “What did you mean about Zack?”

  “Haven’t you noticed that little Heather has eyes only for your friend?”

  Riley blinked and rose on his toes to get a better view. “Really? That’s sorta cool . . . I think. I mean, Jules is bi, but she’s pretty intense.”

  “Perhaps that is what Heather prefers. We like what we like, regardless of what others may think.” Or what is good for us.

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

  Christophe laughed. “You, my friend, are in love.”

  Riley wrinkled his nose. “It shows?”

  “It does. But never apologize for it. It’s wonderful.” Christophe’s eyes prickled with heat. He had no such joy to anticipate himself, only the threat of a marriage with no more affection, passion, or trust than a corporate merger. He took a deep breath and glanced around the bar. The celebratory crowd hadn’t thinned, and several people were standing inside the door, searching for seats. “What is the occasion? Is this connected to your wedding?”

  “No.” He heaved a sigh. “That stupid Haunted to the Max episode about the Witch’s Castle and the ghost war in Forest Park aired again this week. Whenever it does, the bar gets an influx of customers, and the place is standing room only for about a week before the fuss dies back down.”

  “Haunted to the Max? That is the paranormal investigation show you work for?”

  “Used to work for. I’m finishing up my degree right now. Oh God.” Riley grabbed Christophe’s forearm. “Please tell me you didn’t see that episode, the one with me freaking out all over Portland because Julie made me do on-camera work?”

  “Sadly, no. However I have seen the video of your fiancé’s marriage proposal.”

  “Oh God. I think everyone must have seen it. I could throttle Jules for uploading it to YouTube.”

  “Surely, as your friend said, the exposure is good. Business is business after all.”

  Riley cocked an eyebrow. “How would you know? Don’t you spend most of your time avoiding business?”

  “You are correct; however, my days of freedom are coming to an end.” Christophe’s chest tightened. Soon, he’d be forced to attend to business whether he chose to or not.

  “I’m sorry.” Riley squeezed Christophe’s arm. “I know you’d rather do something else with your life.”

  Christophe laid his own hand over Riley’s. “You remember that, eh? Yes, but not everyone can be so lucky as you, to find passion in our work as well as our loves.”

  “What the hell is this?”

  A tall man with dark hair and eyes the color and relative flexibility of slate crowded against Riley, glowering at the point where Christophe’s hand rested on Riley’s. Christophe recognized him from the viral video: Logan Conner, Riley’s fiancé.

  Riley tried to tug his hand away, but Christophe held on to it for an extra moment before he released it, merely to see the way Logan’s jaw clenched.

  “Oh. Logan, this is Christophe Clavret. He’s . . . an old friend.”

  “That so?”

  “Indeed.” Christophe held out his hand. “You must be Riley’s fiancé.” When Logan hesitated for an instant before shaking, Christophe offered a bland smile. “I need not tell you what a lucky man you are.”

  Logan’s expression softened as he gazed at Riley. “Nope. I’ve got that.”

  Riley blushed again, but he leaned against Logan, who placed one large hand at the small of Riley’s back.

  If it had been anyone but Riley, who might be distressed by his actions, Christophe would have enjoyed goading Logan a trifle more, because it was blatantly clear that if the man were a wolf, he’d be pissing on Riley’s high-tops to mark his territory.

  It takes an alpha to know an alpha, my friend.

  “I was so pleased to receive an invitation to your wedding.”

  “You were.” Logan gave Riley the side-eye. “Hunh.”

  “Don’t be a jerk, Logan. You saw my guest list weeks ago. You probably didn’t bother to read it because you were too busy obsessing about your own.”

  “I didn’t obsess,” Logan growled.

  Riley peered at Christophe over his glasses. Obsessed, he mouthed.

  “So.” Logan crossed his arms. “How do you two know each other?”

  “Well.” Clearing his throat, Riley scuffed the floor with one toe. “A long time ago, way before I met you. My junior year at UO, before I even started graduate school. So you know. A looong time ago. We were, that is, we did—”

  “We dated.” Christophe flashed his teet
h in his most wolfish smile. “For two months.”

  “Two months.” Logan eyed Christophe as if he were measuring him for a body bag. “No shit. Funny you didn’t mention that little detail, Riley.”

  “Oh no. Do not go there.” Riley poked Logan in the chest. “This is not a competition, Logan, so can the alpha-hole crap right now.”

  Oh, cher, how little you know of men like us. Logan, however—if Christophe were any judge—had recognized a kindred soul immediately.

  Christophe unbuttoned his jacket and tucked his thumbs under his belt on either side of his fly. His father would faint if he saw one of his sons in such a casual posture, but Christophe had so little time before he had to behave like a true Clavret son, that he intended to misbehave at every opportunity.

  Logan’s arm snaked around Riley’s waist and pulled him in tight. “Riley. I need to show you something in the . . . uh . . . stockroom.”

  Riley frowned. “The stockroom? But what—”

  “I’ll show you. Come on.” Logan practically dragged Riley across the bar.

  Christophe chuckled as the two men disappeared down the hallway. He’d wager any amount of money that Riley was about to get fucked—or at the very least, spectacularly blown—in the stockroom. For Riley’s sake, Christophe hoped Logan was adept enough to ensure the room had a sturdy lock.

  He had a sudden urge to follow them. If he were to knock on a few doors, perhaps he could engage in the type of challenge that—

  What the bloody hell are you thinking? Flaunting yourself, preening to provoke Riley’s lover for sport? You are a man, not a wolf. Behave like one.

  His hands trembled, fumbling the buttons as he set his suit to rights. Mother of God. He must truly be approaching the limits of the suppressant’s efficacy to even have contemplated such a thing.

  If he behaved so to a man he’d only just met, the wolf vying for dominance merely for amusement, didn’t that prove he was right to insist the Old Families should allow the damned mutation to die out? It was one thing to confront a man like Logan, who had all the power on his side—his own place of business, a mate who clearly loved him, a supportive crowd at his back. But to exercise that same dominance where his opponent had no recourse would be unconscionable, no matter what his father believed.

  He glanced at the empty hall doorway. In this case, however, he could excuse himself. His little contretemps with Logan could be an early wedding present to Riley, who had never been anything but sweet to him—not an exercise of Christophe’s own power, or even Logan’s, but rather to prove to Riley the extent of the power he held over his mate.

  Congratulations, mon ami. You have chosen well.

  And Logan was luckier than he would ever know. He’d found a partner who would do anything for him, challenge him when he deserved it, yet yield so sweetly when needed. Loyalty, caring, protectiveness—qualities in a mate that Christophe had no hope of finding for himself. The Clavrets, like all cursed families, had an unfortunate history of disloyal spouses. The progenitor of each line had been betrayed by his wife. Far better to avoid that threat.

  Likewise far better for the wife. How could his father seriously think it right to ask any woman to risk death merely for wealth and the illusion of power? For despite the false glitter of the prize, any independence a woman believed would be hers was an illusion. The Old Families guarded their brood stock, and no matter how Christophe objected, he stood little chance of overruling them. The woman who agreed to marry him would be locked in a gilded cage of his family’s making for life—at least until that life was taken from her by bearing a true Clavret son. How could he trust any woman who would make such a bargain?

  Just as well his tastes ran more to men nowadays.

  All at once, several parties left their tables and the people sitting at the bar were quick to occupy them. As the groups pushed their boisterous way out of the big wooden door, a man slipped in, his face shadowed by the hood of his sweatshirt.

  Something about him piqued Christophe’s interest. Was it how he squared his shoulders, with his fists clearly clenched in the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt? The defiant tilt of his chin as he surveyed the crowded bar? Whatever it was, it appealed to Christophe—his inner wolf, shifting restlessly so near the surface, recognized a kindred spirit.

  You have a dark center too, don’t you, pretty man?

  He dove into the crowded bar as if breasting a wave, aiming for one of the newly vacant barstools. Christophe waited until the man took his seat.

  Then he pounced.

  Jesus fuck, how could so many people fit in a bar no bigger than his dad’s study? Granted, his dad’s study was big, but shit. Trent clutched the edge of the bar counter, willing his heartbeat to settle. The last time he’d been in a crowd this large, the others had all been dead for a century and a half.

  It hadn’t turned out well.

  The bartender stopped in front of him. “No one under twenty-one allowed.”

  Trent pulled out his wallet and tossed his Oregon license onto the bar. Thank God he’d still had it in his pocket when he’d tumbled out of the ghost war. Although he hadn’t seen more than nineteen birthdays, according to this, he was twenty-six. Chronologically old enough to drink. Emotionally? God, did he ever need it.

  The bartender checked his birthdate. “Guess you’re older than you look. What’ll it be?”

  “You have Woodford Reserve?”

  “Yep.”

  “Make it a double. Neat.”

  “Coming up.”

  Trent rested his elbows on the bar and bowed his head. Breathe in through your nose; out through your mouth. Concentrate. Calm. He’d gotten through the third round of Deborah’s stupid meditation exercises—not exactly easy when the decibel level in the bar rivaled that of a punk-rock concert—when the stool next to him scraped on the floor. He opened his eyes. Nice thighs. His new neighbor sported dress slacks in a smooth gray wool. His father tried to force him into similar high-end suits on a regular basis whenever the family appeared in public, which was one of the reasons that Trent insisted on wearing his thrift-store wardrobe.

  Not that he didn’t appreciate high-end clothes, but it was the principle of the thing.

  The bartender tossed a beer mat in front of Trent. Stumptown Spirits was printed on it in spiky letters, along with a logo of a ghost with staring red eyes drinking a beer. Trent shuddered and turned it over.

  “Not a fan of nonrepresentational art?” His new neighbor’s voice matched his pants—smooth, high-class, with a definite European flavor. French? Maybe, but it was slight.

  The bartender set Trent’s bourbon on the overturned beer mat without a blink. Trent shrugged and took a sip. “Don’t like being watched.” He stole a glance at the stranger in the mirror behind the bar.

  He wasn’t as sneaky as he’d hoped, because—busted—the guy met his gaze and a smile quirked his mouth.

  Jesus fuck. Gorgeous. His chin-length hair was on the reddish side of brown, his close-trimmed beard a shade redder. His eyes were the same color as the liquor in Trent’s glass, and his features were chiseled, something about them calling to mind the illustrations in Trent’s nearly forgotten medieval history book. Ascetic? Was that the word? Like the face of a monk or a saint in mid-martyrdom.

  Trent forced himself to stop staring. What the hell are you doing, asshole? First Bishop, and now a random stranger? You’re here to reconnect with Logan, to get your own life back on track. Eyes on the prize and tell your dick to keep its opinions to itself.

  “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you appear to have one already. May I join you?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  The guy made a sound that would have been a snort from anyone less classy. “For some, perhaps.” He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed to Trent’s glass before turning back. “Christophe Clavret.”

  Oh, what the hell. “Trent.” They shook hands. Christophe’s grip was firm, lingering long enough for Trent to recognize i
t as an invitation. In the old days, before he’d sort of hooked up with Logan, he’d have been totally down with the implied offer. Those days were behind him though. Weren’t they? He ought to have grown out of them, but sometimes he didn’t seem to have grown at all.

  Christophe accepted his drink from the bartender and slid his credit card across the bar. Amex Black. Cool. Trent could let the guy pay for his drink without guilt.

  With a sideways glance, Christophe turned his beer mat over to match Trent’s.

  Nice touch.

  If Trent had been interested in a pickup, Christophe would have scored major points. But this wasn’t a pickup. Trent was only killing time until Logan showed. So why did the idea of facing Logan suddenly fill his belly with lead, while sparring with Christophe sent a buzz through his veins like in his acting days, in those heady moments just before he’d stepped onstage?

  Must be because one thing mattered and the other was just for fun. He’d always been better at blowing things off. He’d never taken anything seriously except acting, legend tripping, and Logan—and look where that had gotten him.

  Was that the problem? Logan was part of the ordeal, snarled up in the Witch’s Castle nightmare along with Trent. He’s still the only person who’ll ever understand you. Stop fucking around.

  He swiveled on his barstool to face Christophe. “Let’s get things straight. You’re hot. I know it. You know it.”

  Christophe grinned. “Indeed? How gratifying.”

  “Doesn’t mean we’re gonna hook up.”

  A trick of the light made Christophe’s eyes appear to flash molten gold. “Why is that?”

  “I’m . . . well . . . kind of here to meet someone.”

  “You sound uncertain.”

  “Nothing’s certain.”

  “Except death and taxes, no?”

  “Don’t be too sure about that.” Trent had learned recently that death could be negotiable, and his father made it his life’s work to prove taxes weren’t a certainty either.

  Christophe grinned. “You, my friend, are a man with issues.”

  “That a problem?”

  “Not in the least.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a suggestive growl. “I love a man with issues. Happy people are so boring. Who was it who said, ‘All happy families are alike’? Tolstoy?”