“I’ve never actually told anyone before,” she whispered, her head resting against his chest. His heartbeat drummed against her cheek, calling to something deep within her. “It was harder than I thought it’d be to admit it, I guess.”
“How could your father not appreciate this part of you?”
She shrugged. “I’m collecting the art for him, to hopefully make him proud. I’m going to display it in one place so that he can understand the gravity of it. To truly comprehend that it’s not just a hobby, but a deep-rooted part of me.”
“He’ll realize it. Maybe all he needed was time.”
Now for the most important question of all…
“Will you sell them to me?” She slowly bent into him as his hand stilled on the small of her back. “I’d pay well more than they’re worth, of course.”
He exhaled heavily, though he didn’t let her go. He held tight. And then shuddered against her.
“I can’t sell them. I’m sorry but I can’t, not when I know you’re leaving me.” As her heart dropped, he said, “I understand that you need them to show your father and I won’t deny you. You’re more than welcome to borrow them—I’ll even have Branson load them onto my jet for you to take when you go home. You have my warmest blessing to display them all in Dublin.” He went solid as stone in her arms. “As long as you promise to personally return them when you’re finished.”
Borrowing them wasn’t what she wanted, but it did give her a reason to come back to him.
“You really want me to come back and pester you some more?” she whispered as he nipped at her earlobe.
“I want you here with me like this, every single day”—his breath was hot and moist on her neck, and tingling her down to her toes—“for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Well not right here, per se.” She spun in his embrace and threw her arms around his neck. “We’d get hungry eventually.”
He smirked. “That’s what Branson is for.” And then he kissed her, melting her all over again. “If you’d only stay with me…”
Focus. Why was it so difficult to think straight around him?
Lust was different from love—she’d be wise to remember it.
For the first time since she met him, she wished—with a tiny, secret part of her heart—that she was the one for him.
She pulled back, despite herself, and looked him square in the eye. “Thank you for the offer to take the paintings to Dublin. I accept.”
Under the circumstances, it seemed like the only way she would be able to show her father at all. And maybe, if one of the paintings really spoke to him, she could make Jack an offer for that one in particular.
This could work…
As Jack’s hands skated up and down her back, they began to tremble. “How long will you be gone?” Suddenly his voice was tight. “A week? Two?”
There was no way to know. “I’m not sure.”
“Why do you have to go now? What’s the rush? Why can’t you wait a week, or a month, or whatever makes you comfortable? You could stay with me, if you wanted.”
He wanted more time to try to convince her of his feelings. To see if she’d come around and realize that she was, in fact, his Luminary. His motives were transparent. But it simply didn’t work that way.
Fated mates knew they were. It was a calling in their core. A primal instinct to possess the other.
“Jack…” How to say the words that hurt her the most? Merely thinking about them made her head dizzy with fear. “My father is dying. He has cancer.” The words tasted bitter and rotten, burned her tongue, and carved a big ugly hole out of her heart. “He doesn’t have long left. What I’m doing—the art I’m collecting—it’s my last chance to get him to understand how much this means to me. How much I want it to mean to him.” Her stomach turned, aching as if she’d been speared, all the way through. “I think it could bring us together in his final days.”
“I’m so sorry, Isabelle.” He kissed her forehead, slow and loving. “So sorry. I’ve lost both my parents, all the family I ever had really, so I completely understand what you’re going through. Whatever you need—”
“You’ve already given it to me,” she said, turning her attention to the paintings. “This is what I wanted. I wasn’t sure I’d find all the paintings in time, and I wasn’t even sure how much I’d have to start with. You helped make my dream come true.”
Which was the reason she couldn’t leave him empty-handed. Completely rob him of his favorite pieces without so much as a thank-you. There was one way to thank him for what he’d done, what he’d given her.
“You were kind enough to show me the gallery,” she said, “and made me happier than I think you realize. I’d like to give you something in return. Something for you to remember me by.”
His expression pulled into a frown. “You say that as if you’re never coming back.”
“No, I’ll return to the city.” I’ll return to you. She’d almost said it accidentally. Thank goodness she caught herself. “But I can’t strip these off your walls without replacing them with something.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Just after three o’clock in the morning, Isabelle stood at the Golden Gate overlook, where three major park trails converged in a wooded area of the Presidio. She was all business, a clipboard and makeshift easel tucked under her arm. Once she told him of her plans to paint him, he’d sent Branson out to pick up all the supplies she needed.
“This place is remarkable,” Isabelle said, staring up at the moon peeking between the trees. “The trails and trees, the Golden Gate in the distance. The lights on the bridge are luminous, aren’t they? Shining like stars. It’s the perfect place to paint you.”
“We shouldn’t be bothered here, at least not for a few hours.” Nerves pinballed through Jack’s stomach. “How long does this usually take?”
“Anywhere from one to five hours, though this canvas is eight by ten so it shouldn’t take me as long as a few of the others.” She went to work setting up. “The light changes fast, so within two hours it’ll look like a completely different painting. I’m going to try to finish before that happens.”
“You’re amazing,” he said, standing with the Golden Gate behind him. “You know that?”
She grinned, and the moonlight illuminated her face in a pearly-white glow. “Let’s see how the painting turns out before you call me that.”
But he’d called her amazing for many more reasons than the painting. She was giving him something special, a gift he’d cherish for the rest of his life. If only he could say with certainty how long that would be.
Somewhere over the course of the night, hollowness had carved him out. He felt weaker than he had days before. As if tremors were about to rack his whole body. And although being near Isabelle and her artwork was a rush in and of itself, something had changed. The electric currents soaring through him were there, but his hands still shook, and his head still spun.
He didn’t have long left.
He could feel the end closing in, and although he refused to admit it to Isabelle, fear had trickled into his chest, paralyzing him. The worse part? She could save him. With the bonding process—vows spoken while they were having sex—his life would be saved.
He’d never felt so close to his goal, yet so far.
Isabelle held his heart—his life—in the palm of her hand. Did she know how important she was to him? Not only because she could save his life, but because she cared enough to do this for him.
As she finished setting up the easel, she stared over the top of her clipboard. “All right. Let’s get to it.”
Shaking his head as laughter struck him, Jack undressed. No need to burst through his clothes if he didn’t have to. He shuffled out of his shirt and flung it to the ground at the base of the nearest tree. He popped the button on his fly. A strangled sound, almost like a whimper, floated on the night breeze. He glanced up, hands on the top ridge of his pants.
Isabel
le stared, hunger blazing in her emerald eyes.
“Something I can do for you, Ms. Nolan?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s—you’re not shy, are you?”
“I don’t have any reason to be.”
Blushing, she returned her gaze to the clipboard. But her eyes flickered to his bare torso one more time. And then again.
He yanked down his pants, kicked out of them, and then shot one more glance at Isabelle before starting on his boxers. If he wasn’t mistaken, she sucked in a clipped breath as he pulled them down and tossed them onto the pile with the others. He couldn’t help but flex and twitch his muscles as the warm night air set upon him.
As their eyes met, Jack winked. And then balled all the energy into a pit in the bottom of his stomach. Tendrils of electric currents pulsed through his limbs, making them tingly and warm. And then he shook, head to toe, skin to bone. Muscles elongated, lengthened, and bulked up. With a hearty shake, fur blanketed his body and he dropped to all fours. He fought the urge to howl at the full moon as he completed the shift and sat back on his haunches.
He felt free. Completely exhilarated.
He stretched, bounded around the dirt to get the spring in his legs, and then gazed at Isabelle.
“You’re magnificent,” she said, her eyes wide. “Your hair…it’s black as night. And your eyes…they grab me from here.” She paused and dropped the paintbrush to the dirt. Gasping, she bent to pick it up. “It’ll make for a beautiful painting.” She cleared her throat and narrowed her gaze at the canvas. “Go ahead and pose however feels natural.”
Natural would be shifting back to human form, hauling her into his arms, and making love to her right here, right now.
That probably wasn’t what she meant.
Instead of doing what he really wanted to do, Jack took a wide stance and raised his chin toward the moon. As if he were howling for his mate.
“That’s good.” With one eyebrow rising in contemplation, she moved her brush over the canvas. “Now don’t move.”
It was tense at first, holding still for so long. But as the wind blew through his fur and the light around them began to change, something in him changed, too. He relaxed every muscle in his body. Breathed deeply. Felt the fog as it rolled in and coiled around his paws. And then he turned his head, just a little, enough so he could watch Isabelle as she painted him.
She took her art seriously. Glared at the canvas. Struck it with one brush before tossing it aside and choosing another. She swirled colors together, dabbed and splatted. And other times, when passion blazed in her eyes, her wrist would flick gracefully, and a smile would curl her lips.
She truly loved painting.
And he truly loved her.
He hadn’t fully realized it before, but now…he was mesmerized watching her this way. Mind, body, and soul, she consumed him. She was his fated mate, but he hadn’t realized he could care for her this deeply in such a short amount of time.
“Stop moving,” she said, jarring him. “I don’t know if you realize this, but every time you look at me you bow your head. It’s a tiny movement, but each time it gets lower.”
She was right. He hadn’t realized it, though the move was exactly the way he felt.
He’d bow down reverently to his queen any day.
“I’m almost finished.”
Had the hours really gone by so fast?
Holding still, pretending to howl at the moon, Jack had the realization that this was the last time he’d be with Isabelle for weeks. As soon as she finished the painting, she was taking his private jet back to Ireland. While she painted him, Branson was arranging for all of the artwork to be on board. He was taking her to the airport after this.
Saying good-bye was going to be damn near impossible.
An idea struck. Maybe they didn’t have to say good-bye.
He could go to Ireland with her…
Not wanting to ruin the moment by rushing things, he pocketed the thought for later. He’d ask when the time was right.
“Okay.” She signed what he assumed was her signature on the bottom corner, and then stood back, admiring her work. “It’s finished.”
He bounded over, stood beside her, and froze. It was better than anything he could have imagined. There he was, howling at the moon, his stance strong and full of vitality. He didn’t look like he was knocking on death’s door. No, he looked healthy and solid. Majestic. And behind him rose the two golden towers, their twinkling lights illuminating the night. Between the light and the shadow, the moon and the stars, the strength and the gracefulness…she’d painted her masterpiece.
“I think this is the best one I’ve ever done.” She breathed hard, as if the experience had winded her. “It took so much out of me. More than I thought it would. I feel…invested in it. More than the others.”
Eager to touch her, pull her into his arms, and tug her against him, Jack shifted back to human form. Fur smoothed to golden skin. His muscles shortened. His features shifted. And in a few seconds that blurred into one, he stood in front of her. Buck naked.
Her eyes locked on his manhood, and then she gasped, averting her attention to the painting. “You’re very, ah—the sun’s about to rise—maybe we should go—”
She was beyond adorable when she was nervous.
“Isabelle,” he said, cutting her short. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” She started cleaning up. “We should get out of here as fast as we can. I have a plane to catch. You should take my—your painting. You should take it.”
“Isabelle.” This time he said her name slowly, tasting every sweet sound of her name. “Look at me.”
Nerves spiraled through the air between them. He sensed her hesitation and uncertainty. Although he didn’t pick up any hints of fear, something had changed once he shifted back, and she didn’t have her feelings in check.
“Isabelle, stop for a second.”
This time when he spoke her name, it was a whisper. The softest caress. She finished straightening up, though she stared at the ground and fiddled with her hands.
Why wouldn’t she look him in the eye? Had he spooked her somehow?
Slowly, using two of his fingers, Jack tipped her chin toward him. When her eyes met his, they glossed with tears.
“What’s wrong?”
She blinked up at him innocently, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
“It’s only me, Isabelle.”
“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m flummoxed.”
And then she rose up on tiptoe and caught his mouth with hers.
Chapter Twelve
Roping his arms around her waist, Jack hauled her against him. She made a whimpering sound as her feet lifted off the ground, but lost her breath as he crushed his mouth to hers. Any refusal she might’ve wanted to give him was swallowed by the fierceness of his kiss and the drugging warmth of his body.
“You’re a MacGrath,” she pushed out as he backed her against the nearest tree. “This is crazy.”
“I am a MacGrath.” His hands glided over her body, marking her with their heat. “And it feels crazy because it’s so right.”
Pausing, their eyes met in the dark. Jack’s naked body glistened golden tan in the slivers of moonlight peeking through the trees. Muscles flexing in anticipation, he stared. Waiting for her to respond before pressing her further.
“You shouldn’t feel like this.” She kissed him on a moan, openmouthed and feverish, and clawed her fingers through his hair. “Like your arms belong around my waist…”
He gripped her there, scorching her skin with prickles of desire.
“Like your mouth belongs on mine…”
He kissed her, slow and fierce, urging her lips apart. Drawing her tongue into a dance with his. And then his mouth slanted over hers, his tongue diving deep. She could sense his hunger and rising need as if they were her own. She was lost in the swirling of his tongue as it explored her mouth. In the wild a
nd honeyed taste of him. In his rich scent as it wafted around them.
“You belong to me,” he panted, coming up for air. “And I to you.”
She smiled into another kiss, drawing his mouth down over hers with brutal force. Sucking at his bottom lip, she infused him with the smoldering heat burning inside her. Every heightened nerve in her body wanted him. Craved him like no other.
He was everything she shouldn’t want.
And everything she needed.
“Take this off”—he licked along her jaw and sucked on her neck—“before I”—he gripped her sweater in his fists and tugged at the bottom—“rip it to shreds.”
God, please. Do it.
As if he heard her silent, desperate plea, he yanked off her sweater and flung it to the ground. Reaching around her, he unsnapped her bra and guided it down her quivering arms.
Flesh against burning flesh, he tightened his grip around her waist and moaned. She leaned back, resting on the tree. If it weren’t for his hand protecting her, the bark might’ve scraped her skin. He was cautious and aware, in tune with exactly what she needed.
An unselfish lover.
He kissed her again and went to work on her jeans. Chills scampered down her stomach as her will snapped with the button.
“I have to touch you.” He jerked the zipper down. “Now.”
Pleasure speared through her as his hands dipped beneath the ridge of her pants and touched tender flesh. He swallowed her soft cries of pleasure with his mouth and stroked her clit. She tugged her against him tighter, craving pressure, needing him closer.
With a gentle nudge, he shoved her pants down around her ankles and widened her stance. She gave him everything he asked, her breath hitching as his hand found her warmth once more.
Lust and insatiable need rippled over his expression as he worked his fingers through her slick folds. As if he knew exactly how to unwind her. He claimed her mouth. Feasted on her lips. Rubbed her where she craved pressure. Sent shock waves of desire undulating through her core.
Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) Page 10