Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack)

by Kristin Miller

  He leaned in close, and she couldn’t help but inhale a generous helping of his masculine scent. He smelled divinely fresh, like amber and sandalwood. An intoxicating combination that had her stunned.

  “Oh, I’ve got secrets,” he whispered against her ear. “But this isn’t one. Is it so hard to believe that I simply craved your company?”

  Good God, her earlobes shivered. Was that even possible?

  The thought of this gorgeous man craving anything had her mouth watering. Words evaporated from her brain, which didn’t happen very often, if ever. Despite herself, she relaxed. Probably had something to do with that smooth-as-silk voice.

  “That’s your big secret?” she asked, stepping up to the next painting. “You wanted to spend time with me and chitchat?”

  “Sure.” He followed her, a constant presence at her side. But he wasn’t pushy. Oh no. He glided over the floor a few feet behind her, his free hand in his pocket, the tuxedo coat stretched taut over his impossibly broad shoulders. And damn if those pants didn’t pitch over his obviously impressive groin. “Have you done anything fun since you’ve been in the city?”

  Oh, there were a few fun things she was thinking about doing at the moment. Enjoyable, naughty things that made her girly bits tingle.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  He smirked, as if he had caught her staring at his package. “What have you been doing to occupy your time?”

  Keep your eyes up. “I haven’t been here long enough to see as much as I would’ve liked. I flew in right before the auction.”

  “And you’re already eager to return?”

  She nodded.

  “Why not stay a few days?” His dark eyes glimmered with something devious. “You can see the city while you’re here and experience all you can. And let me tell you, hotels are so impersonal. You’d be better off seeing the city from a local’s point of view. If you want, you’re welcome to crash at my place.”

  Oh yeah, baby.

  No—wait.

  She was supposed to hate him, wasn’t she? He was a MacGrath, for crying out loud. How easily he could make her forget…

  “You can waggle your eyebrows all you want, Jack, but I wouldn’t go home with you if you had a collection of ten Bella Nolan paintings.”

  He grinned, as if he hid the most delectable secret. “Actually, I—”

  Glasses clinked from the main room, interrupting him. When she met his eyes once more, the dark twinkle in them had vanished. Museum patrons mumbled low, their whispers melting together into an incomprehensible wave of conversation.

  “We should see what that’s about,” she said, watching the crowd form near a large painting on the back wall. “They’re starting some sort of speech.”

  “It’s nothing interesting, believe me. Besides, we haven’t seen all the artwork in here.” Jack brushed by, bumping into her with his shoulder. Gooseflesh pebbled over her arm. “Look at this one.”

  She was still trying to get rid of the chill spreading through her chest when Jack stopped in front of an oil panting of Niagara Falls.

  “I’m blown away by the whole process,” he said, “How an artist can take a blank canvas and turn it into a masterpiece. I don’t know anything about painting, though artwork like this has always fascinated me.“

  Isabelle tore her eyes away from the main group and approached his side. “Maybe you should pick up a brush and give it a go. If you’re so intrigued by it.”

  “It’s not about the process, so to speak, but the people behind the art. You can almost sense what the artist was feeling when he painted this.” Turning slowly, he stared her down with those smoky-brown eyes. And just like that, she was warm again. “I like to collect things by artists I feel connected to. Art, sculptures, valuable books, anything that I can add to my private gallery.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got quite the collection,” she said, traipsing around the hall. She could feel his gaze boring into her back as she turned away. “But you’re focused on acquiring, rather than appreciating. There’s a huge difference.”

  “I disagree. Acquiring is appreciating. If I spend a million and a quarter on a piece, it has more value to me than one I paid three hundred thousand for.”

  She spun and stared. “So the inherent value of something is based on the retail price?”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “Which piece in this museum gets the most attention? The one in the far corner, or the one in the center in the glass case? The one purchased for fifty thousand, or the one the museum newly acquired for half a million?”

  A little piece of her died at the thought of someone buying her paintings solely based on the monetary value.

  “We’re going to have to agree to disagree,” she said plainly.

  Jack followed her trek to each of the paintings. A silent companion. She kept her distance from him and was careful not to brush him accidently. Werewolves usually ran hot, their temperatures a bit higher than non-shifters, but when she touched him, an odd chill seeped into her bones.

  Finishing her Guinness, Isabelle stopped in front of a family painting. Oil on canvas from the early 1800s. The father in the piece had the little girl on his knee. She held out a golden-yellow rayed flower and smiled brightly. Proudly. Her father beamed, his arms wrapped around his daughter as he gazed into her eyes. The little girl’s happiness and her father’s love had been captured for eternity.

  It was the kind of dynamic she’d envisioned when she’d shown her father her very first painting. She’d wanted him to wrap her in his arms. Tell her how proud he was of her. Encourage her to paint more often and display it everywhere in their castle.

  It was a good thing their interaction hadn’t been displayed in the de Young. It would’ve been called A Father’s Shame, and wouldn’t have fit with the other, more whimsical pieces in the collection.

  Clapping echoed from the main hall, followed by an announcement. Muffled voices struck her ears, though she couldn’t make out any conversation in particular. As the speech ended, the crowd moved toward a glass case in the center of the floor. She couldn’t tell what had been displayed.

  “Why Bella Nolan?” Jack said from beside her.

  The air froze in her lungs. “Excuse me?”

  “Why are you determined to make Werewolf in Venice yours? Is it the painting in particular, or all Bella Nolan work?”

  “Oh.” For a second there, she thought Jack was asking about her nom de plume. As if he knew it was her. “I’m collecting her work for a private showing in Dublin.”

  Nodding, his lips pulled into a quick, contemplative frown. “Is that so?”

  “You look confused.”

  He scrubbed his hands through his dark hair. “I’m not. But if you’d asked, I might’ve let you borrow the painting for the showing. You wouldn’t have had to offer to buy it or come with me tonight—not that I don’t appreciate your company. I donate paintings for showings all the time. Like tonight.”

  She’d thought about doing that at first, but the paintings were a gift for her father. A part of Isabelle secretly hoped her dad would fall in love with all of them and want them for himself. Besides, she wanted to take the work home, back to Dublin.

  “I wanted it for personal reasons,” she said, finishing her drink. “To appreciate it. No matter the cost.”

  Damn, the woman was stubborn. An unexpected surprise. He thoroughly enjoyed every snippy remark, every sly grin, every simmer of fire in her eyes.

  It made him feel alive. Under the circumstances, he could use more of that.

  As he thought of a rebuttal, the crowd clapped and mumbled again. This time, someone announced Jack’s name over the microphone.

  Why now? When he and Isabelle were finally getting somewhere?

  “Would you give me one minute?” Taking the hand she’d dropped to her side, he squeezed gently. Starbursts of heat splintered into his palm. “I’ve got to do something. Don’t disappear on me, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  Som
ething told him she wouldn’t be going anywhere; she hadn’t gotten the painting yet.

  Dropping her hand, he moved through the crowd of smiling faces—recognizing not a single person—and his hands began to shake.

  Not now. Please not now.

  He approached the glass case and then turned, searching for Isabelle in the crowd. She’d stayed back. Far enough away that she wouldn’t see his hands tremble.

  “I hope you’re all having a fabulous time tonight,” Jack said, raising his near-empty glass. The ice rattled around inside as a tremor clattered through his arm. “I’d like to personally thank the de Young for their interest in this Renoir.” Hold strong. Don’t show weakness. “It’s been a part of my collection for more years than I care to admit, and this is the first time it has seen the light of day. Or the glare of the moon, as it were.” His vision swam in and out, in and out. Gripping the corner of the glass case for support, he rubbed his eyes. And stomach pains from hell rocked him. “Anyway, cheers.”

  Weaving through the crowd, Jack cursed and stumbled. Fought his way back to Isabelle’s side.

  Another few minutes and he’d black out in front of everyone.

  “Isabelle,” he said, leaning against the nearest marble pillar. “I’m sorry to have to cut the night short, but something has come up. What hotel are you staying at tonight?”

  “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” Focus on breathing. Air in, pause, air out. “What’s the name of your hotel?”

  “The Grand Hyatt, but you look like you’re going to—”

  “Perfect,” he rasped out, hollowing out in his middle. “I’ll have the painting delivered to your hotel room in an hour. I’d like to make this up to you…if you’ll let me, but it’ll have to be at a later time.”

  And then, before he collapsed in the middle of the de Young, he staggered out the front doors and into the night.

  Chapter Five

  Isabelle drove her Camry back to the Grand Hyatt and hit every red light on the way. Her father used to say if she found herself stuck by a continuous string of red lights, it meant she subconsciously wanted to be going a different direction anyway. He said it was fate’s way of giving chances to stop and rethink the route.

  She wasn’t sure she bought into it, but the constant stopping gave her a ton of time to think.

  She still couldn’t make sense of what happened between her and Jack.

  They had chemistry; she’d felt it on her end, anyway.

  He’d asked her to come to the museum, and then he up and left? What the hell was that about? She had to have missed something. His hands had started to tremble, she’d noticed that much. Was he nervous? Borderline drunk?

  Regret washed over her in a bitter wave. Why’d it bother her so much that he took off and deserted her at his own artwork display, anyway? It wasn’t like she wanted to spend the rest of the evening with him…

  Trying not to think about Jack or what she wanted to do to him—with him, she corrected—she swapped her evening gown for yoga pants and washed her face. As she slipped into bed, someone banged on her bedroom door.

  “Yes?” Shuffling over, she peeked through the peephole. “Who is it?”

  A petite young woman with frizzy brown hair stood in the hall, holding up an awkward-shaped box.

  “Hotel management,” she said. “We have orders to drop something off to your room at precisely this hour. It’s from Mr. Jack MacGrath?”

  Jerking open the door, Isabelle met the manager with a smile. “Thank you,” she said, and took the painting with more eagerness than was probably necessary. With another nod of thanks, she shut the door and swept inside to study her painting.

  It was perfect, and finally coming home with her, and…there was a note pinned to the back.

  She yanked it off and read aloud, “Isabelle, I’m sorry I had to run out on you tonight. That’s not how I envisioned our first date ending.”

  Oh, go on, Mr. MacGrath…how’d you really want to finish it?

  “I wanted to tell you earlier, but I have another piece of Bella Nolan art, Werewolf in Manhattan.”

  Shut the front door.

  “If you agree to have coffee with me tomorrow morning, the painting is yours. Please accept my sincere apology and meet me in front of your hotel at ten a.m. Jack.”

  Seriously? These two paintings were proving to be the easiest, cheapest finds ever. She would’ve paid millions to bring two of them home. But it seemed all she had to do was go on date number two with Jack.

  Not such a bad deal considering he was the hottest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Staring at him for another day didn’t sound so bad.

  She set up the painting on the desk across from the bed and let her eyes skip over its colors as she dozed off.

  Except she woke up thirty minutes later and couldn’t go back to sleep. She tossed and turned all night, thinking about how she was going to get all the paintings back. If only the other ten were as easy to snag as this one. She worried about how she’d display them in the National Gallery of Ireland, and what her father would say. When she crawled out of bed at nine, showered, and then dressed in jeans, black riding boots, a gray tank top, and a black cardigan, she still didn’t have the answers to any of those things.

  But she knew how to find one more painting, and it was waiting for her downstairs. In Jack’s arms.

  As she made her way into the lobby and then out the front doors, she searched one way and then the other. No sign of Jack. Sighing, she cinched her purse over her shoulder and waited.

  “Isabelle,” a deep voice called. “Over here.”

  Looking past the line of taxis, Isabelle spotted Jack standing in front of a black stretch limousine. He wore dark jeans, a deep blue sweater, and black boots. A shadow of stubble emphasized the rugged lines of his jaw and cheekbones. And there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. He appeared almost…hopeful, if she had to put her finger on it.

  And in his hands were two Starbucks cups.

  Delicious.

  The coffee looked good, too.

  “The note said you wanted to have coffee with me,” she said, gazing out the passenger window of his limo. “Didn’t we just take the exit for the San Francisco International Airport?”

  As she turned to him, her hair fell over her shoulder in silky-soft waves. It took every ounce of willpower surging through Jack’s veins not to reach out and brush a few loose strands out of her face.

  Don’t move too fast. You’ll spook her.

  “You’re observant,” he said, taking a long drink of his Americano. “We’re taking a short flight to Napa.”

  “A—what?” She turned her full attention to him and glared. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Napa. It’s wine country, and we’ll be back by tonight. You can leave after that if you want.”

  She quirked an eyebrow, though he didn’t pick up one iota of resistance. “You didn’t say anything about a flight.”

  “That’s right, I didn’t.” The limo pulled into a private gate and swept around a large hangar. “But if you want the painting, that’s where we have to go. I told you, it’s not far. You’ll be perfectly safe, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re going to visit a longtime friend of mine.”

  “Oh.” She pinched her lips together with her forefinger and thumb. Contemplating. “And he has my painting?”

  “She, actually. Her name is Jasmine Winters.”

  Isabelle stared out the window as if she were completely relaxed with the situation, yet his heightened sense of smell detected the rosy scent of curiosity, followed by subtle hints of jealousy.

  It seemed Isabelle was piqued by his relationship with Jasmine.

  “She’s a sweetheart,” he went on, trying to play it cool. “You’ll love her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will.” She cleared her throat, and adjusted her top. “So did you sell the painting to her, or…”

  “About thirty years
ago, she moved from New York to San Francisco. She missed New York terribly, so I thought the painting would cheer her up.” The limo stopped in front of his private jet. “I called her last night, asked if we could come up to grab it, and she said that was fine.”

  “Yes, fine,” she said, though she didn’t sound too enthusiastic about it.

  He exited the limo, extending his hand to help her out. She took it, sending fiery spirals of heat snaking through his body. The surge of energy in his veins wasn’t as strong as, say, a fight or a new adventure, but it was there. Satiating him. Giving him more time.

  He’d been weakening more quickly the last few weeks—not that he’d admit it to a soul—and he didn’t want to have to leave her again. Last night, he’d stumbled into the streets. Damn near been flattened by a Muni city bus. It still hadn’t erased the queasy feeling in his gut, but it gave him enough strength to get home. After that, he rode his Ducati through the city streets. It’d been the fastest ride of his life. He’d almost died more times than he cared to count.

  The only thing on his mind was having more time with Isabelle.

  She couldn’t go back to Ireland. Not yet.

  “This is the plane we’re taking?” She strode over the red carpet that’d been laid out. “What’s with the grand entrance?”

  “Branson got overexcited.” Reluctantly releasing her hand, Jack finished off his coffee. “It’s not often I have a woman come aboard.”

  “Oh, really?” Her gaze shot to his. “How often is often? No wait, forget I said anything.”

  Rather than answer, he spread his arms wide and guided her toward the small aircraft. “After you.”

  She ducked inside—giving him an unobstructed view of her curves—and took the seat nearest the window. He sat beside her and leaned back in his swivel chair.

  “Never,” he said finally.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Never.” He buckled in as the door shut behind them and the engines warmed. “I’ve never taken a woman anywhere in my jet.”

  “Oh,” she said, meeting his stare. Pleasure flared in the depths of her eyes. “But if you did, I bet the red carpet treatment would make women fall head over heels in love with you.”