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

by Kristin Miller

  “That was crazy,” she said as they slowly wound down to the bottom. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “Just wait.” Throttling back, Jack sped through the city, one light after another, rumbling the whole way. “You’re going to love this ride.”

  He took her through the colorful neighborhood of Haight-Ashbury, drove around charming Union Square and the crowded Mission. He pointed out everything like a competent tour guide—as if he read her mind and her heart. She’d wished to see the highlights of the city while she was here, but hadn’t had time for it. She’d mentioned her desire briefly when they were in the de Young, but hadn’t expected him to remember.

  He really was attentive. Would he be that way as a lover? Aware of every heightened nerve as she crested toward climax?

  Damn it, how had one kiss made her hyperaware of how sensual he was?

  It was as if she’d woken up from some kind of a sexual slumber.

  While she loved every minute of their ride and the delicious tingling in her middle, there were things she wanted to talk to him about. The painting he’d returned to Switzerland. His predicament with adrenaline rushes, and how quickly he was weakening. And why their kiss made her want to do naughty things, despite the fact that she knew she shouldn’t.

  As if he read her mind, he veered into a parking area near Pier 15. Pulling the motorcycle into a private section of the public lot, Jack turned off the engine and waited for her to dismount before getting off the bike himself.

  “What do you think of my city?” he asked, setting their helmets on his bike.

  “It’s breathtaking.” She was still reeling as she fluffed life back into her hair. “I didn’t think I’d be able to experience everything in such a short amount of time.”

  “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.” He grinned, shooting her that smile she liked so much. “I find that if you step back, away from the drama and noise, you can easily grasp the whole picture. You can appreciate the simple beauty of things…and remember not everything is as complicated as it seems when you’re in the middle of it.”

  As he said the last words, his voice deepened to a sexy rumble.

  Not everything is as complicated as it seems.

  Like what was happening between them? She wondered. Is that what he’d meant? Oh, but if he only knew…

  “Come on,” he said, and took her hand. His touch was warm and gentle, guiding her toward a massive silver yacht moored to the dock. It was luxurious and sleek. The most beautiful boat she’d ever seen. Three stories, from what she could tell, with an open area on top to lounge.

  He took her hand as it rested at her side. “All aboard, Miss Connelly.”

  “This is yours?”

  “I like being out on the sea. It’s calming.”

  He pulled her toward the ship as she picked her jaw off the floor. She’d been on a few boats in her life, but nothing like this. It was beyond elegant. Over the top.

  “It was the fastest yacht I could find on the market at the time,” he said as they stepped on board. “Powerful, too.”

  “Of course it is.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Because you need the rush, right?”

  Nodding slowly, he led her up a narrow set of stairs to the upper deck. It was even more gorgeous up close. The whole ship was decorated in white and black, from the shiny flooring to the lounge cushions to the glass of the bar along the far side.

  “Do you take this out often?” she asked.

  “Not as much as I’d like, but it’s quiet on the water. A good place to reflect on what’s important.”

  Yeah, she bet.

  As she stood against the rail near the front of the ship, the crisp ocean wind rushed through her hair, and the floor trembled beneath her feet. She felt refreshed up here. Free, somehow. Being with Jack was an adventure like nothing else. It seemed as if she was always guessing with him. Constantly being taken on a wild ride. She’d only been in San Francisco for three days, and she’d already been to a museum, an underground werewolf fight club, wine country, and now this. And so much had changed within her, too. Last weekend, she hated anyone with the name MacGrath. Saturday and Sunday, she was intrigued, despite herself. And now, if she wasn’t careful, she might beg him to kiss her again.

  “Where are we headed, Captain?”

  “Oh, I’m not the captain.” The boat pulled away from the dock and headed into the bay. “At least not today.”

  On the shoreline, skyscrapers seemed to rise against the edge of the sea, before a backdrop of pristinely blue sky and rolling hills. And in the forefront, a giant Ghirardelli sign hung high, visible to passing boats in the bay.

  “If it’s all right with you,” he said, standing beside her, “we’re going to head out into the bay, sail around Angel Island, Alcatraz, and then maybe sweep under the Golden Gate.”

  “Whatever you want. I’m along for the ride.” Leaning over the rail as they headed out, she sighed. “So…how did you get involved with the black-and-white Van Gogh? The one in your office?”

  “Ah, another game of twenty questions.” He clasped his hands together as he leaned over the rail next to her. “When I heard it was stolen from the museum in Switzerland, I hired the Grady brothers to get it back.”

  “Do you have an investment in it?”

  “No.”

  “Then why spend so much money to get it back?” She frowned as she gazed out over the boxy white building in the center of Alcatraz. “Why get involved with people like the Gradys knowing full well how bad it would look if they got caught and ratted you out? I mean, you could’ve ended up someplace like this.”

  “Then it’s a good thing the prison’s been shut down for fifty-some-odd years.” He chuckled tightly. “I will admit the Gradys are not my favorite people to work with, but they get the job done. They’ve never failed an assignment I’ve given them. To date, they’ve returned thirty stolen works from museums around the world.”

  She snapped her gaze his way. Only he wouldn’t look at her. “You’ve recovered thirty stolen pieces?”

  He nodded, only once, and then slowly turned his head to meet her gaze. “It’s not something I like to advertise.”

  She huffed into a laugh. “Why the hell not? It’s better than people thinking you’re an art thief.”

  People like her father, for one.

  “I’d rather keep my hobbies to myself. The curators I’ve worked with know what I do, and they know where to find me if something comes up. But I’ve asked them to keep my contributions quiet.” As they sailed toward Angel Island, Jack said, “On a clear day like today, you can see Napa from there.”

  Nice change of subject…

  “Really?”

  He nodded and stole behind her. Resting his hands on the rail, he trapped her body with his. Rested his cheek next to hers as he peered out over the horizon. The air around them charged with intensity as the heat from his chest radiated into her back. She bloomed with desire. Leaned back against him and bit back a soft sigh.

  “There.” He pointed in the distance. “Can you see it?”

  No, but she could feel it.

  She wanted to spin in his arms. Look up into his sultry brown eyes. Kiss those lips until she was drunk on the heady taste of him.

  “Isabelle?”

  “Hmm?” She hadn’t realized he was waiting for an answer. Shit. “Oh yeah. I see it.”

  Rather than release her, he stayed behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder. And she didn’t want him to move. Not as long as these tingly feelings were fluttering inside her. Thousands of butterflies released in her chest and beat their tiny wings against her rib cage.

  Why was this happening? What had changed when he kissed her?

  As they sailed around Angel Island, its grass and rock hills were a spectacular contrast against the urban landscape in the distance. Looking at the rugged countryside, one wouldn’t think San Francisco was a short boat ride away. And then it struck her. Lo
oking at Jack’s muscular physique, square jaw, and the wide breadth of his shoulders, one would never expect that he was dying inside.

  Although she would’ve liked to stay another couple days to explore what was happening between them, she couldn’t. Finding two paintings was a major bonus, but she still had to track down ten others, and it wasn’t going to be a picnic. Back home, Neil was searching the auction circuit for information, but last night she’d checked her texts. No luck yet. He’d also said her father was fighting to hang on.

  Her heart ached to spend more time with him, to experience more of this life with him at her side. It tore her up inside to see him sick and jaded. She chilled as uncertainty settled over her skin in a clammy wave.

  As they approached the Golden Gate Bridge, Jack coiled his arms around her waist. How did he know she craved comfort in this moment more than any other? Even though she’d had a year to come to grips with the fact that her father was dying, she hadn’t accepted it. Couldn’t recognize the truth. Pain whipped through her, and her eyes burned with tears. Jack held tighter, as if he could feel the agony ripping through her. Turning in his embrace, she stared up at him.

  His jaw clenched and unclenched as his hands skated up and down her back. “Do you know it’s a San Francisco superstition that you have to kiss when you pass under the Golden Gate or you’ll have seven years of bad luck in your love life?”

  She blinked back tears. “Really?”

  She turned her attention to the bridge as they passed underneath its rusted beams. When she brought her gaze back to center, Jack was staring through her, heating her with the promise of a future she shouldn’t want. Her heart sped, and her knees went weak.

  “No,” he said, smirking with those plush lips. “Not really.”

  She smacked him playfully in the chest. “You’re so full o’ blarney.”

  Moving her back , he pinned her against the rail, robbing the air from her lungs.

  “I love when those little idioms come out,” he said, so close to her mouth. “Drives me mad.”

  And then he kissed her. Pressed against her, mouth to mouth, hip to hip. Her stomach tumbled and then caught as the shadow of the bridge passed over them, and the sun’s rays hit them on the other side. Tunneling his hands into her hair, he tugged her against him to deepen the kiss. His lips were soft and tender, but the heat was demanding. Scorching and undeniable. His tongue swept inside, questioning her true desire with each brush of her cheek. She answered on a whimpered sigh and threw her arms around his neck.

  She didn’t know how it was possible, but in one day, she’d seen the best San Francisco had to offer.

  “Isabelle,” he said against her mouth.

  “Mm-hmm?”

  He kissed her nose, her cheek, her lips.

  “Will you come back to my place? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  There went those butterflies again.

  Maybe she hadn’t seen the best of San Francisco yet…

  Chapter Eleven

  A little before nightfall, they arrived at his house. She had to pick up her things and head to the airport before too long.

  Maybe after another kiss. Or four.

  “I’d like to thank you for saving my life last night,” Jack said, leading Isabelle down the hall. “For letting me taste your lips this morning…and this afternoon.” Gently, he caressed her lower lip with his thumb. She shivered at his touch. “There’s only one thing I can think to give you that would show you the depth of my appreciation.”

  Oh yeah? How deep would his “appreciation” go?

  Taking Jack’s hand, Isabelle let him escort her to a giant door at the end of the hall. “Is this your red room?” she asked, blush creeping into her cheeks. “Because I should tell you now I’m not into it.”

  “No, I believe Branson said the color he painted on the walls was stone gray.” Smirking, Jack turned the handle and pushed the door open wide. “But I like the fact that you’re still standing here if that’s where you thought I was taking you. Close your eyes.” Ever so gently, he brushed his hands down her forehead, so she’d close them. “Step in. That’s it.”

  Although he guided her, she tripped over her own foot and stumbled. He caught her, snaking an arm around her waist.

  “Easy,” he said, leading her into a room that smelled of white tea and fig. The aroma was luxurious and clean, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the temperature took a sudden drop the moment they entered the room. “Before you see the surprise, I want you to know that I appreciate every single item in this room equally.”

  Okay, now she was really intrigued.

  Peeking with one eye, Isabelle searched around the spacious room. It wasn’t a room at all. It was a gallery. His private gallery. The walls were painted deep stone gray, as he’d said. Dim lights shone from the ceiling, illuminating the hanging artwork. There were Monets, Renoirs, Warhols, and—

  Hold up.

  She strode closer to one piece in particular.

  “Werewolf at the Great Wall,” she breathed, touching the bottom of her painting. She’d painted it fifteen years ago. She could still smell the scent of wood, grass, and earth as it’d surrounded her on that warm summer night. “Where’d you…”

  She whirled around, cutting her thought short.

  Jack stood in the center of the room, a smug look of satisfaction on his gorgeous face. But it wasn’t the vision of him in his gallery that had the breath ripping from her lungs. It was the collection of art on the wall behind him—the collection of Bella Nolan art.

  “I…” Her feet moved closer of their own accord as tears stung her eyes. “You…my—the artwork…it’s…”

  Now she wouldn’t have to waste weeks, months, years tracking down her work to display in one place.

  Did Jack have any idea how much this meant to her?

  Without thinking, she ran into his arms. He caught her, embracing her tightly, nuzzling into her hair.

  Her works were all there, with the exception of the very first, of course. Werewolf in Paris, Werewolf in London, Werewolf in the Outback…

  As Isabelle circled Jack’s private gallery, it struck her how foolish she’d been. Her father had been wrong, and she’d believed him wholeheartedly, even when the truth stared her in the face.

  Jack wasn’t a thief.

  His body was banging; he was sharp-witted and smart, and had a mysterious vibe to him that had intrigued her from the start. Judging from the exchange in his office, he was generous, too. And man, could he kiss. He could probably do other things with as much skill.

  But that still didn’t mean they were fated mates.

  As much heat as there was in his kiss, the Luminary spark was more than that. It was a knowing. A whisper of claiming and possession deep down in her soul. She hadn’t heard it yet.

  Despite that, Jack had let her in. He felt comfortable enough with her to tell her about his predicament. He’d taken her to Napa to get another painting, and shown her around his city. He’d been open and honest, revealing his gallery when he could’ve kept it to himself.

  And he didn’t know she was the one who’d created them all.

  That needed to be remedied.

  She stood in front of Werewolf in Moscow. Admired Saint Basil’s Cathedral and its brightly colored domes. Brushed her hands over the Northern Lights in the background and the werewolf standing impressively in front of it all.

  “I can’t believe you have all of these,” she mumbled, stroking them each as she passed by. “Was Jasmine right? Did you start collecting when you’d given up hope of finding your Luminary?”

  Jack wandered through the gallery behind her, his hands shoved into his pockets. She’d noticed he did that when they shook.

  “I’m not sure which came first, but she was on target. The work speaks to me. There is a softness to the strokes of the brush that contrasts the sharpness of the urban landscape. And the wolf in those settings…brilliant. I’ve dreamed of being in each of those pl
aces in wolf form.”

  Interesting.

  He’d revealed his collection, making her dream of showing her father all of her artwork a very real possibility.

  She’d give him something in return—something to remember her by.

  “More than that,” he said, coming to stand beside her, “when I study the art, an odd thrill shoots through me. It’s like an adrenaline rush, but different. It’s electric, if that makes any sense.”

  It made total sense; she had the same feeling when they kissed.

  “Jack,” she said, turning to him. “I have to tell you something. And it’s something that not many people know.”

  “All right.” His dark eyes glistened with uncertainty. “Shoot.”

  She paused, looking at each of the pieces of art in turn. She’d never actually told anyone this. In every other case—and there were very few cases to begin with—she’d been discovered when she’d put out the call for werewolf models or been caught in the act by another member of the pack.

  Nerves rattled through her and gathered in her stomach.

  She took a deep breath and said, “I’m Bella Nolan.”

  Frowning, he took a step back. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “I painted all of these. Werewolf in Manhattan, Moscow, Outback, Paris—all of them.”

  He stared, disbelieving, unmoving.

  “I started painting years ago, and was proud of what I was creating. My first painting, Werewolf in Dublin, was of my father in wolf form, standing in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It wasn’t drawn from life, but from a memory I have when I was young, at my mother’s funeral.” Her throat ached, stinging with the sudden threat of tears. “I showed him, and he—he destroyed it. He ordered me to stop painting, to focus more on pack matters. I couldn’t quit though, not after I had the bug. So to hide it from him and the pack, I continued under a false name, to keep my true identity secret.”

  Jack’s hands found her shoulders. “You’re Bella Nolan?”

  His hands were calm and steady. Now it was her turn to shake.

  As she trembled full force, he wrapped her up and brushed his hands down her hair, soothing her. “I can’t believe it…why didn’t you tell me sooner?”