Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) (13 page)

He wanted to complete the bonding process with her. It would happen now, if it were going to happen at all. They’d press their palms together, make love, and recite vows that would bond them for hundreds of years.

His entire body quaked as he waited for her answer.

Mine.

She was too close to climax. Hovering on the brink.

“Isabelle, look at me.”

As his throbbing length filled her with gentle strokes, and his fingers massaged her swollen clit, she gazed up into his eyes. There was lust and raging desire…and love.

Mine.

This time it wasn’t her own voice that she heard, but Jack’s.

It sent her careering over the edge. The orgasm ripped through her, engulfing her in waves of blinding heat. Her core was still clenching fiercely when he drove into her a second time. And then a third. Sweat trickled down his temple as he thrust harder into her core. His desperate gaze held hers, and on a final, languid thrust, he stilled. His muscles seized. His hips spread her thighs wide. And then he pitched over the edge, filling her with everything he had to give.

My Luminary.

The thought struck her as he collapsed, going limp on top of her. He half supported his weight on his arms and breathed heavily into her hair.

“I knew you’d come around,” he mumbled.

“What?”

Rolling beside her, he pulled her against him. “You felt it. You heard my claim in your head, in your heart.”

“I feel it now.” She nodded, fighting back tears. “I do.”

There was no doubting it. He was meant for her, and she for him. Sweet relief rushed through her veins, warming her from the inside out. She’d found her mate. She’d prayed for the day. But on the heels of the primal reaction, waves of trepidation followed, whirling through her like a maelstrom.

“God, Isabelle, I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I’d given up hope that I’d ever find you. But from the first moment I met you, not once did I doubt it was you, that you were it for me.” He stroked his hand down her shoulder, her arm, to her wrist. “We can be together. Your father will realize we’re fated to be one, and he’ll have to come around.”

“He won’t.”

Jack spun her to face him and frowned. “Don’t tell me that you’re…”

The answers were in her eyes—he could see them. He’d have to. She couldn’t bond with him. Not until she had her father’s approval.

He exhaled heavily. The despairing sound was a knife to the heart.

“If you were going to bond with me, you would’ve done it when you heard my voice,” he said, “when you realized it. It’s not going to happen, is it?”

“It will,” she said, brushing her hand over his cheek. “But not yet. I just need some time.” Time to convince her father that not all MacGrath men were terrible people. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. “How could I be mad at you? You’re trying to do what’s best for your father and your pack. But he must want you to be happy and find the werewolf you’re destined to spend the rest of your life with. Don’t you think he might change his mind if he knew? Don’t you think it’s worth the chance?”

She chuckled, though tears threatened. “If he knew I was lying here with you having this conversation, he’d tell me to find someone from our pack to marry, even if it meant shortening my life. Because the role of Alpha comes with the heavy burden of responsibility. It’s not about what makes me happy, but what’s best for the pack. I’ve known that was my charge all along, but I never thought I’d actually have to make a decision like this…with someone like you.”

“What about in a year or two?” he asked, gazing deep into her eyes. “When your father has passed, and things have calmed down. When you’re Alpha, and free to make the rules as you wish. If I’m still…in the picture, would you bond with me then?”

Her stomach wrenched at the thought of losing him. She paused, her thoughts racing through every scenario, every outcome of her actions.

But it wasn’t only about her. It was about so many others who would come after her. Although it was easy to focus on the welcoming warmth of Jack’s arms, and his steady heartbeat as it thumped against her chest, there was a much bigger picture she needed to focus on.

She needed her father’s—the Alpha’s—blessing.

“I know that I want to be with you,” she said finally.

He smiled as he kissed her. “Then for now, I guess that’s all I need to hear.”

Chapter Thirteen

A
soft beeping sound penetrated Isabelle’s dream. In the soundest sleep of her life, she envisioned happily ruling the Irish Wolf Pack with Jack. Hand in hand, heart in heart.

The sound grew louder.

She peeled her eyes open, rolled over, and checked the phone she’d set on the nightstand before they’d fallen asleep.

Neil.

His name flashed across her screen with an alert of the text he’d sent a few minutes before.

Call me. ASAP. It’s your dad.

Heart in her throat, Isabelle clutched the phone and slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Jack. She closed the door on her way into the dark hall. Dialed. Prayed her dad was all right.

“Neil,” she whispered as soon as her friend answered. “What’s happened?”

“He fell in the shower last night. My mum found him and took him to see the doc, but he’s not walking and…”

His words trailed off as panic latched onto Isabelle’s windpipe, strangling her.

“I’m coming home,” she blurted, searching for her shoes. Where had Jack kicked them last night? “Right now.”

“The doc says he might only have a week left, maybe two,” she heard him say through the fog clouding her brain. “If you wanted to patch things up with him, now’s the time.”

Lost in a haze, Isabelle circled through the foyer, hand to her head. It was pounding, pinching at her temples. Spots had started forming in front of her eyes.

“I’m on my way.”

She was about to hang up when Neil said, “Did you get what you went there for?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze skated toward the direction of the gallery. “I got everything I needed.”

She winced. When it was worded that way, her relationship with Jack sounded hollow. As if the only reason she was in his home was because she needed the paintings, and not him.

“Good,” he said simply. “See you soon.”

“Wait…Neil?”

“What is it?”

She paused.
How to say it?
“How do you think my dad would feel if I brought someone back with me?”

“Who—like a male, who?” From the snarkiness in Neil’s tone, she could tell he was smiling. “Did you meet someone? Didn’t I tell you not to leave your heart in San Francisco?”

“I did meet someone, actually. The thing is, he’s a MacGrath.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Neil?” More silence. “Are you there?”

“What are you thinking, Isabelle?” he said, his tone falling flat. “Are you really going to bring a MacGrath to your dad’s bedside? Tell him you fell in love and—”

“I never said I fell in love.”

“You wouldn’t be asking to bring him home if you didn’t love the poor bastard.”

Good call. He knew her well.

“It’ll kill him, Isabelle,” he said softly. “You can’t bring him here, not now. This is the worst possible time to tell him he’s going to lose his daughter to someone he hates.”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded in agreement, even though he couldn’t see her.

“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.

P
inching 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?”

“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.