He gave off a vibe of dominance mixed with cool and composed nobleness.
He lifted his paddle again as the bid jumped to two hundred fifty thousand. He didn’t hesitate. Not once. Not even when the price rose to five and a quarter.
Flattery struck her, but she quickly dismissed it. No matter how good it felt knowing the total hottie wanted to have her picture, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it go.
“Six hundred thousand to Mr. MacGrath,” Colin said. “Any other bids?”
Isabelle’s gaze snapped to the Greek god.
MacGrath?
Oh, she had his number now.
He may’ve been sexy as hell, but he was a snake. Evil to the core. Just like every other MacGrath in their nasty family line.
She lifted her chin defiantly and raised her paddle.
Jack refused to be outbid. He’d been waiting for Werewolf in Venice to come up for auction again so he could acquire it and add it to his collection of Bella Nolan work.
He was inexplicably drawn to Nolan’s paintings. They were breathtaking. She brilliantly weaved the majestic form of the werewolf into the natural cityscape behind it. It was the stroke of her brush over the wolves in the painting—gentle and soft—against the gritty textures in the background that had captivated him.
When he studied Nolan’s artwork, a rush of something hot streaked through him. It was akin to a surge of adrenaline. He couldn’t explain the feeling, and had given up trying to figure it out.
He had eleven Bella Nolan paintings.
Werewolf in Venice would make twelve.
And he wasn’t about to be outbid by the tiny little pixie sitting in the row across from him. She had dark hair that dropped past her shoulders and curled up at the ends. Bright green eyes lined with thick lashes. Freckles covering her plump cheeks. She was a werewolf—he could tell by the sweet and spicy smell of her—but she wasn’t from the San Francisco Wolf Pack.
He would’ve run into her by now, and he never forgot a face.
The pixie wore a thick black scarf, black heels, and a black dress that revealed the porcelain-smooth length of her legs when she crossed them. Judging from her attire, she was either headed to a funeral after the auction or stuck in a permanent state of melancholy. Or maybe she simply thought the monochromatic color would make her incognito.
Yeah, no way. With legs like that, anonymity was impossible.
As the bid tiptoed higher, reaching six hundred fifteen thousand, Jack raised his paddle with a flick of his wrist. He couldn’t care less about the money spent. He’d accumulated an estate worth billons, but even if he hadn’t, he’d go in debt to hang Werewolf in Venice on his walls.
Besides, he couldn’t take his billions with him when he died, so he might as well spend his money on something he could enjoy in his final days.
Seeing as how he was a 320-year-old werewolf who’d yet to find his Luminary—his one and only fated mate—he was weakening. Werewolves could only live about three hundred years without going through the bonding process with their Luminary. With every year that passed by, he was pushing the envelope.
He’d searched tirelessly for his mate. Scoured wolf packs throughout the country, and had come up empty-handed. Luminaries could feel the spark of connection at first touch.
He’d failed. End of discussion. End of his life.
A shaky breath ripped from his lungs.
Just then, he picked up something else in the pixie’s scent. Hints of something rich and creamy. It smelled almost like—no, it couldn’t possibly be—Guinness? Smooth and full. Bittersweet underneath. Had she drunk the beer recently? Was it still on her breath?
He couldn’t tell.
The pixie lifted her chin—a slight move, but he caught it—and raised her paddle.
Guess she was a Bella Nolan fan, too.
Without thinking twice, he rebutted.
She craned her neck to the side and glared at him, kinking one eyebrow. It was clear that she was trying to give him attitude, but she looked downright adorable. Like a puppy gearing up for battle against a more formidable dog. He couldn’t help but smile.
Sweetheart, I’m 320 years old. I’ve met and outbid enthusiastic bidders like you before.
But you’ve never met me.
Her thoughts struck him like a hammer to the temples. He hadn’t meant to project his thoughts, or for her to hear them. But now that she’d responded, he couldn’t get the sweet sound of her voice out of his head. Her tone was light and airy, like the winter wind, carrying a soft accent.
He couldn’t place it. English? Irish? Definitely European.
With a huff, the pixie redirected her attention to the front. And raised the bid again.
I can do this all day. Her lips twitched in irritation as her words pulsed through his mind. You might as well go home now. It’ll save you some embarrassment.
Exhilaration fired through his veins.
There was only one thing he loved more than a challenge: a tantalizing game of cat-and-mouse.
Keeping his eye on her, Jack bid until the price reached seven hundred fifty thousand and the room erupted in excited whispers. Pixie fidgeted in her seat, shifting her weight from one hip to the other.
Don’t overextend yourself, he projected.
Don’t worry about me. She waved her paddle. Worry about what your friends in the auction circuit are going to think when you’re outbid and lose this painting.
He bid again. Without hearing the next price.
She matched him.
A smirk curled the corner of his lips as he met her eyes. Fiery determination burned in those emerald depths. Her eyes stunned him, twinkling bright and holding him captive. But not enough to miss the price of the painting rise near a million.
He winked. And then lifted the paddle slowly.
She fumed, her nostrils pushing out slightly, her lips tightening in agitation.
As the room quieted, Jack’s heart raced. Time slowed. Something hot, like molten lava, flooded through his body, making his arms and legs weak. It was the same reaction he had when he pushed the limit and cheated death.
He’d become intimately familiar with the feeling.
Since adrenaline rushes were the only way he was staying alive, he’d had to find new and interesting ways to keep the blood hammering through his veins. For the past twenty years, he’d been living on borrowed time, jumping from one heart-pounding adventure to another.
Although he couldn’t explain it, the pixie sitting across from him was giving him a rush. It was new, interesting, and definitely heart-pounding.
He didn’t want to let Werewolf in Venice slip through his fingers, but what if he let her outbid him? It’d be a loss to his collection, sure, but if he took home the painting, the pixie would be angry and embarrassed. Unforgiving. If he let her win, however, he could congratulate her. Strike up conversation. Invite her to dinner where they’d talk about their mutual love of Nolan’s work. And then, when dessert came to the table, he’d escort her back to his place.
He’d gladly lose the painting to keep the adrenaline pumping through his veins the way it was now.
A tiny bleep sounded from her direction. Dropping her paddle into her lap, she fished her cell phone out of her purse and checked the screen. If Jack wasn’t mistaken, the color drained from her cheeks. She blinked quickly, her lips parting in disbelief. Or was it sadness…?
“Sold,” the auctioneer declared from the front, “to Mr. Jack MacGrath for one million dollars.”
Victory.
The pixie flipped her gaze to the front and then to him. Alarm flickered in her eyes before she stared at her phone once more.
Congratulations on your win, she projected, sliding out into the aisle. It’s too bad the piece didn’t go to someone who’d truly appreciate it. Good day.
What the hell did she know about him or the art he appreciated?
He watched his painting being escorted to the back and then followed the pixie into the foyer.
She was already gone.
He’d just purchased Werewolf in Venice to add to his collection—the only reason he’d come to McDougal’s today—yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unfinished. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The only way to get rid of the prickly sensation, he’d learned, was to jump into the day’s hectic schedule. Check things off his list. One by one. He didn’t even know the pixie’s name, so he’d never see her again. Putting her behind him wasn’t going to be a problem.
That’s exactly what he’d do: completely forget about her.
Right after he hit up Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub and quenched his thirst for a Guinness.
Chapter Three
Early the next morning, Isabelle took the address Colin had reluctantly given her and drove her rented Camry into Monterey Heights. She hadn’t expected a guy like Jack MacGrath—a recluse, from what she’d heard—to live in a city as booming as San Francisco.
As she approached a large, grassy lot surrounded by a high iron fence, she knew she’d found the right place. She couldn’t see much of the house from the street, but it appeared to be three stories. Mission-like architecture. Clean landscaping.
Isabelle put the Camry in park in front of the gated entrance to the mansion and rolled down the window. Determined not to let Werewolf in Venice go, she punched the red speaker button.
“I’m here to see Jack MacGrath,” she said.
A gentleman on the other end of the line asked a question. An annoying buzz over the line muddled his words.
She slumped into the seat and sighed.
Never in a million years would she have thought she’d be here.
Through the years, Isabelle’s father had told her about how the MacGrath family had made their fortune. They’d journeyed from Europe in the 1700s, settled in San Francisco, and started a foreign currency trading brokerage to assist other immigrating werewolves. Rather than being helpful—or God forbid, honest—they pilfered clients’ accounts, stocking away millions while their foreign werewolf “brothers” floundered. Through the years, the MacGrath family was rumored to be involved in investment fraud and corporate deceit, leaving empty bank accounts in their wake.
Getting a leg up by stepping on others was sickening.
Most recently, the MacGraths were believed to be involved in a two-hundred-million-dollar art heist. A painting by Vincent van Gogh—black and white poppy flowers, if she remembered the story right—had been stolen in broad daylight from a museum in Switzerland. Her father had said that the werewolves hidden in the Switzerland government believed a MacGrath was involved.
Out of all of his thieving family members, Jack was the one involved in the auction circuit.
He was also a recluse, keeping people at a distance…probably so no one could get close enough to discover the truth about his involvement in the heist and turn him in. She didn’t need to be a detective to know he was behind the whole thing.
He was a MacGrath by name and blood: guilty until proven innocent.
“Tell Mr. MacGrath that Isabelle Connelly is here to see him.” She spoke loudly into the intercom. “I’d like to make an offer on his newest piece of acquired art: Werewolf in Venice.”
Silence followed after a deafeningly loud crackling sound.
Five minutes dragged by. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and refused to move. Stared at the intricate ironwork on the gate.
“I’m not leaving,” she mumbled to herself. “Not until I get my painting.”
Nothing else mattered.
Billionaire or not, everything had a price.
She’d simply have to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Hell if she knew what that was, though.
Without warning, the gates let out a groan, startling her. She jumped in her seat and watched them open slowly, revealing a winding stone-paved driveway. She put the Camry in gear and drove toward a towering fountain erected in the middle of the driveway.
But the closer she got to the fountain, the slower she drove.
She gawked, mouth hanging open in disbelief.
Good God, the fountain was hideously phallic. Like a giant penis standing ramrod-straight in the middle of a gravel bed. Water bubbled up from the tip, making her throw up a little in her mouth.
Craning her neck around, Isabelle shook her head and scoffed.
It was a disgustingly perfect fountain for a guy like Jack MacGrath.
As she turned, veering away from the fountain—out of pure instinct—she realized she was now parked facing the stairs to his mansion. And took up the width of the driveway, hood to rear end.
Damn it.
She should’ve just parked next to the damn thing.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she reversed carefully. As she inched closer to the penis monolith, the unmistakable whop-whop-whop of a helicopter sounded in the distance. The racket increased.
Was a helicopter landing on the damn house?
She bent, craning to look beneath the doorframe. She searched the sky. One way, and then the other.
There it was.
A freaking helicopter swooped over his house, making a low dive over her car.
She squealed, ducking low in her seat.
The thunderous flac-flac-flac of the blades drowned out everything—the rumble of the Camry’s engine and the drumming of her own heart—as it dropped out of the sky and hovered above the large lawn on the opposite end of the estate. The chopper was massive. Menacing. A door on the side slid open. A rope was flung out, hitting the grass.
What the hell?
With a jolt, the tires of her car ran over something crackly. Her car bumbled. Shook. And then backed into something solid.
“Oh, shit!” Isabelle gripped the wheel tight and slammed on the brakes. Whipping around, she glared out the back window…and caught the breath in her throat. She must’ve been inching back without realizing it. She’d rear-ended the giant penis. It wobbled, shook. The tip seemed loose, teetering on the thick base. “No, no, no, don’t—”
And then it fell. Dropped right to the ground with a thud.
Cue mortification.
Blood heated her cheeks. “Perfect.”
Maybe she could get out of there so she wouldn’t have to see Jack MacGrath face-to-face. She could get his email from Colin. Send him a note saying she was the one responsible for the fountain. He could bill her. She’d replace his disgusting sculpture.
As she put the car in gear and eased away from the fountain, Jack MacGrath leaped out of the helicopter, the rope in his grasp.
Isabelle froze, gawking through the side window.
He rappelled to the ground effortlessly, stalling three times before hitting grass. He gave a salute to the pilot and watched as the chopper flew over the house and out of sight.
She would’ve thought he was practicing some sort of military procedure…except he wore loose-fitting jeans, a black T-shirt pulled taut over his chest, and a black-and-white pair of Converse.
The whole thing was surreal.
They were in the city for crying out loud. Not a freaking army base.
He stalked closer. Nerves spiraled through her. It was now or never. She could jet out of here and send her apologies over Hotmail or she could face him.
She’d never been one to walk away from a confrontation.
She wouldn’t start now.
Steeling herself for battle, Isabelle turned off her car and stepped out.
“Mr. MacGrath, I’m Isabelle Connelly. We met yesterday at the auction house.” Her stomach clenched when she looked into his warm caramel-brown eyes. “I came by to talk to you, but I’m afraid I may have destroyed your fountain.” Geez, the words really rattled out of her when she was nervous. “I’ll replace it. I insist.”
Crease lines formed on his forehead as he frowned. And then he followed her gaze to the tip of the sculpture rolling around in the gravel bed.
“What happened?” he asked, crouching down to
pick it up.
She leaned against the trunk to steady herself. “I was distracted by the damn helicopter. I didn’t expect it to come swooping out of the sky like that. And then you— What were you doing, anyway? Are you in the army?”
“Not anymore.”
“Then why—”
“I don’t like heights.” He said it simply. As if his answer made all the sense in the world. It didn’t. “Rappelling like that is a wild ride. My buddy still flies and offered to take me up.”
“You didn’t look afraid of heights to me.”
No, he was cool and confident as if he’d performed maneuvers like that a thousand times before. Strong…and sexy.
“I didn’t say I was afraid. I said I don’t like heights. Makes for a crazy rush.” He flung the head of the penis to the grass behind him and then eyed her carefully. “That’s all that matters anymore.”
So he didn’t like rappelling from helicopters, yet did it anyway…for the adrenaline rush? Interesting.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said, nudging her chin at the decapitated shaft. “I’ll give you my email address before I leave and you can send me the bill.”
“I’ll take the address, but forget about the bill.” The corners of his full lips turned up at the corners. “I always hated this fountain. It came with the house and I simply haven’t bothered to rip it out. You want to back into it again? Knock it over completely?”
He hated the fountain?
Okay, okay, so he might’ve dropped down a few clicks on her douche-meter.
Still a MacGrath, she reminded herself. Just because he didn’t bow down to a cement penis in his driveway didn’t mean he was made of gold.
“As much as I’d love to plow into the ugly thing again, I can’t.” She reached behind her and patted the trunk of the car. “It’s a rental, and I fear I’ve already dinged it.”
Without warning, he approached the back of the Camry and dropped to bended knee. She retreated a few steps, though she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. He ghosted his fingers over the curves of the bumper, over the paint, searching for damage. Something in her stomach tugged. She’d been jealous of many things in her life: gorgeous blondes, and women who could eat whatever they wanted without getting fat, to name a couple. But she’ d never, not once, been jealous of a car.
Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) Page 2