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

by Kristin Miller

  Six hours?

  Is that how long she’d be in his bed?

  Shivers danced over her skin at the thought.

  No, she shouldn’t be feeling lust and craving his seduction. She should be concerned about his health…shouldn’t she?

  “Sir, this is urgent,” Branson pressed as stress lines formed at his eyes. “The painting you…have planned to purchase from the Grady brothers is here, but they’re… Sir, if you would come out and meet them, you could—”

  “Spit it out,” Jack growled.

  “They’ve changed the price, sir. They want more money for their…efforts.”

  Why did it seem as if he was talking in code? Tiptoeing around what he really wanted to say?

  “They’re in your office,” he went on, “and refuse to leave until you pay them what they ask.”

  Sighing, Jack scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

  “What’s going on?” Isabelle asked.

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s only a snag.” He brushed her arms as if he’d done it a hundred times before. His hands felt oddly natural on her body. They felt right. “Branson, tell them I’ll be right there.”

  Branson nodded, leaving them alone. Moments ago, when their bodies were pressed together, she was in tune with every beat of Jack’s heart, every breath of air escaping his lungs, every desire in his body. But now, it was gone, leaving her cold.

  His chilling words haunted her mind.

  I’m dying.

  “Listen,” Jack said, comforting her with the intensity of his gaze. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to continue this with you, but the Grady brothers won’t wait, and this is important.”

  More important than living in this moment and taking me to bed? She scratched the thought from her head.

  “How long will you be?” she asked, unable to ignore the desperation flooding through her. She wanted his lips over hers again, his tongue sweeping against her cheek, and that delicious warmth blooming through her.

  “Why?” His eyebrows pinched together. “Do you have to be somewhere?”

  Your bed.

  No, that wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be thinking such things.

  But even if she did have plans to head back to Ireland, she’d be so damned distracted by the memory of his mouth, she wouldn’t be able to function. There was something in his kiss she couldn’t put behind her. Heat and power, and…the promise of more. She couldn’t deny it, and wanted—needed—to figure out what was happening.

  Two seconds ago, she hadn’t particularly liked him.

  Now, though…

  Licking her bottom lip, she tried to savor the tantalizing taste of him. It stirred something inside her chest, warming her through.

  There was only one way she was going to shake him. They had to go out. Explore the connection sparking between them. Then, when she tired of him, when she learned everything horrible thing about his past, she could leave San Francisco and never look back. Never think about Jack MacGrath again.

  “I don’t have plans.” Anxiety rippled through her like a cold wave. “But since we didn’t get to finish our date last night, I thought maybe you might like the chance to do something. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

  The corners of his lips curled into a heart-stopping smile. “So it was a date.”

  She fought the urge to leap into his arms and plant her mouth on his again. Kiss that smile right off. Shock him and thrill her at the same time.

  What the hell was happening to her?

  One taste of Jack’s mouth and her system had gone haywire.

  “Do you feel good enough to go out or not?” she blurted.

  “Nothing could keep me from taking you out.” His hands found her waist, and he gripped softly. “Name the place. Anywhere in the world.”

  But she liked right where she was…

  “Okay.” She gazed up into his smoky-brown eyes and tingled all over. “Go take care of business with the Grady brothers, and we’ll finish what we started.”

  And then she’d know, once and for all, if their connection was based on lust or something deeper.

  Chapter Nine

  Jack didn’t say anything to the Grady brothers at first.

  He knew better than to come into the office swinging. Instead, he leaned back in his plush office chair, tented his fingers together, and waited.

  Micah Grady—the twitchy brother with the short fuse—leaned across Jack’s desk, pointing a fat finger toward his chest. “It occurred to us, while we were making our way out of Switzerland, that this painting is worth much more than two hundred million. I think it might be in your best interest to make another offer.”

  Jack’s gaze flipped between the werewolf brothers. They were identical twins with short, dark hair, beady eyes, and biceps that could choke a man out in two seconds flat…and probably had. They weren’t exactly the same, though. A century of working with them had told Jack that much. Micah was the talker with the temper, but Solomon was the Grady to watch out for. The guy didn’t speak much. But when he did, you listened, or you ended up on Channel Ten news as the next John Doe getting pulled out of the bay.

  “I thought my offer was more than fair,” Jack said, removing the briefcase from beneath his desk. “You couldn’t pick up any more for it at auction.”

  “Ah, but we’re not at an auction.” Micah kinked his neck to the side and gave it a stiff pop. “We’ve got a private buyer right here. Willing to do anything so that we don’t take him to the cops.”

  Still, no adrenaline rush. Any other morning, he might’ve had a pulse of exhilaration at the mention of the police bursting down his door. Today, nothing.

  “Who said anything about cops?” Jack asked, dropping the briefcase on his desk and spinning it around. “We’re talking business here, and I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  From behind his brother, Solomon pulled his cell phone out of his breast pocket. He punched a few numbers onto the screen and spun it around to face Jack.

  “Do what you have to do to get the Van Gogh,” Jack heard his voice say from the recording. “If you’re on board, I’ll send over the address where you can find it.”

  “We going into a museum?” Micah’s voice played back.

  “No,” Jack said. “This guy stole it from a display in Switzerland. You’re going to steal it from him.”

  Micah puffed on a cigar, blowing into the receiver. “And what do you want with it?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  After a long pause, Micah barked, “Our take?”

  “Two hundred.” Million, he’d meant. “Unmarked U.S. currency. It’s the last job I’ll have you do.”

  “You retiring, Jackie?”

  “Something like that,” Jack said, before Solomon hit the stop button.

  “The recording alone could put you away, but when they find the painting in your private collection…” Micah whistled. “The case will be as black and white as that painting over there.”

  Van Gogh’s grayscale painting was exquisite, and had been missing from its display for two years. Jack intended to return it—what he’d done to every stolen piece in the last hundred years. He appreciated art too much to stand by while thieves stole it for their private collections. He had a private gallery, too, but he regularly donated the pieces to museums for others to experience and admire.

  “How much do you want, Micah?” Jack asked, nodding for Branson to bring over the other briefcases.

  “Five.” Solomon answered instead, his voice a gravelly rasp. “We want five.”

  “Whew. Five-hundred-million.” Shaking his head, Jack let out a low curse. “You’ve never asked for a number that high before.”

  “We never got the feeling you were going out of business before,” Micah said, grinning slyly. “What do you say? Five-hundred and we have a deal? Or we take your two hundred for the trouble, and sell this hot piece of art to another buyer?�
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  From outside the office door, footsteps shifted the floorboards. They creaked under someone’s weight. Jack nodded in the direction of the door for Branson to check it out. As he pulled it open, though, Isabelle stood in the doorway, a puzzled look on her face. And those damn hideous slippers were still on her feet.

  From the hard glare in her eyes, he knew she’d heard part of their conversation. The question was, how much.

  “Ms. Connelly, why don’t you wait in the back room? Branson will bring you coffee.” Trying to hide his knee-jerk reaction to her, Jack motioned for Branson. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “No need to be rude,” Micah said, moving to the door and opening it wide for her to pass through. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your new friend?”

  Oh, shit.

  “I’m Isabelle Connelly.” She stuck out her hand. “And you are?”

  “You can call me Micah,” he said, turning over her hand and kissing the back.

  A low rumbling sound erupted from Jack’s chest.

  “And this is my brother Solomon,” Micah continued. Solomon stared, his arms folded over his chest. “We’re business partners of Jack’s.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of business partners?”

  For the first time in days, dread weighed heavy on Jack’s shoulders.

  She should’ve stayed in his bedroom. She shouldn’t have introduced herself to them…now she was on their radar. For her own safety, it was the last place he wanted her to be.

  “Deal.” Desperation streaking through him, Jack stood from behind his desk. “You hear me, Micah? I’ll get you what you ask by the end of the business day.”

  Two pairs of Grady eyes snapped his way.

  “Glad to hear it.” Micah grabbed two of the briefcases Branson had brought over and marched toward the door leading to the foyer. Solomon grabbed the handle of the last one in his chubby hand and met his brother at the door. “I really hope you don’t retire. For everyone’s sake.” His sinister gaze took Isabelle in, starting at her angelic face, dropping down her luscious curves, and ending at her feet. “Nice slippers, Cinderella.”

  And then they walked out, leaving their stench behind. When the door clicked shut, Isabelle turned to him.

  “Who were those guys?” she asked innocently.

  He knew her well enough to know there was an undercurrent of accusation in her tone.

  “How much did you hear?”

  “You just bought that Van Gogh for five-hundred-million.”

  He nodded, striding toward the painting. “Anything else?”

  “They said it was hot.” She tapped her fuzzy-slippered foot against the hardwood floor. It was hard to be stern-faced with someone who wore pink mops on her feet. “I’ve never been good at math, but one plus one equals a stolen painting in your office.” She shook her head and glowered. “You know, for a second I thought you were actually one of the good guys. I stood in your bedroom thinking how this was crazy that I was starting to feel— You know what, all that matters is that my father warned me not to trust a MacGrath. I should’ve believed him. You stole that painting—who knows how many others?”

  It was disheartening how eager she was to doubt him. All because of the lying and cheating his ancestors had done hundreds of years before they met.

  Clutching the work in his cold hands, Jack stood and faced her. “I didn’t steal a thing.”

  “Okay, so you hired the Goon brothers to do it for you.”

  “Grady.”

  “Whatever.” She charged at him and tried to rip the painting from his grasp. “Same difference. Whether you stole it or they stole it for you—”

  “It was already stolen.” He tightened his grip. “They simply stole it back.”

  She gawked, yanking harder. “That painting belongs in a museum.”

  “Exactly.”

  As if on cue, Branson swept through the door leading to the foyer. “Sir, the curator is here to see you. Are you ready, or should I have her wait?”

  Hands freezing on the canvas, Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “Curator?”

  “For the museum where the art was stolen,” Jack said simply, meeting her stare over the top of the canvas. “She’s here to pick it up and return it to its proper place.”

  “But…” Isabelle glanced at Branson, who stood in the doorway looking unamused by the tug-of-war over the Van Gogh. “You already have someone here to pick it up? You stole it—er, bought it. They were just here.”

  Maybe she hadn’t heard him.

  “Time is a luxury that’s been denied to me.” Jack loosened his grip on the painting, and then let her have it. “I have to make sure things move quickly, or they might not happen at all.”

  Her lips parted, ever so slightly, as if having her mouth open helped her think. But the second the curator strode into the room—fair skin, platinum-blond hair, and legs for days—she clamped her mouth shut.

  “Let me see it,” Ms. Sorensen crooned, taking out a pair of thin-rimmed glasses from her bag. “I’ve been waiting too long.”

  Isabelle turned, holding up the art, but didn’t say a word.

  “It’s just as striking as I remember.” Ms. Sorensen held out her hands. “May I?”

  Nodding, Isabelle handed it over and backed toward Jack’s desk. Ms. Sorensen analyzed the frame, the smudges in the corners, and the canvas itself. As if it passed her inspection, she grinned wide.

  “I’m thrilled it’ll be going home,” Jack said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Might I suggest you amp up security to take better care of it this time?”

  Ms. Sorensen couldn’t tear her studious eyes away from the painting. “Oh, you better believe it. We can’t thank you enough, Mr. MacGrath.”

  As the curator swept out of his office, Jack turned to Isabelle. She leaned back against his desk, staring at the ground and shaking her head, as if trying to process something that was too difficult. Was he finally getting through to her? If anything could change Isabelle’s opinion of him, it had to be this. With the curator returning the painting to its proper home, Isabelle had to know he wasn’t anything like his thieving ancestors.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She huffed into a nervous laugh. “Five hundred million of them.”

  Chapter Ten

  A little after noon, Jack led Isabelle to his bike, which had been parked alongside his house. It was black and rugged. Wide tires. Bulky engine. Narrow passenger seat on the back. Swinging his leg over, he mounted the bike and handed Isabelle a helmet.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, after the fight last night—”

  “I appreciate your concern,” he interrupted. “But I told you, I’m fine.”

  He certainly looked fine. He’d changed into dark-washed jeans, a cotton T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. She’d never had a thing for bikers before, but he nailed the viciously sexy facade. And from the warmth blooming between her legs, he could’ve nailed her, too. Right here, right now.

  It was a good thing Branson had brought her bag from the Hyatt to Jack’s place; she was prepared for the ride. While she’d packed light for her trip, she had jeans, a couple cute long-sleeved shirts, and a warm coat. Everything she needed. Except a better defense against Jack’s charm, apparently.

  “What is this thing?” she asked, gawking at the bike.

  “It’s a Ducati.” He brought it roaring to life, vibrating the cement beneath her feet. “And my favorite way to see the city.”

  Nerves flitted through her as she took the helmet and shoved it on. “It’s a monster. Why can’t we take my Camry?”

  “The Camry isn’t nearly as fun.”

  True, but… “This is going to give me helmet head.”

  “Your head is gorgeous, whatever shape it’s in.” Laughing, he turned and tightened the strap beneath her chin. “Well, I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to look adorable in this. But you”—he adjusted it over her head—“pull i
t off.”

  Okay, so she might’ve felt a little better about this whole thing.

  “Hop on,” he said, putting on his own helmet. “And hold tight.”

  That she could totally do. It seemed as if from the moment they kissed, a switch had flipped. Her body craved being near his. She shivered with excitement from the mere thought of holding him tightly as they zipped through the city.

  Blowing out a shaky breath, Isabelle gripped his shoulders as she straddled the bike and situated herself over the back. Teetering on the seat, she slipped her hands around Jack’s waist and hugged her body against his. Heat radiated through his leather coat, right into her chest, instantly relaxing her.

  This was what she’d needed all along. In his bedroom, his office, on the back of a monster bike…whatever. Didn’t matter.

  She breathed him in. Even through the leather, she could pick up his intoxicating scent. It rumbled through her, filling her with a light, airy kind of happiness she’d never felt before.

  “You ready?” he asked, easing the bike down the drive.

  As she nodded, he shifted gears. The engine growled like a wild animal. With a squeal, she tightened her grip around his waist and buried her face in his back. But within a few seconds, the wind whipped around them, bringing with it the interesting scents of the city. Salt from the bay. Clam chowder wafting from somewhere nearby. Car exhaust. Peeking through fluttering lids, Isabelle took in the passing cityscape.

  “Lombard Street.” Jack pointed left, and they turned, taking a sudden dip. The road was paved with brick and impossibly steep. One hairpin turn led to another. They zigzagged one way before immediately curving the other.

  “It’s famous for being the crookedest street in the world,” Jack said, turning his head so she could hear him.

  “Yeah.” She leaned closer. As tight as she could get. “I see why.”

  Grinning ear to ear, she took in the fragrant hydrangeas blooming alongside the narrow road. Studied the architecture of the houses looming over the street. The whole scene was stunningly beautiful in its uniqueness.