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

by Kristin Miller

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m coming home…alone.”

  “I think that’s the right choice. Focus on your dad and the paintings if that’s what you want, but the rest will work itself out later. See you soon, Isabelle.” And then he ended the call.

  Isabelle shuffled toward the gallery. Where the only Bella Nolan painting remaining was the one she’d done of Jack. In front of the Golden Gate. Standing tall and proud.

  Rays of morning light spilled through the windows and slanted over the floor in a bright golden glow. Somehow, all the light seemed to focus on the painting—the only one her father would never see.

  It was a shame.

  It was the best painting she’d ever done. Hands down. And she felt oddly pulled to it—a reaction she didn’t have to the others in the collection. Sure, they all meant something, and she had fond memories of creating each one.

  But this one in particular…

  It showed Jack in the best light. She’d somehow captured the beauty and the grace within him. He wasn’t a cruel, deceitful werewolf who took advantage of others at whim as she’d initially believed. As her father still thought.

  He was her fated mate. She knew that now.

  If she couldn’t bring Jack home in the flesh, she could at least talk to her father about him, tell him about the Van Gogh that Jack returned to the Switzerland display, about how he made her feel, about the bond between them.

  She could always invite Jack to return to Ireland with her in a few days, after she’d assessed her father’s health and buttered him up. Then, when it was safe, her father could meet Jack and witness their connection for himself.

  Her father did like to be eased into things, especially ideas that went against what he believed.

  The painting would help.

  God, she didn’t want to take it, but yearned to show it to her father. She would explain things slowly, over the course of a few days. And then, when he finally started to come around to the idea, she’d ask Jack to meet her in Dublin.

  The thought struck her, and she instantly ran with it, sliding Werewolf in San Francisco off the wall.

  As she tiptoed toward his bedroom to ask if he’d mind her taking it, she cracked open the door. He snored. Flipped over on the bed. Flattened out spread-eagled. And then rested his hand on his crotch. All he needed was a good scratching and he’d complete the image of the quintessential rugged male.

  “Jack,” she whispered, kneeling over the bed. “Wake up. I need to talk to you for a second.”

  “Pancakes.” He grumbled like a big ole bear. “With whipped cream an’ blueberries an’ syrup. Thank you, miss, I’ll have three more.”

  Smirking, Isabelle gave him a shake. “Jack…”

  He didn’t move. He was sleeping so deeply. So peacefully. She must’ve delivered the ultimate knockout punch: love him right, and then lights out.

  As she shook him again, harder, her skin prickled with worry. If he opened those gorgeous eyes, would she be able to stare into them and say good-bye? He’d probably draw her into his arms and snuggle against her. Would she be able to pull away and leave his bed? The answer to those questions soured her stomach.

  If she wanted to see her father in his final days, she couldn’t wake Jack.

  But it’d be okay. She’d make sure of it.

  Rather than force him awake, she scribbled a note explaining everything. Her father’s fall, and her need to go back and see him. Sleepy orders of pancakes with the works. She’d send for him soon—it wouldn’t be long. A few short days. She wasn’t abandoning him. She’d be back. They’d figure everything out. She wouldn’t let him die.

  I must be crazy, but I think I love you.

  She scribbled the final words with a smile. He’d be upset that she had to leave this way, but the profession of her love would smooth things over.

  On her way out the door with Jack’s painting in hand, doubt trickled into her heart. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Not really.

  But then why was she feeling this way?

  Jack would have to understand.

  Of course he would. He loved her. He wouldn’t mind if she had to borrow his painting. It wasn’t like she was stealing it. He’d meet her in Dublin, and then, when enough time passed, they’d be together. Jack’s health had held out this long—well over the three-hundred-year expectancy—so he’d be fine for another couple days. Then, when they bonded, the painting would be theirs.

  She called a cab at the curb, and then directed the driver to the San Francisco airport, where Jack’s private jet was still waiting with the entire Bella Nolan collection.

  Pinching his eyes shut to keep out the morning light, Jack rolled over and swept his hand over the other side of the bed. After their lovemaking last night and the breakthrough they’d had, all he wanted to do was wrap her in his arms and stay in bed all morning. Hell, all day.

  But the bed was empty, and the sheets were cold.

  Quickly scanning the empty room, he said, “Isabelle?”

  His stomach growled violently. And for some reason, pancakes sounded delicious. Pressing the buzzer near the nightstand, Jack waited for Branson’s voice to come over the intercom.

  “Branson, would you bring me and Miss Connelly two gigantic stacks of pancakes?” he asked, glancing into the master bathroom. “With the works. Syrup, whipped cream, a bunch of blueberries…”

  The light was off in the bathroom, though, and nothing but silence met him. Her scent lingered on the bed, but he couldn’t pick up any hints of it on the air. If she wasn’t in the room, where was she?

  “Have you seen Isabelle roaming around the house?”

  “Sir, she left earlier this morning. Took a cab to the airport. She’s taking the jet with the paintings back to Dublin.”

  “She—what?”

  Terror tore through him like a knife.

  “When I left your morning cup of coffee on the bedside table,” he said, “I noticed a note from Miss Connelly. I left it where I found it.”

  Scrambling, Jack moved his cup and picked up the note. He read quickly, skimming, catching the highlights.

  I’ll send for you soon…you can meet me there in a few days…just need to make sure my father is all right… We’ll figure this out, but I need a little time…I won’t let you die, Jack, but I can’t be here when my father’s health is failing…he doesn’t have long … If I woke you and said good-bye, I wouldn’t have been strong enough to do what I have to do…please understand.

  “Her poor father,” he mumbled aloud, reading on. “She must be terrified.”

  He wanted nothing more than to hold her and ease her worry. At the last line, he stopped and read the words again.

  I must be crazy, but I think I love you.

  Happiness filled every corner of his soul, and he beamed.

  She loves me.

  He’d done it. He wasn’t going to waste away any longer. As quick as the elation danced through his veins, it was replaced with fear. She’d already left—gone back to Ireland. She couldn’t leave now. He wouldn’t let her go. Not when he was so close to having everything.

  It couldn’t have come at a better time, either. Blackouts were on the horizon, closing in fast, and after that…nothingness.

  Desperation flooding in, Jack punched the intercom button. “How long ago did she leave, Branson?”

  “Hours, sir.” He paused. “The plane was loaded with her paintings and ready for takeoff, as you requested, so once she got on board, they departed.”

  She may’ve said she’d send for him soon, but he couldn’t wait here with the taste of her flesh hanging on his lips and the memory of the way her body had felt beneath his. It’d be torture. Sheer agony.

  “She left with the final painting,” Branson added. “And might I add, it’s a glorious painting. A real likeness.”

  Jack’s brows pulled together in confusion. “Every Bella Nolan painting I own should already be on the plane. Which final piece are you talking about?”<
br />
  “The one of you, sir,” Branson said plainly. “Werewolf in San Francisco.”

  “She took it?” Jaw clenching, he fought the urge to growl, burst through his skin, and shift into wolf form. “She said she was going to leave that one behind. I gave her every other one. Was it not enough?”

  If he couldn’t trust his fated mate, who could he trust? She wanted to show her father the painting, and that’s fine; he wouldn’t have denied her if she’d asked. But damn. A dull aching pain spread through his middle and wormed its way into his chest.

  He couldn’t trust anyone anymore.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Branson said. “I didn’t know. I thought—”

  “It’s all right, Branson.” He scrubbed his hand over his face as his stomach bottomed out. “You had no way to know.”

  Turning off the intercom, Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. His skin crawled. A wave of chills washed over him, and his stomach rumbled. Lifting his arms from his sides, Jack watched gooseflesh blanket them, followed by tremors.

  “Oh, shit,” he rasped out as the world zoomed in and out, in and out. “No, no, no—”

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Neil picked Isabelle up from the Dublin airport, exactly as he said he would. Not that she’d ever doubted him. After stopping to refuel in JFK for an hour, Jack’s jet landed at three thirty in the morning, Ireland time. To her, though, she’d traveled all day—missing it entirely—and it was nearly bedtime.

  After securing transportation for her paintings from the airport to the museum, they drove an hour south, bypassing Dublin and Tallaght. On the drive to Glendalough, Neil traversed the narrow roads slickened with midnight rain and nagged her the whole way.

  “You’re crazy for even askin’,” he said, weaving through the Wicklow Mountains. “You know your father won’t want him here.”

  “I know, I know.” She laid her head back against the headrest and let herself be mesmerized by the car’s headlights sweeping over the empty road. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t meet him.”

  “Nor do I want to,” Neil roared, taking the turns fast. “He belongs there, you belong here. It won’t work, Isabelle. Get it out of your head now, before you talk to your dad.”

  It was going to be difficult to convince her father that Jack belonged in her life, but she had no idea Neil would be such a pain, too. Rather than fight an uphill battle on an empty stomach and a tired mind, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Somewhere during her pretending, she actually dozed off, the rumbling of the car’s engine dragging her into a deep sleep.

  “Isabelle?”

  Neil’s voice. A hand on her shoulder, shaking.

  “We’re here,” he said, louder. “Isabelle wake up.”

  Rubbing her hands over her eyes, she sat upright and took in the sights. Neil had parked in front of Connelly Castle so that it was in full view when she woke up. He was a great friend—one of the best. And he’d always watched out for her, knowing exactly what she needed. Even if she didn’t.

  Home.

  Sixteen generations had been blessed to call Connelly Castle that, and she was proud to continue the line. The multi-bay Elizabethan-style castle stood majestically in the center of eight hundred acres of forest. Its stone-faced front, illuminated by bright white lights, seemed to welcome her home.

  As she and Neil exited, grabbing her bags from the back, Isabelle rushed up the front stairs and pushed inside.

  “He’s upstairs,” Neil said. “It’s nearly five in the morn’, so I’m sure he’ll still be sleepin’, but he probably wouldn’t mind seeing you. He’s been askin’.”

  Flushed with nerves, Isabelle ran up the red-carpeted stairs and turned down the narrow hall. She passed the first three doors, a medieval suit of armor, and then curved left, onto a staircase narrower than the first.

  It was darker on the third floor, and the air couldn’t circulate as well. Candles flickered from wrought iron sconces on the walls. Patterned rugs covered the floor, one on top of the next.

  The decor in the castle hadn’t changed in hundreds of years. Her father prided himself on keeping things the same. Traditional, no matter how restrictive.

  Worry passed through her as she opened his door and let herself inside.

  “Neil?” Her father coughed, jerking upright against the pillows on his headboard. “Is that you? Did you find my Belle?”

  “It’s me, Daddy.” Running to his bedside, she knelt and took his hand. His skin was crackly and dry, and his cheeks had sunken in. Neil had been right—he didn’t have long left. Days, maybe. “I’m here. I’m back.”

  He yawned. “Neil said you spent the weekend in San Francisco?”

  “Did he?” Her voice squeaked. “What else did he say?”

  “He said you attended a conference for Alpha heirs given by San Francisco’s Alpha. He said Hayden Dean and his Luminary were going to talk about how to effortlessly take over the role of pack leader.”

  Of course that’s what Neil told him.

  It was exactly what he needed to hear.

  “The conference wasn’t all it was cracked up to be,” she said slowly, drawing out the inevitable. “So I spent some time in the city, away from the conference hotel.”

  He twitched in bed and shifted his shoulders so that he faced her completely. “Didn’t run into any trouble, did you?”

  “Trouble?” She kissed the back of her daddy’s hand and pressed it against her cheek. “No trouble. In fact—”

  “Then you didn’t run into anyone from the MacGrath family,” he coughed out. His voice was a raspy whisper. Barely audible. “Bastards. Every one of ’em. Maybe the Alpha finally got wind of their conniving ways and pushed ’em out of the city.”

  No truce, then.

  She’d been silly to hope that years gone by would’ve dulled the blade of retribution.

  “Can I ask you something?” She shook with trepidation.

  Coughing terribly, her father covered his mouth with the sleeve of his pajamas. “Anything, my dear.”

  Do you believe people can change? Have you met a MacGrath who wasn’t as terrible as you thought he was? Are you able to forgive and forget?

  “Do you think…”

  As he rested his hand over his stomach, Isabelle caught sight of blood splatters staining the edge of his sleeve.

  He was coughing up blood.

  Her gaze held there as her stomach wrenched. Swallowing down the vile taste of fear and sorrow, she struggled to regain her composure and fight back her tears.

  “Do you think…” She paused, uncertain how to proceed.

  When put into perspective this way—on the very possible eve of his death—it didn’t matter if her father could forgive and forget the MacGrath family. Only Jack. And there was no way she could talk about him now. Not like this.

  She bowed her head to his hand. “I’d like to take you somewhere special tonight, just you and me. What do you think? Would you be up for it? Around eight?”

  That would give her plenty of time to set everything up. She’d nap for a few hours, head to the gallery, and make sure the wolf pack’s assistants had set up the display to her specifications. Highlighting Werewolf in San Francisco would lend the perfect opportunity to tell him about Jack and beg for his blessing.

  “Of course.” Her father cupped her chin in his hand, the way he used to when she was young, and said, “The doc was just saying I needed to move around today, get some fresh air. I haven’t been out and about in weeks. It will be just what I need. Even if I didn’t have the strength to move a muscle, nothing could stop me from going out with my girl. So…where are we headed?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I don’t normally like surprises,” he went on, “but if it’ll make you happy…”

  There was more that’d make her happy than simply surprising him—being with Jack, for starters—but there’d be time to ease into that
later.

  When Jack regained consciousness, somewhere between “royally” and “fucked,” he had the headache from hell and a bruise on his thigh. Branson had injected him with the recommended dose of adrenaline. Ten times over. He said if he’d administered any more, Jack might’ve gone into cardiac arrest.

  It was a good thing the tenth one had worked, then.

  By the time he came to and arranged for another private jet to take him to Dublin, it was just before nightfall. In Ireland, the moon was high in the sky, and Isabelle would probably be sleeping. She’d arrived somewhere in the early-morning hours of the day before, and would probably be exhausted from jetlag.

  Too much time had passed.

  He had to get to her.

  Branson arranged everything. Transportation to and from the airport on both ends. He’d even made some calls and discovered the location of Connelly Castle, which was apparently the best-kept secret in all of Ireland. It was hidden deep in the Wicklow Mountains—the perfect place to hide from non-shifters, from what Branson’s contact had said.

  By the time Jack boarded the jet, his leg ached something fierce, and his skin had gone black at the injection point. His quadriceps looked raw and mangled, as if they’d been infected by some strange skin-eating bacteria.

  The precise reason he hated using needles to get his high.

  But if he was stuck on a plane for ten hours, what choice did he have? Not like he could jump out at 37,000 feet. And if he picked a fight with the steward or something—theoretically speaking, of course—they’d lock him up the moment they touched down in Dublin.

  No, he didn’t have a choice.

  “Remember, the adrenaline shots may not work next time.” Branson’s voice rang in his ears. “I’ll send you with a pack of twenty preloaded needles—super-high dosage in each one—but your body probably won’t be able to handle the strain.”

  The warning had soured Jack’s stomach, but he’d taken the backpack full of shots anyway, and kept them close to his seat as they lifted off and headed for Ireland.

  Thankfully, he slept the whole flight. When he landed—two in the afternoon Ireland time—he made a beeline for the limousine waiting curbside at Dublin Airport. The sky was gloomy and gray as far as he could see in all directions. Rain fell to the ground in a constant and steady stream. No sign of breaking.