Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) (3 page)

That’s exactly what he’d do: completely forget about her.

Right after he hit up Johnny Foley’s Irish Pub and quenched his thirst for a Guinness.

Chapter Three

E
arly the next morning, Isabelle took the address Colin had reluctantly given her and drove her rented Camry into Monterey Heights. She hadn’t expected a guy like Jack MacGrath—a recluse, from what she’d heard—to live in a city as booming as San Francisco.

As she approached a large, grassy lot surrounded by a high iron fence, she knew she’d found the right place. She couldn’t see much of the house from the street, but it appeared to be three stories. Mission-like architecture. Clean landscaping.

Isabelle put the Camry in park in front of the gated entrance to the mansion and rolled down the window. Determined not to let
Werewolf in Venice
go, she punched the red speaker button.

“I’m here to see Jack MacGrath,” she said.

A gentleman on the other end of the line asked a question. An annoying buzz over the line muddled his words.

She slumped into the seat and sighed.

Never in a million years would she have thought she’d be here.

Through the years, Isabelle’s father had told her about how the MacGrath family had made their fortune. They’d journeyed from Europe in the 1700s, settled in San Francisco, and started a foreign currency trading brokerage to assist other immigrating werewolves. Rather than being helpful—or God forbid,
honest
—they pilfered clients’ accounts, stocking away millions while their foreign werewolf “brothers” floundered. Through the years, the MacGrath family was rumored to be involved in investment fraud and corporate deceit, leaving empty bank accounts in their wake.

Getting a leg up by stepping on others was sickening.

Most recently, the MacGraths were believed to be involved in a two-hundred-million-dollar art heist. A painting by Vincent van Gogh—black and white poppy flowers, if she remembered the story right—had been stolen in broad daylight from a museum in Switzerland. Her father had said that the werewolves hidden in the Switzerland government believed a MacGrath was involved.

Out of all of his thieving family members, Jack was the one involved in the auction circuit.

He was also a recluse, keeping people at a distance…probably so no one could get close enough to discover the truth about his involvement in the heist and turn him in. She didn’t need to be a detective to know he was behind the whole thing.

He was a MacGrath by name and blood: guilty until proven innocent.

“Tell Mr. MacGrath that Isabelle Connelly is here to see him.” She spoke loudly into the intercom. “I’d like to make an offer on his newest piece of acquired art:
Werewolf in Venice
.”

Silence followed after a deafeningly loud crackling sound.

Five minutes dragged by. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and refused to move. Stared at the intricate ironwork on the gate.

“I’m not leaving,” she mumbled to herself. “Not until I get my painting.”

Nothing else mattered.

Billionaire or not, everything had a price.

She’d simply have to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Hell if she knew what that was, though.

Without warning, the gates let out a groan, startling her. She jumped in her seat and watched them open slowly, revealing a winding stone-paved driveway. She put the Camry in gear and drove toward a towering fountain erected in the middle of the driveway.

But the closer she got to the fountain, the slower she drove.

She gawked, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Good God
, the fountain was hideously phallic. Like a giant penis standing ramrod-straight in the middle of a gravel bed. Water bubbled up from the tip, making her throw up a little in her mouth.

Craning her neck around, Isabelle shook her head and scoffed.

It was a disgustingly perfect fountain for a guy like Jack MacGrath.

As she turned, veering away from the fountain—out of pure instinct—she realized she was now parked facing the stairs to his mansion. And took up the width of the driveway, hood to rear end.

Damn it.

She should’ve just parked next to the damn thing.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she reversed carefully. As she inched closer to the penis monolith, the unmistakable
whop-whop-whop
of a helicopter sounded in the distance. The racket increased.

Was a helicopter landing on the damn house?

She bent, craning to look beneath the doorframe. She searched the sky. One way, and then the other.

There it was.

A freaking helicopter swooped over his house, making a low dive over her car.

She squealed, ducking low in her seat.

The thunderous
flac-flac-flac
of the blades drowned out everything—the rumble of the Camry’s engine and the drumming of her own heart—as it dropped out of the sky and hovered above the large lawn on the opposite end of the estate. The chopper was massive. Menacing. A door on the side slid open. A rope was flung out, hitting the grass.

What the hell?

With a jolt, the tires of her car ran over something crackly. Her car bumbled. Shook. And then backed into something solid.

“Oh, shit!” Isabelle gripped the wheel tight and slammed on the brakes. Whipping around, she glared out the back window…and caught the breath in her throat. She must’ve been inching back without realizing it. She’d rear-ended the giant penis. It wobbled, shook. The tip seemed loose, teetering on the thick base. “No, no, no, don’t—”

And then it fell. Dropped right to the ground with a
thud
.

Cue mortification.

Blood heated her cheeks. “Perfect.”

Maybe she could get out of there so she wouldn’t have to see Jack MacGrath face-to-face. She could get his email from Colin. Send him a note saying she was the one responsible for the fountain. He could bill her. She’d replace his disgusting sculpture.

As she put the car in gear and eased away from the fountain, Jack MacGrath leaped out of the helicopter, the rope in his grasp.

Isabelle froze, gawking through the side window.

He rappelled to the ground effortlessly, stalling three times before hitting grass. He gave a salute to the pilot and watched as the chopper flew over the house and out of sight.

She would’ve thought he was practicing some sort of military procedure…except he wore loose-fitting jeans, a black T-shirt pulled taut over his chest, and a black-and-white pair of Converse.

The whole thing was surreal.

They were in the
city
for crying out loud. Not a freaking army base.

He stalked closer. Nerves spiraled through her. It was now or never. She could jet out of here and send her apologies over Hotmail or she could face him.

She’d never been one to walk away from a confrontation.

She wouldn’t start now.

Steeling herself for battle, Isabelle turned off her car and stepped out.

“Mr. MacGrath, I’m Isabelle Connelly. We met yesterday at the auction house.” Her stomach clenched when she looked into his warm caramel-brown eyes. “I came by to talk to you, but I’m afraid I may have destroyed your fountain.” Geez, the words really rattled out of her when she was nervous. “I’ll replace it. I insist.”

Crease lines formed on his forehead as he frowned. And then he followed her gaze to the tip of the sculpture rolling around in the gravel bed.

“What happened?” he asked, crouching down to pick it up.

She leaned against the trunk to steady herself. “I was distracted by the damn helicopter. I didn’t expect it to come swooping out of the sky like that. And then you— What were you doing, anyway? Are you in the army?”

“Not anymore.”

“Then why—”

“I don’t like heights.” He said it simply. As if his answer made all the sense in the world. It didn’t. “Rappelling like that is a wild ride. My buddy still flies and offered to take me up.”

“You didn’t look afraid of heights to me.”

No, he was cool and confident as if he’d performed maneuvers like that a thousand times before. Strong…and
sexy
.

“I didn’t say I was afraid. I said I don’t
like
heights. Makes for a crazy rush.” He flung the head of the penis to the grass behind him and then eyed her carefully. “That’s all that matters anymore.”

So he didn’t like rappelling from helicopters, yet did it anyway…for the adrenaline rush?
Interesting.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, nudging her chin at the decapitated shaft. “I’ll give you my email address before I leave and you can send me the bill.”

“I’ll take the address, but forget about the bill.” The corners of his full lips turned up at the corners. “I always hated this fountain. It came with the house and I simply haven’t bothered to rip it out. You want to back into it again? Knock it over completely?”

He hated the fountain?

Okay, okay, so he might’ve dropped down a few clicks on her douche-meter.

Still a MacGrath,
she reminded herself. Just because he didn’t bow down to a cement penis in his driveway didn’t mean he was made of gold.

“As much as I’d love to plow into the ugly thing again, I can’t.” She reached behind her and patted the trunk of the car. “It’s a rental, and I fear I’ve already dinged it.”

Without warning, he approached the back of the Camry and dropped to bended knee. She retreated a few steps, though she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. He ghosted his fingers over the curves of the bumper, over the paint, searching for damage. Something in her stomach tugged. She’d been jealous of many things in her life: gorgeous blondes, and women who could eat whatever they wanted without getting fat, to name a couple. But she’ d never, not once, been jealous of a car.

How ridiculous.

Still…

The way he touched it, with the softest of strokes, made her swoon inside. She’d had many lovers in her lifetime, but she’d never been touched gently that way. As if she were made of glass. As if she could break under a caress.

“Might be a little scratch right here,” he said, his voice rich and husky, “but it isn’t too noticeable.”

“Good thing that penis of yours was so fragile.” She couldn’t help but giggle as the words tumbled out. “One nudge and it toppled right over.”

Rather than laugh with her, he stood and met her gaze. “Believe me, love,
it
doesn’t topple over that easily.”

As her laugh faded away, a quiver shook her to the core.

It
must’ve been the adrenaline lingering in his veins.

Had to be.

It couldn’t be this woman and her infectious laugh that had a warm rush tingling through him.

He’d tried to put Isabelle behind him last night, but she’d tortured him. She was in every dream—her button nose and sparkling green eyes, her radiant smile and delicious scent. He couldn’t escape her. So he’d made plans to head out with one of his old army buddies first thing in the morning.

At this point, he needed adrenaline rushes morning and night to keep his ticker going strong. At least that’s what the wolf pack medicine man had said. He’d told him to keep his adrenaline levels high. Always. But the rushes were harder and harder to achieve as his body adapted to the exhilaration. At first, he could stand near the edge of his roof to get the spike in his blood; heights truly did make him uncomfortable. He hadn’t lied to her. But now, he had to jump out of planes or helicopters, or BASE jump off skyscrapers.

Anything to stay alive another day.

Sadly, his hands had begun to shake two weeks ago—another sign of his mortality, or so he’d been told. Things were going to get worse. Shakes would turn to long-lasting tremors, and then to seizures. Soon after that, his heart would stop and none of this would mean anything anymore.

“So you’re visiting from Ireland?” he asked.

She planted her hands on her hips. “What, I don’t pass for an American?”

“You definitely sound American—your accent is a muddled blend of everything—so it’d be easy for others to think you’re from here. But I catch your Irish lilt coming through every now and again. I take it that comes from being well-traveled?”

“It does.” Her expression pinched in confusion. “I’ve been around the world a few times over, and I lived on the East Coast back in the twenties. There have been a few times, in Dublin, when non-shifters took me for an American. They said it was the way I talked.” She smirked. “I must be rude and think the world owes me something.”

“No, it’s because of the words you choose.”

He’d traveled the world, too. His family had been some of the first to settle in America from England, and a few of them hadn’t conducted business with an honorable hand. To escape the shame of the family name, Jack had spent over a hundred years traveling. Carving out his name in the world, apart from the reputation his ancestors had given him.

But he didn’t want to talk about them. “What can I do for you, Isabelle?”

“I’m here to make you an offer on
Werewolf in Venice.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Well, let’s hear it.”

Deep breath
. “I’ll double what you paid at auction.”

He couldn’t force out a laugh, though he should’ve. “Not happening, Ms. Connelly. You might as well return the car and head back to wherever it was you came from.”

“But I’m not finished talking about the painting.” She seemed to fume, her nostrils pushing out a bit. “It’s beautiful, but you paid too much out the gate. Good thing for you I showed up to make a generous offer. Take the money and invest in another painting. By another artist, if you prefer.”