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

by Kristin Miller

  “He used to go out more, but would have this apathetic, almost grumpy expression on his face. For years. Remember, Jack?” Pouting into a frown, she raised her shoulders up and looked as if she were giving her best imitation of Grumpy Cat. “Like this.”

  Isabelle cracked up beside him. “That’s a good impression.”

  “Jasmine…”

  “But then he bought two Bella Nolan paintings.” Taking the asparagus off the grill, she rolled a few onto each plate and then flipped the coated chicken onto the top. “He stopped going out, but when I’d stop by to check on him, he seemed happy. As if the paintings truly eased whatever pain he was hiding inside.”

  “Oh, that’s deep, Jasmine,” he said, staring at his food the second she slid it over the island. “Is that what your psychology degree did for you?”

  She shrugged, standing across from them with her own plate. “Am I off base?”

  Isabelle’s gaze flipped between them.

  “It’s reaching,” he answered quickly.

  “Umm-hmm,” Jasmine mumbled, her cheeks full of chicken. “That’s why you gave me Werewolf in Manhattan, wasn’t it?”

  “Why?” Isabelle said, scooting closer—so close their arms brushed, sending chills through him. “Why’d you give it to her?”

  “So I wouldn’t feel so lonely,” Jasmine answered for him. “If it worked for him, so he didn’t feel lonely without his Luminary, it would work for me.”

  As he chewed slowly, trying to keep food in his mouth so he didn’t have to talk, Isabelle’s gaze heated the side of his face.

  “Which was why I was so surprised when he called, saying he was going to give the paintings to you. It’s not that I mind giving it up—it was never mine to begin with—but he’d held on so tightly for so long”—she set down her fork and bent over the island—“and then he shows up with you, and I understand.”

  Isabelle’s heart slowed—he could hear its strumming beat, calling him.

  “You understand what?” Isabelle said softly.

  Jasmine’s eyes sparked with dark amusement. “She really doesn’t know, does she?”

  He shook his head and choked down the last bite of food. It was tastier than it smelled, creamy and flavorful. He swallowed down a helping of despair, too, while he was at it.

  “Forget it,” Jasmine said with a smile while turning on her charm. “Enough about Jack and me, and Bella Nolan. Which part of Ireland are you from?”

  They talked for hours about Ireland and San Francisco and New York and places they’d never been that they’d always wanted to go. He hadn’t realized it was nearly four o’clock, but the tremors rattling through his fingers served as a personal alarm clock.

  They were coming closer now.

  “Time to go,” he said, and hustled her out the front door.

  With Werewolf in Manhattan in one hand, Isabelle embraced Jasmine in a bear hug with the other and kissed her on the cheek. They certainly took their sweet time to say good-bye.

  Not like they had a ticking timer counting down the last minutes of their life, or anything…

  “She’s the one,” Jasmine whispered into Jack’s ear when they embraced. “I think she might be the only one who can’t see it.”

  He nodded in total agreement and turned to stride toward the car. His stomach seized into a knot. His vision swam and his hands went numb.

  Not now.

  “You drive,” he said, digging into his pocket and throwing Isabelle the keys.

  Wouldn’t want to have a seizure on the road and put them both in jeopardy.

  Her face lit up as she stowed the painting in the trunk. “You sure you want me to drive again?”

  If he got the feeling he was going to die again, hell yes.

  It’d give him just the rush he needed to make it back to the city.

  She drove the Porsche hard and fast, exactly the way he’d needed her to. She’d tried to make small talk, but he had to stay focused on slowing his heart rate. Surges of energy pulsed through him, smoothing out the shakes. But the nausea remained. And his vision was still off. There were two Isabelles in his sights—not that having two of her wouldn’t be amazing in certain scenarios.

  “Are you okay, Jack?” she asked as they pulled up to the airport. “Every now and again your color looks off. You look…gray.”

  His vision cleared, only for a moment. “I’m fine.”

  Or at least he would be.

  The flight back to San Francisco was a blur. Had he dozed off? Stared into space? Gawked at Isabelle’s legs the whole time? He couldn’t say.

  And it spooked the hell out of him.

  Shakes, seizures, and blackouts. That was the order of things the medicine man had discussed. He’d yet to have a blackout, but couldn’t explain what had just happened.

  He had to do something before it was too late.

  As the plane taxied to where Branson was waiting with the limo, Jack leaned over and tapped Isabelle on the shoulder. She turned to him with more attitude than he’d expected.

  She’d probably tried to talk to him during the flight, and he’d probably tuned out.

  Perfect.

  “I’m sorry about the way things ended tonight,” he said, though he fumbled the last words. Jumbled them together a bit. “I’m going to take a cab home, and have Branson take you back to your hotel. I don’t know how long you plan to stay, but there’s something else I’d like to show you. Would you wait? Another day, at least?”

  He needed a stiff burn of adrenaline rocketing through his veins, like now. Maybe after he did that, he’d surprise Isabelle at her hotel. He’d have Branson get her number before dropping her off.

  Her mouth downturned. “Why would we part ways here? At the airport? And why wouldn’t Branson just take you home?”

  Too many questions.

  And he simply didn’t want her to see him this way, at his worst and weakest.

  Damn it, why’d he have to be borderline blackout now?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and kissed her hand before rushing down the back stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  Isabelle had everything she needed. Werewolf in Venice. Werewolf in Manhattan. A limousine ride at her disposal, on Jack’s dime.

  But for some reason, she couldn’t make up her mind where to go.

  Okay, okay, so her mind was totally made up. It was a tiny tug in the pit of her stomach that kept her stuck in IndecisionLand.

  “Where to, miss?” Branson asked for the second time. Glancing at her through the rearview mirror, Jack’s butler raised his bushy eyebrows in expectation. “Where would you like me to drop you off?”

  “Does he do this often?”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry? I’m not sure I understand.”

  Adjusting the painting beside her on the leather seat, Isabelle stared out the window at his private jet in the distance. Jack had already taken off, darting into one of the terminals to “take a cab home.”

  Ridiculous.

  As if she’d believe that line of crap.

  He was probably waiting for her to leave so he could fly back to Jasmine’s.

  “Does he take women on day trips with his jet, and then run off unexpectedly before the night’s over?”

  Branson stared, giving nothing away with those flat gray eyes. The guy was handsome, but looked like a dolt when he just sat there.

  She slid forward on the seat. “How many women have you given rides home this way?”

  “Just you, miss.” Branson started the engine. “Where to?”

  Isabelle slouched into the seat with a huff.

  She was the only woman he’d left this way?

  Well, that stung.

  “Is he flying anywhere else tonight?” she asked. To Jasmine’s, she meant.

  “No, miss. They’re taking the jet back to the hangar now.” He pointed out the window. “Take a look.”

  He was right. So what the hell? What had she done wrong?

  “Jack isn’t goi
ng home, is he?” she asked, tapping her fingers against her mouth.

  A long, drawn-out pause, and then, “No, miss.”

  “I knew it. Where’d he go?” She slid to the edge of her seat. “Please, Branson. Tell me where I can find him.”

  “He enjoys a good boxing match every now and again.” Finally, Branson glanced over his shoulder. And winked. “I believe there’s an open ring on Judah Street that he likes to frequent.”

  “Thanks, Branson,” she said, and held on for the ride.

  A good forty minutes later, they turned on Judah Street. When he stopped in front of a gym that looked perfectly normal—and closed—she exhaled heavily.

  “It’s closed. See the sign?” She pointed. “He must be somewhere else. Any other ideas?”

  “Not everything is as it seems, miss.” He parked on the street in front and put the car in park. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  Hesitant, Isabelle slid out, leaving the painting behind in his safekeeping. In parts of downtown Dublin, she might’ve been frightened walking around by herself in the evening. But San Francisco was alive at night. Illuminated with possibility. Cars honked and sped through red lights, and the bars were still overflowing.

  Isabelle peeked in the windows of Kicking Kango’s. It was dark inside, and not a single scent of a werewolf tingled her nose.

  “Where are you?” she whispered, turning back to the street. “This can’t be it, but Branson said…”

  And then she heard it.

  A guttural moan. Scratches of claws through flesh. Muffled cheering.

  Couldn’t be right…

  Moving along the side of the Kicking Whatever, Isabelle tiptoed, listening. More of the same. Hissing and spitting. A low roar. Clapping? The sounds were primal, raw and real. And they were coming from the basement. From out of nowhere, the scent of a wolf struck her.

  The tallest, largest guy—scratch that…werewolf—that she’d ever seen turned the corner. She startled, hugging the wall of the building. It wasn’t his size that had her holding her breath as he passed by, though he was well over six feet six, three hundred pounds of pure muscle. No, it was the blood trickling down his temples that had her staring bug-eyed.

  “Evening.” He spoke as if he were going on a nice nightly stroll. As if the blood trickling down his temples hadn’t just dripped onto his collared shirt.

  She swallowed hard. “Good evening.”

  Keeping her eye on him, Isabelle weaved around the corner and faced a heavy door. The guy had to have come from here. Unless he was Dumpster diving. But there wasn’t any garbage back here for him to dig in.

  A sharp cry split the night, followed by the unmistakable stench of testosterone. It burned her nose, dark and crisp. And then a wave of Jack’s scent hit her. It was musky and crisp, and made her stomach tighten.

  Without thinking, she knocked on the door. It opened a sliver, and a man’s face—beady black eyes, wide nose, thin lips—filled the space. He was a werewolf, young and stupid, from the reckless smell of him.

  “Yes?” He looked her up and down and sniffed the air, checking to make sure she was one of his kind. “Admission for one is fifty. Cash only.”

  “Admission?” She shook cobwebs out of her head. “For what?”

  Growling floated through the sliver in the door, followed by a pained moan.

  The man’s beady eyes shifted into the room behind him and then back to her. “Someone must’ve told you about our underground werewolf fight club. You’re here, aren’t ya?”

  “Werewolf”—she lowered her voice as the word punched out of her—“fight club?” How twisted. Is this what the werewolves in the city did when they were bored? What Neanderthals they were. Members of the Irish Wolf Pack would never participate in anything this barbaric. “No, I don’t want to come in. I was looking for Jack MacGrath. Do you know if he’s in there somewhere?”

  “Oh, he’s here all right.” He barked out a sinister laugh. “But he’s in no shape to come out and talk to ya.”

  What did that mean? Was he drunk? Passed out?

  “Do you mind if I come in to talk to him myself? I’ll only be a minute.”

  “If you pay the cost of admission, you can talk to him all damned night.”

  Rolling her eyes, Isabelle fished sixty dollars out of her purse. The doorman pocketed the bills. And kept her change. She felt his eyes on her back as she entered, and then descended down a set of narrow stairs. Clearly, if there was a fight club happening downstairs after hours, the business was San Francisco Wolf Pack owned and maintained.

  Couldn’t they do anything better with their time and money?

  Her ears detected the sounds of clashing bodies and teeth tearing into flesh. The floor vibrated beneath her feet as sounds of fighting rumbled off the walls.

  Heart in her throat, she reached the bottom of the stairs. The entire basement opened up into a giant padded room. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Beams split the open space. Other than that, there wasn’t a single piece of furniture. Or maybe it was the grouping of large, shouting men blocking her view.

  There were too many bodies to count, huddled against one another, hollering toward the center of the room. The gagging mixture of sweat, bloody fur, testosterone, and pure anger created a fog that lingered on the air, choking her.

  “Disgusting,” she muttered, putting a hand to her nose to block the direct flow of the stench. “So gross.”

  A few men turned around, glaring, as if she’d been talking about them. They weren’t the type to mess with. Bald heads and bare chests. Covered in dark tats and scars.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you two.” She flushed hot. “Of course not. You’re not disgusting. I meant your smell. Well, not your smell, but the collective smell.”

  Shut up, shut up.

  They glowered, their eyes narrowing to slits.

  “I’m just going to”—she moved away, putting up her hands—“go find a spot to stand over here and look for my friend. My very large, mean biker friend.”

  Strangled with fear, it was the only thing she could think to say, but the second she was free from their heated gazes, she laughed. One of her nervous, scared laughs, but still.

  And no sign of Jack.

  The crowd booed, pumping their fists in the air over their heads.

  Standing on tiptoe, she tried to get a glimpse at the center of the room, but no way. Not from this angle against these burly men. And she couldn’t fit between them.

  As she moved through the raging mob, Isabelle realized every man in the place was bare-chested. Most were covered in scars and sweat. And every single one of them was so preoccupied by what was happening in the center of the room that they barely recognized her presence.

  When she reached the back wall, a place she felt safe so no one could steal behind her, she bumped against a wood crate. Perfect. Stepping up, she looked out into the room, eager to get a vantage point to better look for Jack.

  The quicker the better, so she could get the hell out of here.

  Two wolves tangled in the center of the room.

  She gasped, watching in horror as they reared up on their back haunches and crashed into each other with brutal force. They growled, baring their teeth as they clashed them together.

  The guy at the door had said this was a werewolf fight club, but with the men surrounding the room, she hadn’t actually expected the men to be fighting as wolves.

  Right in the middle of the city.

  Covering her mouth with her hand, Isabelle gawked, unable to detach her gaze from the horror of the fight.

  One of the wolves—the sleeker one with the raven-black hair—was covered in a mess of sweat and blood. His fur was matted down the back, wet and dark red. His face was bashed in on the right side , and the tip of his nose had been sliced open by a claw.

  The other wolf—the auburn-haired, much larger one—had claw marks streaking down his left side and was bleeding over one of his eyes. Other than that, he
was fine.

  Colliding with cruelly intense force, the wolves bit and clawed. Jumped back. When one leaped, the other matched. Blood gushed over the floor as the auburn wolf sliced through the side of the darker.

  He howled in agony.

  The men in the crowd bellowed, a roll of thunder that vibrated the entire building. Isabelle’s heart drummed in her chest.

  Limping and bleeding, the darker wolf attacked. As their massive bodies slammed together, the darker wolf slipped in a pool of his own blood. Taking advantage, the auburn wolf leaped on top of the other and pinned him to the ground.

  Although the auburn wolf clearly had the upper hand in strength and size—and now, position—the darker wolf was the one who wouldn’t quit attacking. He snapped with sheer anger. He was focused. Determined to fight to the end, it seemed, no matter the cost to him.

  Well, she figured, they could simply shift when the injuries became too much to bear. Maybe that’s how the fight ended. When one wolf couldn’t take the pain anymore and shifted back, it must’ve been the equivalent of screaming mercy.

  They’d heal.

  Everyone would head home.

  It was still barbaric, but at least no one would have any lasting injuries. As she scanned the room, her gaze settled on the backs of a few men crowding near the fight. They were terribly scarred.

  These fighters would live, but be marred forever? For the fun of it?

  Yeah, forget barbaric. They were just stupid. Testosterone-raging idiots.

  Speaking of, where was Jack in all this?

  A guttural cry jerked her attention back to the fight. The darker wolf was still pinned, its feet pushing against the larger wolf’s chest. It didn’t look good.

  Severing the carotid artery could kill a werewolf. A bite to the neck from another wolf would do it. And from the way the auburn wolf’s teeth were poised at the neck of the darker wolf, he was threatening to do real damage.

  “Come on, MacGrath,” someone yelled from the front. “I’ve got three grand riding on your ass.”

  MacGrath?

  Jack.

  But where? In the fight? No…

  Desperation streaking through her, Isabelle scanned the horde of half-naked men. From this angle, they all looked the same. Thick, muscular bodies slickened with sweat.