Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) (4 page)

“Nothing compares to a Bella Nolan painting.”

Her supple lips parted, and then clamped shut. “I’m sure Bella Nolan is flattered, wherever she is. But I’d be paying you more than the painting is worth. You could take the money and—”

“You’re not getting it. I don’t want the money. Not double, or triple.” Damn, he relished the back-and-forth between them. Fiery impulses were really shooting through his veins now. He pointed to the mansion towering behind her. “I have everything I could ever need, and I can’t take it with me when I’m buried six feet under.” He swallowed down the bile rising in the back of his throat. “Why would I want more useless green paper?”

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Isabelle worried her bottom lip between her teeth. The painting must’ve been more important to her than she was letting on.

“Listen, Mr. MacGrath…”

The way she said his name had his blood boiling hot.

“…the painting is important to me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. If you don’t want the money, that’s fine, but everything has a price and I’m willing to pay just about anything.”

Sparks of curiosity went off like fireworks in his mind.
Anything, huh?

As a mischievous smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, his hands began to tremble Uncrossing his arms, he glanced down at his palms. They quivered and shook
.

This can’t be happening.

Not so soon after the chopper ride. The shakes should’ve stayed away much longer. Isabelle may’ve been willing to give anything to have the painting, but she couldn’t give him the one thing he needed most: more time.

No one could give him that.

He had to find a way to hold on.

“The painting’s not for sale,” he bit out. “But it was great seeing you again.”

She swiped her tongue over her teeth, and drew her bottom lip into her mouth again. Damn, if her lips weren’t the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“There has to be something—my father is the Alpha of the Irish Wolf Pack and I’m sure there’s something that can be done—”

Frustration roared through him. “There’s nothing.”

“The rumors about your family are true.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re conniving and shrewd, just as I thought you’d be.”

“I have a few family members who fit the mold you’ve described,” he said as his lips pulled into a frown, “but that’s not me.”

“After this encounter, I don’t wish to find out if that’s true. Good day,” she said, extending her hand. “I pray it’s the last we meet.”

He may’ve been short with her about the painting, but he didn’t wish the same. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again. Under different circumstances, of course.

Even though his arm trembled, he clutched her hand and shook. Without warning, electric currents zinged through him, jagged and hot. Straight through his palm and up his arm. Soul-searing pain splintered into his shoulder and radiated through his chest. The urge to haul her into his arms hit him like a sledgehammer to the temples. The wolf part of him wanted to claim Isabelle as his own, right here and right now, even though he didn’t know a damned thing about her. It was irrational, yet the impulses felt as natural as breathing. As sure as the blood hammering through his veins, Isabelle Connelly was
his
. With a jolt, he took back his hand and rubbed it on his jeans.

Nodding good-bye, she strode toward the driver’s door of her car.

But wait—hadn’t she felt what he had?

Two seconds ago, he’d been facing certain death. He could’ve keeled over in months, days, or minutes. Hell, he could’ve died right at her feet. But now, if they bonded as werewolf mates, he had another seven hundred years ahead of him.

He’d given up hope of ever finding her and feeling the connection. His fated mate.

And now here she was—his
Luminary
—right in his grasp.

“Wait.” He was at her door in two sure strides. “You can’t go.”

“Oh, I can and I will.” She yanked the door open and slid inside. “Watch me.”

He clutched the door and held it apart from the car’s frame. Kneeling, he blocked the gap so she couldn’t close the door on him.

“How can you feel that and just leave?”

Staring as if he were crazy, Isabelle brought the car to life. “Feel what? Anger? Resentment? Disappointment that I traveled all that way from Ireland to make an offer to the most unreasonable MacGrath in the family line?”

His stomach soured and then knotted into a rotten pit.

She hadn’t felt the spark. If she had, she wouldn’t have been talking this way.

The Luminary spark was different for every wolf. Based on the pack dynamic, position in the pack, or the age of the partner, each werewolf would feel something unique. He’d been so eager to find his mate, he’d never considered the fact that she might not feel the spark the same way he had.

“The Luminary spark.” The words burned his tongue. “You’re my fated mate.”

“Ha!” She laughed the word. “I thought you were crazy when you jumped out of a perfectly safe helicopter, but now…” Shaking her head, she laughed and laughed. And put the car in drive. “You’re certifiable.”

“But the zing. The electricity when we touched.” He stared, waiting for some kind of recognition in her eyes.
Nothing.
“You didn’t feel it?”

She pursed her lips. “If you don’t get out of the way, Jack MacGrath, I might run you over and leave two dickheads lying on your driveway.”

He couldn’t let her slip through his fingers. Not now.

She couldn’t go back to Ireland.

As she hit the gas, jerking the car door from his grasp, he stood and hollered, “I’ll give you the painting.”

Brake lights.

This time, when she reversed, he jumped out of the way. Rolling down the window, Isabelle stuck out her elbow and glared. “What do you want?”

Think fast. Think clear.

“I donated a painting to the de Young museum for its exhibit tonight. They’ve invited me to attend as an honored guest. If you’ll be my date,
Werewolf in Venice
will be yours.”

It was a small price to pay to add hundreds of years to his life.

“You’ll give it to me…just like that.” She squinted, disbelieving. “If I go out with you. Yet two million dollars wouldn’t cut it?”

“There are some things you can’t put a price on.” He nodded. Only once. “You can even meet me there, if you’d like. It’s black tie. Eight o’clock.”

She didn’t say a word. But as she pulled out of his driveway and slowed around the corner, he knew he’d see her again.

It was all he needed.

It was everything.

Chapter Four

M
ake it through the night, get the painting, go home.

Repeating the plan to herself didn’t ease her nerves. Parked in a garage in the heart of Golden Gate Park, Isabelle checked her reflection in the mirror for the tenth time. Her hair was in the in-between stage, where it looked too plain if she left it down, but couldn’t pull it up without strands falling out. She’d settled for a low updo with tons of bobby pins, and minimal makeup. Her dress was classic. Black silk, down to her ankles, with a slit up the front.

This wasn’t really a date, after all, so why bother getting fancy?

It didn’t matter what Jack
thought
he felt. There was no spark in his touch. Nothing that would make her even think for one second that he was her Luminary.

Imagine that. A MacGrath and a Connelly. Fated mates.

Scoffing out loud, she adjusted the top of her dress. Her father would freak if he found out what Jack had said. Even thinking about the pairing would make him go ballistic. He’d probably put out a bounty on Jack’s head.

Surprisingly, the idea wasn’t
entirely
grotesque. He
was
easy on the eyes. But he was also absolutely, undeniably annoying. He wouldn’t even
consider
selling her the painting until she was halfway out of his drive.

At least Jack hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected. As bad as her father had made a MacGrath out to be. She didn’t like to judge people before she knew them, but he’d pummeled into her brain, for years on end, that the family was full of terrible, deceitful people.

She had yet to see that side of Jack, but still…a part of her was waiting for her father’s words to ring true.

Lifting the front of the dress she’d bought a few hours before, Isabelle strode up the steps toward the de Young. She nodded to the men in tuxedos who flanked the doors of the museum and swept inside. The place was bursting with life. From paintings illuminated on the walls to classical music wafting from the speakers to sculptures in the corners, everything was vibrant. Even the people. Men dressed in tuxedos and women glammed-up in formal gowns filled the space, mingling and laughing and happily clinking glasses.

Despite the festive atmosphere, Isabelle’s shoulders felt tight. Hell, every muscle in her body was on edge. She’d have to bite her tongue for a few hours. Remember not to tell Jack how little her pack thought of his family and the way they did business.

“I need liquid courage,” she mumbled, and sauntered toward the bar.

On her way, a server holding a platter of hors d’oeuvres passed in front of her. Looked like snapper crudo with chile, steak lettuce cups, and bites of sesame chicken on sticks.

Scrumptious.

Stomach growling fiercely, Isabelle spun in front of the waiter and snatched a handful of each.
God,
she’d been so preoccupied with dress shopping for tonight, she’d forgotten to eat.

As she shoved the snapper in her mouth and headed for the bar, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She whipped around, shifted the food to her cheek, and bit back a gasp. From his musky, masculine scent to his ruggedly strong jawline to his sultry brown eyes, Jack MacGrath was a vision of sex appeal.

“Looking for me?” he asked.

Choking down the fish, she swiped the back of her hand over her mouth to clear away the crumbs. “No, but I’ve got a throat on me.”

He chuckled, eyeing her neck. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m thirsty.” She wasn’t back at home, drinking with Neil. She’d do well to remember it. “Anyway, what are you drinking?”

“Scotch on the rocks is my poison.” He held up a whiskey tumbler full of ice and very little amber liquid. “I was going to ask what yours was, but I see now it’s one-bite hors d’oeuvres.”

Oh, isn’t this grand?
I’m a hungry, hungry hippo.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hiding her hands behind her, Isabelle quickly chucked the rest of the appetizers she’d fisted.

From the direction of the flying food, a woman squealed in shock. Or maybe disgust. She couldn’t tell unless she turned to see, and she was most definitely not going to make eye contact and admit fault.

Damn it, what were the chances she’d actually
hit
someone?

“Come on,” Isabelle said, snatching Jack by the sleeve of his coat. She jerked him toward the bar. “Think the bar has the black stuff?”

If he knew that she’d just chucked a bunch of bite-sized meat at an unsuspecting guest, he didn’t let on. Thank goodness for small victories.

“Black stuff?” He kicked his foot up on a barstool. “You mean tar?”

“No, I mean Guinness.”

He winked. “I know what you meant, but some would think those two were one and the same. A Guinness for the beautiful lady,” he called to the bartender, and then set his almond-shaped eyes on her. “Anything else?”

“My painting.” Smiling smugly, she propped her elbow on the bar. “Since you’re offering.”

He smiled, but only one corner of his lips quirked, and it was sexy as hell. “We’ll get to that.”

“I figured, but it was worth a shot.”

“Of course it was. Come on,” he said, sliding her drink from the bar and handing it to her. “I want to show you something. A taste of home, perhaps.”

She followed him reluctantly, merging into the crowd and zigzagging toward an area with a sign that read
National Galleries of Scotland
. He hesitated as she passed through a marble archway, and ghosted a hand over the small of her back. Even though he didn’t touch her, she chilled, her skin going tingly all over.

Had they walked under a vent?

They entered the Scottish gallery, and knots of tension loosened in her shoulders. Her arms dropped to her sides.

“Wow, this is grand.” She filled her lungs and let out a deep, relaxed sigh. “Really grand.”

This
was the type of experience she wanted her father to have with her work before he died. He should feel enraptured by the art. As if it were a part of his soul. That’s the way she felt when she painted, and why she felt connected to every single piece.

“How long will you be staying in San Francisco?” Jack asked from behind her.

Completely enthralled, she paused in front of a nature painting by Paul Cézanne. “I’m not sure, but I’m anxious to get back.”

“What’s the hurry?”

If she wasn’t mistaken, he sounded genuinely disappointed. But MacGraths didn’t
feel
anything. Ever.

“I miss home.” While that was true, there was more to it than that. She wanted to spend every last second with her father, before there weren’t any seconds left. Her stomach clenched into a knot as dread seeped in. “I have family waiting for me.”

Jack stood beside her as she kinked her head to the side to analyze a painting of a man ice-skating on Duddingston Loch circa 1795. It was a masterpiece. Painting perfection. It’d been created “en plein air” too, if she had to guess by the wisps of light in its layers.

“Have you enjoyed your time in the city?” he asked, his voice tight.

“I find it hard to believe that you bargained tonight for the painting, yet you want to spend our time talking about how much I like the city or how long I’m staying. Is that really why you wanted me here?” She tipped back her drink. “Because I think there’s more to it, and it’s about time you let me in on the secret.”

He leaned in close, and she couldn’t help but inhale a generous helping of his masculine scent. He smelled divinely fresh, like amber and sandalwood. An intoxicating combination that had her stunned.

“Oh, I’ve got secrets,” he whispered against her ear. “But this isn’t one. Is it so hard to believe that I simply craved your company?”

Good God, her earlobes shivered. Was that even possible?

The thought of this gorgeous man craving
anything
had her mouth watering. Words evaporated from her brain, which didn’t happen very often, if ever. Despite herself, she relaxed. Probably had something to do with that smooth-as-silk voice.

“That’s your big secret?” she asked, stepping up to the next painting. “You wanted to spend time with me and chitchat?”

“Sure.” He followed her, a constant presence at her side. But he wasn’t pushy. Oh no. He glided over the floor a few feet behind her, his free hand in his pocket, the tuxedo coat stretched taut over his impossibly broad shoulders. And damn if those pants didn’t pitch over his obviously impressive groin. “Have you done anything fun since you’ve been in the city?”

Oh,
there were a few
fun
things she was thinking about doing at the moment. Enjoyable, naughty things that made her girly bits tingle.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He smirked, as if he had caught her staring at his package. “What have you been doing to occupy your time?”

Keep your eyes up.
“I haven’t been here long enough to see as much as I would’ve liked. I flew in right before the auction.”

“And you’re already eager to return?”

She nodded.

“Why not stay a few days?” His dark eyes glimmered with something devious. “You can see the city while you’re here and experience all you can. And let me tell you, hotels are so impersonal. You’d be better off seeing the city from a local’s point of view. If you want, you’re welcome to crash at my place.”

Oh yeah, baby.

No
—wait.

She was supposed to hate him, wasn’t she? He was a MacGrath, for crying out loud. How easily he could make her forget…

“You can waggle your eyebrows all you want, Jack, but I wouldn’t go home with you if you had a collection of
ten
Bella Nolan paintings.”

He grinned, as if he hid the most delectable secret. “Actually, I—”

Glasses clinked from the main room, interrupting him. When she met his eyes once more, the dark twinkle in them had vanished. Museum patrons mumbled low, their whispers melting together into an incomprehensible wave of conversation.

“We should see what that’s about,” she said, watching the crowd form near a large painting on the back wall. “They’re starting some sort of speech.”

“It’s nothing interesting, believe me. Besides, we haven’t seen all the artwork in here.” Jack brushed by, bumping into her with his shoulder. Gooseflesh pebbled over her arm. “Look at this one.”

She was still trying to get rid of the chill spreading through her chest when Jack stopped in front of an oil panting of Niagara Falls.

“I’m blown away by the whole process,” he said, “How an artist can take a blank canvas and turn it into a masterpiece. I don’t know anything about painting, though artwork like this has always fascinated me.“

Isabelle tore her eyes away from the main group and approached his side. “Maybe you should pick up a brush and give it a go. If you’re so intrigued by it.”

“It’s not about the process, so to speak, but the people behind the art. You can almost sense what the artist was feeling when he painted this.” Turning slowly, he stared her down with those smoky-brown eyes. And just like that, she was warm again. “I like to collect things by artists I feel connected to. Art, sculptures, valuable books, anything that I can add to my private gallery.”

“Sounds like you’ve got quite the collection,” she said, traipsing around the hall. She could feel his gaze boring into her back as she turned away. “But you’re focused on acquiring, rather than appreciating. There’s a huge difference.”

“I disagree. Acquiring
is
appreciating. If I spend a million and a quarter on a piece, it has more value to me than one I paid three hundred thousand for.”

She spun and stared. “So the inherent value of something is based on the retail price?”

“Of course.” He nodded. “Which piece in this museum gets the most attention? The one in the far corner, or the one in the center in the glass case? The one purchased for fifty thousand, or the one the museum newly acquired for half a million?”

A little piece of her died at the thought of someone buying her paintings solely based on the monetary value.

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree,” she said plainly.

Jack followed her trek to each of the paintings. A silent companion. She kept her distance from him and was careful not to brush him accidently. Werewolves usually ran hot, their temperatures a bit higher than non-shifters, but when she touched him, an odd chill seeped into her bones.

Finishing her Guinness, Isabelle stopped in front of a family painting. Oil on canvas from the early 1800s. The father in the piece had the little girl on his knee. She held out a golden-yellow rayed flower and smiled brightly. Proudly. Her father beamed, his arms wrapped around his daughter as he gazed into her eyes. The little girl’s happiness and her father’s love had been captured for eternity.

It was the kind of dynamic she’d envisioned when she’d shown her father her very first painting. She’d wanted him to wrap her in his arms. Tell her how proud he was of her. Encourage her to paint more often and display it everywhere in their castle.