A Wolf In Wolf's Clothing by Deborah MacGillivray

soothing sensation of The Macallan, a scotch that had gained widespread popularity over the last decade. The brand was giving the old guard a run for their money, winning awards left and right. He supposed that was why he appreciated the liquor so much: he had a soft spot for a quality underdog, and the whiskey’s sudden prosperity almost paralleled the Mershan brothers’ rise to power. Finishing off his drink, he absently placed the glass on the tray of a passing waiter.
    At the front of the hall, Cian stood before the lots, giving a little provenance for each in turn—who donated or created it—along with the value of the item, all geared to prod people to open their checkbooks. Some pieces were antiques contributed by other patrons of the orphanage. About a third came from regional artists: the Montgomeries were offering local talent a showcase through the charity.
    Raven took a position on the opposite side of each item, beautiful window dressing, but once the actual bidding began, both Montgomeries stepped back and allowed the Christie’s auctioneer to take over. A prettily staged show. But the whole affair was sadly ironic, and it rankled Trev. He thought of three little boys who’d been driven into deepest poverty because of Sean Montgomerie’s ruthless and uncaring actions. No help had been offered by “Midas” Montgomerie to the Mershan sons. Which only firmed up Trev’s drive to take back what had been stolen from them all those years ago.
    Focused on tracking Raven, he was surprised when a feminine hand curled around his bicep. Glancing to his right he saw Paganne. She was grinning up at him, her chocolate brown eyes flashing with mischief and a come-hither look. The imp. She was going to probe him while her sister was away, test if she could turn his head.
    “I rather admire how you handled Alec. Very neatly done,” she remarked.
    “Won’t that handsome blue-eyed Gypsy get in a dither if he finds you on my arm?” Trev replied. He was unconcerned about the possibility, but wanted to judge Paganne’s reaction.
    “He excused himself for a smoke. Nasty habit.” Raven’s sister rolled her eyes. “While the cat’s away puffing, he has to expect the mouse might get playful. Still, perhaps if he challenged you to a duel at dawn or even fisticuffs—something romantic and dashing—I might think him truly serious about me. More likely, he’ll just call you some Gypsy insult and then threaten to have his gran curse you. And bet on it: she would. Something very dire, too—along the lines of all your hair falling out or your manhood shriveling up. Men tend to take those threats seriously.”
    “Understandably,” Trev replied. “We’re touchy about our hair and well…” He gave a comical glance downward.
    Paganne chewed at the corner of her lip and looked him over, deviltry and curiosity barely contained. “So, where did you meet Raven?”
    Trev almost chuckled. “I met her at the candy store…”
    Raven’s sister started to laugh but lightly bit her lower lip instead. “Cute. ‘You turned around and smiled at her’? I get the picture. Just because the song came out before I was born doesn’t mean I haven’t heard it. Asha, Raven’s twin—But oh, you already know she has a twin, don’t you?”
    “Yes, I do—lighter colored hair, and presently lives in Kentucky,” he replied, getting a kick out of their game.
    Paganne’s perfectly arched brows lifted in surprise, becauseshe still didn’t fully believe he’d known Raven before tonight. “Then, she’s told you about the Wurlitzer?”
    “A jukebox? Uh, no. I don’t think we’ve progressed that far. We’ve had other things on our minds.” He tried to recall if Julian had mentioned anything in his reports. Nothing. But then he hadn’t been going over Asha’s bio, gleaning small details with the same intensity that he had Raven’s.
    “Well, there’s one in The Windmill. That’s a—”
    “A restaurant Asha owns,” Trev