This lone wolf falls hard…for his enemy.
Unmated werewolves don’t normally live past three hundred years old...and billionaire Jack MacGrath is cutting it close. Sure, he has almost everything—the respect of his peers, a mansion in San Francisco, a private jet, and fast cars. But without a mate, Jack’s in trouble. Then he sees her. Gorgeous, proud...and his enemy.
Isabelle Connelly is good at hiding things from her father. Like her success as a painter, or the incredibly intense attraction she has to Jack MacGrath. After all, she’s royalty and falling for anyone lesser—to say nothing of a rival pack—would be, er, unseemly. Now she must choose between her duty to her family and her pack...or her perfect fated mate.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover the San Francisco Wolf Pack series… The Werewolf Wears Prada
Gone with the Wolf
Four Weddings and a Werewolf
So I Married a Werewolf
Discover more paranormal romance titles from Entangled… Hunter of Her Heart
Baby’s Got Bite
His Wicked Desire
Dragon Her Back
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Kristin Miller. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Covet is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Candace Havens
Cover design by Louisa Maggio
Cover art by iStock
ISBN 978-1-63375-306-8
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition August 2015
To Justin
For making me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world,
every day for the last seventeen years.
For man, as for flower and beast…
the supreme triumph is to be the most vividly, most perfectly alive.
—D.H. Lawrence
Chapter One
Painting in the middle of the night wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
To the average non-shifter, it might’ve been the two-hundred-year-old werewolf howling at the full moon that spoiled things. He might’ve appeared frightening—the ridge of his back arching high as streams of golden moonlight glinted off the sharp points of his canines.
But no.
To Isabelle Connelly, it was the weather kinking her plans.
Gusts of winter wind whipped over the Cliffs of Moher and slammed into Isabelle, freezing her to the bone. She clutched her paintbrush tightly and swiped gently across the canvas to accent the slope of Neil’s tail.
“If you don’t stop twitching,” she said, staring down her furry subject over the top ridge of her clipboard, “I swear to God I’ll paint you with a chipmunk tail.”
We’ve been out here for hours, and the weather’s only getting worse, he said through the Irish Wolf Pack communication process of mind-speak. His voice, smooth in its lilt, hummed through her head. I’m freezing my arse off.
Toughen up, she projected back. At least you’ve got your coat to keep you warm.
Well, she had a trench coat on, but nothing blocked the wind like layers of fur. Isabelle knew firsthand. Being born to werewolf parents meant she could shift at whim—full moon or not. And although the pull of the moon tugged on something in her middle, urging her to shift into a wolf and join Neil, she resisted.
We should go before someone sees us, he said.
We’ll be fine. She adjusted the portable LED light illuminating her palette. The tourists are long gone.
Even in human form, she could propel her thoughts into Neil’s mind. He could block her if the urge struck him, but he’d be stupid to obstruct the mind-speak of the Alpha’s only daughter.
Besides, she continued, standing back to admire her work, I’m almost finished.
Kinking her neck and narrowing her eyes, Isabelle focused on the dark-haired wolf, his hunched back and striking blue eyes set against the stunning backdrop of shadowed cliff and raging sea. She tapped her brush against the canvas, creating a haze of black fur around his tail.
A few more minutes. She dabbed the brush, whipping the tip to give Neil’s tail a stronger emphasis. The fear of being caught out here is part of the thrill. She stood back after a final stroke. Okay. You can give it a look.
Thank God. Neil bounded away from the rocky ledge of the cliff. He gave a full body shake as he approached her side and set his gaze on the painting. It’s amazing, Isabelle. My mum is going to love this.
I’m glad, she thought, and swiped her hands on her painting pants. She’s been so kind to me over the years, it’s the least I could do.
Neil’s mother had worked in Connelly Castle as one of the serving maids when Isabelle was young. Mary had been the only female figure in Isabelle’s life—all 107 years of it. Since Neil was Mary’s only son, he’d grown up in the castle, too, and had become more like a brother than a friend.
He looked up at her with wide wolf eyes. You sure you don’t want me showing it to Mr. Connelly?
“No.” Her voice broke the silence of the night. “My dad doesn’t want anything to do with my art.”
She may’ve been little Isabelle Connelly to her father, but she was Bella Nolan to the art world. Her paintings of werewolves in majestic settings had been sold worldwide, sometimes for hundreds of thousands of dollars. There weren’t many who knew the truth.
But you’ve got a magic touch with those paintings of yours. You’re a rising star in London. He padded his paws around the dirt. Probably America, too. Wouldn’t Mr. Connelly like to know before he—
“I’m working up the nerve to show him,” she interrupted, removing the canvas from the board. “But I want to do it on my terms, and in my own time.”
Neil didn’t know, but she’d already set in motion the plan to reveal the truth to her disapproving father. She’d spent the last year hunting down her paintings from all over the globe. She’d tracked the auction circuit, noting buyers’ addresses, and making them offers they couldn’t refuse.
Money wasn’t a problem.
Not when time was slipping through her fingers. She didn’t have long to show her father what she’d accomplished with her art. He’d been sick for a little more than a year; a rare form of cancer that affected only werewolves had spread from his lungs to his lymph nodes. Wolf pack doctors had given him less than two years to live, though they couldn’t know for certain
how long he really had left.
Grief trickled into her heart and summoned tears to her eyes as she slipped the canvas into her bag. Even though it’d been a year since her father’s diagnosis, the pain stung as strongly as it had the first day.
Her father had told her the sickness was a blessing: every werewolf had to die when its time came, but this way, they could experience every moment as if it were their last. Their days would be lively and bright, heightened by the imminent loss. He’d told her to tie up loose ends. Say what needed to be said before his final breath.
Before he was gone.
But there was still one thing left undone, one thing she couldn’t say. More than anything, she wanted her father to see all of her artwork together, in one place, before he closed his eyes and succumbed to the eternal sleep.
Maybe then, when all thirty pieces were together again, he would understand the depth of her passion, the fire in her heart, and the talent in her hand. The world had embraced her paintings, even if they didn’t have a clue werewolves existed. Why couldn’t her father, the Alpha of their Irish Wolf Pack, embrace them—and her—too?
But you might not have much time left, Neil projected. My mum says it’s getting worse by the day.
“I know.” Fighting back tears, she scrawled her pseudonym on the bottom right hand corner of the picture, the way she always did. Large B, illegible “ella.” Long, swooping legs of the N, scribbly “olan.” “I’ve spent the entire year rounding up my paintings. I’m storing them in Dublin, in a room at the National Gallery of Ireland. I don’t have them all yet, but I’m close.”
When you’re ready, let me know, and I’ll have my mum drop this one off, too.
“Thanks, Neil. That means a lot.”
Neil huffed in approval as puffs of condensation rose in front of his face. How many Bella Nolan pieces are still in the wild?
“Twelve, I think.” She gathered up her painting supplies and tried not to think about how long it would take her to find the last few pieces of art. “Well, thirteen, if you count the first painting I did of my father. But that one is long gone now.”
What happened to—
Her phone bleeped from her bag, interrupting him, thank goodness. She didn’t want to delve into what happened with her first painting. How could she explain the story, yet hide the pain? Her father had said painting was a waste of time. An Alpha’s daughter should spend her days and nights studying tradition and pack policy. How could she express the shame she’d felt when her father flung her precious first piece of art into the hearth?
It hadn’t been lit when he’d chucked it, but after she’d left his den crying, she’d heard his order for the fires to be lit. She’d felt the warmth spread through their mansion outside the city. The sharp, shameful burn of disgrace smoldered deep in her heart, even now.
Her phone bleeped again, silencing the thoughts of her father’s disapproval. She yanked the cell out of her supply bag and read the text as it flashed over her screen: Found another Bella Nolan piece in San Francisco: Werewolf in Venice.
“Thank God.” Jolts of elation shot through her. “Finally found you.”
Werewolf in Venice had always been one of her favorites. She’d painted it fifteen years ago on her third trip to Italy. She could still remember the fluid lines of the water, the fanciful stone dwellings, and the sleek form of the gray werewolf as it stood proudly in the center of the bridge over Rio di Palazzo.
She read the next text as it popped up: Up for auction next Saturday, 10:00 a.m. McDougal’s Auction House in San Francisco.
She wouldn’t have to mess with a buyer or collector, offer a price, and negotiate until she was blue in the face.
No, this would be easy.
Werewolf in Venice was about to come home.
Deep inside her, something tugged.
Her father had always loved Venice. It was where he took her mum for their final anniversary before her death. She couldn’t wait to see her father’s face light up when he set his eyes on all her work displayed in one place. In Dublin. Their hometown.
“I hate to cut this short, Neil,” Isabelle said, gathering the last of her things. “But I’ve got a plane to catch to San Francisco.”
Sounds like a good time, Neil projected, nudging the bag of brushes closer to her foot. Just make sure you don’t leave your heart there.
“What does that mean?” She turned to him.
You know, like the song. His big, furry head swung from side to side. I left my heart, in San…Fran…Cisco.
“Just so you know, Neil,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “You don’t sing any better as a wolf. Still tone-deaf.”
He bumped her playfully, and she laughed.
Where will you stay? He rested on his back haunches. The San Francisco Wolf Pack doesn’t welcome us anymore. Not after your father’s last visit with the late Mr. MacGrath.
“I know,” she said, thinking about the bad blood between the MacGraths and the Connellys. “But I’m not worried about it. I doubt I’ll run into anyone from that family, actually. I’m going to get my painting back, and get home as quickly as possible.”
Nothing was going to stop her.
Chapter Two
Saturday morning, as Isabelle strode through the front door of McDougal’s in downtown San Francisco, she was handed a pamphlet of the day’s artwork. Scanning through the listing, she spotted her piece. The air caught in her throat as she skipped up the marble front steps. She passed large pots crammed with bamboo stalks and towering sculptures of samurai warriors. Folding up the pamphlet, Isabelle shoved it in her purse and strode into the auction room.
The hall was immaculately clean and crowded with people. Her stomach fluttered with happy nerves, and her heart raced in anticipation.
Today was going to be a great day.
After being assigned a paddle, she slid into a seat at the back of the auction hall. Two men brought out each beautifully mastered work. The history of the piece was read, along with a brief summary of which collections it’d been featured in. Whispers spread through the crowd before everyone went quiet and let their paddles do the talking.
“We’re going to take a brief intermission before the next painting, Werewolf in Venice,” the auctioneer said, his voice flat. But it wasn’t the tone of his voice that had Isabelle searching the features of the old man’s face. It was the Irish brogue. “Everyone, take ten.”
He marched down the center aisle and slid into the seat next to her as if he’d planned the intermission for the very reason.
“You look at me strange, Isabelle, as if you don’t recognize me. I’m Colin O’Hare.” He extended his hand. “It’s been years since I’ve rested my hat in Dublin, but I didn’t think my beard had gone that gray.”
Recognition hit her, and she gasped.
Colin had been a member of their pack for two hundred years before venturing out on his own. Rumors hit Dublin that he’d gone to California, but no one had said anything about his work in the auction circuit.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you.” She shook his hand. It was warm and calloused, like worn leather. “I didn’t know you worked for McDougal’s.” Might’ve made her task of tracking down her lost art an easier one. “How’ve you been?”
“Well, thank you.” He leaned in close and whispered, “How’s your father holdin’ up?”
She sighed as despair weighed heavy on her shoulders. “Good as can be, I guess. Did you hear he’s fighting cancer?”
“Aye.” Colin nodded, and the lights shone off the bald patch on the top of his head. “Let me tell you, lass, if any man can win that battle, it’s Gerard Connelly. I’ve never met a man with so much fire.” He tapped her chin gently, as a father would do to a child. “That fire is in you as well.”
Something inside her softened, and she ached to change the subject before she broke completely. “I’m here to bid on Werewolf in Venice,” she said as nonchalantly as she could. “I hear
it’s beautiful.”
“You’re a fan of Bella Nolan, are ya?”
She nodded slowly and averted her gaze to the seat back in front of her. “I suppose you could say I am.”
“That piece is mighty fine. Sold last year in London for three and a quarter.”
She swelled with pride, but kept the emotion on lockdown. Colin didn’t have a clue she was the artist. Or, rather, if he did, he hadn’t let on.
She’d probably have to pay more than four hundred thousand to get it back. Between the earnings from her work and the savings in the Connelly vault, she could afford a solid bid, thank goodness.
“I’d love to sit an’ chat with you, dear, but I’ve got to be gettin’ back.” He took her hand, flipped it over, and kissed her knuckles. “It was lovely to see you. Send my love to your father, and the rest of the pack.”
Her heart warmed. “I will.”
As he returned to the podium at the front, Isabelle sensed someone watching her. She scanned the room, over unfamiliar faces from one side and back again. Sniffing softly, she used her heightened sense of smell to detect anything out of the ordinary. She could pick up extreme emotions: fury and fear, love and happiness. Happiness—a sweet and rosy scent—tingled her nose, masking every other scent in the room.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
“The next piece is Werewolf in Venice by Bella Nolan,” Colin announced as the piece was escorted to the stage. “It’s a stunning piece of Gothic realism.”
He detailed every gallery her art had been featured in, every collection where it’d been shown over the last few years. Awareness heated Isabelle’s cheeks and made the rest of his words fuzzy in her ears. It always happened this way when someone spoke fondly of her work.
“Let’s start the bidding at two hundred thousand.”
She flushed hot as a paddle went up, directly across the aisle from her.
Good God, that man—scratch that…she sniffed and picked up a familiar scent—that werewolf, was gorgeous. Midnight black hair cut close to his head on the sides and longer on top. Big brown eyes. Strong nose. A layer of stubble covering his wide jaw. Black suit and tie. One foot kicked up and resting over the opposite leg.
Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) Page 1