Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) (2 page)

Chapter Two

S
aturday morning, as Isabelle strode through the front door of McDougal’s in downtown San Francisco, she was handed a pamphlet of the day’s artwork. Scanning through the listing, she spotted her piece. The air caught in her throat as she skipped up the marble front steps. She passed large pots crammed with bamboo stalks and towering sculptures of samurai warriors. Folding up the pamphlet, Isabelle shoved it in her purse and strode into the auction room.

The hall was immaculately clean and crowded with people. Her stomach fluttered with happy nerves, and her heart raced in anticipation.

Today was going to be a great day.

After being assigned a paddle, she slid into a seat at the back of the auction hall. Two men brought out each beautifully mastered work. The history of the piece was read, along with a brief summary of which collections it’d been featured in. Whispers spread through the crowd before everyone went quiet and let their paddles do the talking.

“We’re going to take a brief intermission before the next painting,
Werewolf in Venice,”
the auctioneer said, his voice flat. But it wasn’t the tone of his voice that had Isabelle searching the features of the old man’s face. It was the Irish brogue. “Everyone, take ten.”

He marched down the center aisle and slid into the seat next to her as if he’d planned the intermission for the very reason.

“You look at me strange, Isabelle, as if you don’t recognize me. I’m Colin O’Hare.” He extended his hand. “It’s been years since I’ve rested my hat in Dublin, but I didn’t think my beard had gone
that
gray.”

Recognition hit her, and she gasped.

Colin had been a member of their pack for two hundred years before venturing out on his own. Rumors hit Dublin that he’d gone to California, but no one had said anything about his work in the auction circuit.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you.” She shook his hand. It was warm and calloused, like worn leather. “I didn’t know you worked for McDougal’s.” Might’ve made her task of tracking down her lost art an easier one. “How’ve you been?”

“Well, thank you.” He leaned in close and whispered, “How’s your father holdin’ up?”

She sighed as despair weighed heavy on her shoulders. “Good as can be, I guess. Did you hear he’s fighting cancer?”

“Aye.” Colin nodded, and the lights shone off the bald patch on the top of his head. “Let me tell you, lass, if any man can win that battle, it’s Gerard Connelly. I’ve never met a man with so much fire.” He tapped her chin gently, as a father would do to a child. “That fire is in you as well.”

Something inside her softened, and she ached to change the subject before she broke completely. “I’m here to bid on
Werewolf in Venice
,” she said as nonchalantly as she could. “I hear it’s beautiful.”

“You’re a fan of Bella Nolan, are ya?”

She nodded slowly and averted her gaze to the seat back in front of her. “I suppose you could say I am.”

“That piece is mighty fine. Sold last year in London for three and a quarter.”

She swelled with pride, but kept the emotion on lockdown. Colin didn’t have a clue she was the artist. Or, rather, if he did, he hadn’t let on.

She’d probably have to pay more than four hundred thousand to get it back. Between the earnings from her work and the savings in the Connelly vault, she could afford a solid bid, thank goodness.

“I’d love to sit an’ chat with you, dear, but I’ve got to be gettin’ back.” He took her hand, flipped it over, and kissed her knuckles. “It was lovely to see you. Send my love to your father, and the rest of the pack.”

Her heart warmed. “I will.”

As he returned to the podium at the front, Isabelle sensed someone watching her. She scanned the room, over unfamiliar faces from one side and back again. Sniffing softly, she used her heightened sense of smell to detect anything out of the ordinary. She could pick up extreme emotions: fury and fear, love and happiness. Happiness—a sweet and rosy scent—tingled her nose, masking every other scent in the room.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

“The next piece is
Werewolf in Venice
by Bella Nolan,” Colin announced as the piece was escorted to the stage. “It’s a stunning piece of Gothic realism.”

He detailed every gallery her art had been featured in, every collection where it’d been shown over the last few years. Awareness heated Isabelle’s cheeks and made the rest of his words fuzzy in her ears. It always happened this way when someone spoke fondly of her work.

“Let’s start the bidding at two hundred thousand.”

She flushed hot as a paddle went up, directly across the aisle from her.

Good God, that man—scratch that…she sniffed and picked up a familiar scent—that
werewolf
, was gorgeous. Midnight black hair cut close to his head on the sides and longer on top. Big brown eyes. Strong nose. A layer of stubble covering his wide jaw. Black suit and tie. One foot kicked up and resting over the opposite leg.

He gave off a vibe of dominance mixed with cool and composed nobleness.

He lifted his paddle again as the bid jumped to two hundred fifty thousand. He didn’t hesitate. Not once. Not even when the price rose to five and a quarter.

Flattery struck her, but she quickly dismissed it. No matter how good it felt knowing the total hottie wanted to have her picture, she couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—let it go.

“Six hundred thousand to Mr. MacGrath,” Colin said. “Any other bids?”

Isabelle’s gaze snapped to the Greek god.

MacGrath?

Oh, she had his number now.

He may’ve been sexy as hell, but he was a snake. Evil to the core. Just like every other MacGrath in their nasty family line.

She lifted her chin defiantly and raised her paddle.

J
ack refused to be outbid. He’d been waiting for
Werewolf in Venice
to come up for auction again so he could acquire it and add it to his collection of Bella Nolan work.

He was inexplicably drawn to Nolan’s paintings. They were breathtaking. She brilliantly weaved the majestic form of the werewolf into the natural cityscape behind it. It was the stroke of her brush over the wolves in the painting—gentle and soft—against the gritty textures in the background that had captivated him.

When he studied Nolan’s artwork, a rush of something hot streaked through him. It was akin to a surge of adrenaline. He couldn’t explain the feeling, and had given up trying to figure it out.

He had eleven Bella Nolan paintings.

Werewolf in Venice
would make twelve.

And he wasn’t about to be outbid by the tiny little pixie sitting in the row across from him. She had dark hair that dropped past her shoulders and curled up at the ends. Bright green eyes lined with thick lashes. Freckles covering her plump cheeks. She was a werewolf—he could tell by the sweet and spicy smell of her—but she wasn’t from the San Francisco Wolf Pack.

He would’ve run into her by now, and he never forgot a face.

The pixie wore a thick black scarf, black heels, and a black dress that revealed the porcelain-smooth length of her legs when she crossed them. Judging from her attire, she was either headed to a funeral after the auction or stuck in a permanent state of melancholy. Or maybe she simply thought the monochromatic color would make her incognito.

Yeah, no way.
With legs like that, anonymity was impossible.

As the bid tiptoed higher, reaching six hundred fifteen thousand, Jack raised his paddle with a flick of his wrist. He couldn’t care less about the money spent. He’d accumulated an estate worth billons, but even if he hadn’t, he’d go in debt to hang
Werewolf in Venice
on his walls.

Besides, he couldn’t take his billions with him when he died, so he might as well spend his money on something he could enjoy in his final days.

Seeing as how he was a 320-year-old werewolf who’d yet to find his Luminary—his one and only fated mate—he was weakening. Werewolves could only live about three hundred years without going through the bonding process with their Luminary. With every year that passed by, he was pushing the envelope.

He’d searched tirelessly for his mate. Scoured wolf packs throughout the country, and had come up empty-handed. Luminaries could feel the spark of connection at first touch.

He’d failed. End of discussion. End of his life.

A shaky breath ripped from his lungs.

Just then, he picked up something else in the pixie’s scent. Hints of something rich and creamy. It smelled almost like—no, it couldn’t possibly be—
Guinness
? Smooth and full. Bittersweet underneath. Had she drunk the beer recently? Was it still on her breath?

He couldn’t tell.

The pixie lifted her chin—a slight move, but he caught it—and raised her paddle.

Guess she was a Bella Nolan fan, too.

Without thinking twice, he rebutted.

She craned her neck to the side and glared at him, kinking one eyebrow. It was clear that she was trying to give him attitude, but she looked downright adorable. Like a puppy gearing up for battle against a more formidable dog. He couldn’t help but smile.

Sweetheart, I’m 320 years old
.
I’ve met and outbid enthusiastic bidders like you before.

But you’ve never met me.

Her thoughts struck him like a hammer to the temples. He hadn’t meant to project his thoughts, or for her to hear them. But now that she’d responded, he couldn’t get the sweet sound of her voice out of his head. Her tone was light and airy, like the winter wind, carrying a soft accent.

He couldn’t place it. English? Irish? Definitely European.

With a huff, the pixie redirected her attention to the front. And raised the bid again.

I can do this all day.
Her lips twitched in irritation as her words pulsed through his mind.
You might as well go home now. It’ll save you some embarrassment.

Exhilaration fired through his veins.

There was only one thing he loved more than a challenge: a tantalizing game of cat-and-mouse.

Keeping his eye on her, Jack bid until the price reached seven hundred fifty thousand and the room erupted in excited whispers. Pixie fidgeted in her seat, shifting her weight from one hip to the other.

Don’t overextend yourself,
he projected.

Don’t worry about me.
She waved her paddle.
Worry about what your friends in the auction circuit are going to think when you’re outbid and lose this painting.

He bid again. Without hearing the next price.

She matched him.

A smirk curled the corner of his lips as he met her eyes. Fiery determination burned in those emerald depths. Her eyes stunned him, twinkling bright and holding him captive. But not enough to miss the price of the painting rise near a million.

He winked. And then lifted the paddle slowly.

She fumed, her nostrils pushing out slightly, her lips tightening in agitation.

As the room quieted, Jack’s heart raced. Time slowed. Something hot, like molten lava, flooded through his body, making his arms and legs weak. It was the same reaction he had when he pushed the limit and cheated death.

He’d become intimately familiar with the feeling.

Since adrenaline rushes were the only way he was staying alive, he’d had to find new and interesting ways to keep the blood hammering through his veins. For the past twenty years, he’d been living on borrowed time, jumping from one heart-pounding adventure to another.

Although he couldn’t explain it, the pixie sitting across from him was giving him a rush. It was new, interesting, and
definitely
heart-pounding.

He didn’t want to let
Werewolf in Venice
slip through his fingers, but what if he
let her
outbid him? It’d be a loss to his collection, sure, but if he took home the painting, the pixie would be angry and embarrassed. Unforgiving. If he let her win, however, he could congratulate her. Strike up conversation. Invite her to dinner where they’d talk about their mutual love of Nolan’s work. And then, when dessert came to the table, he’d escort her back to his place.

He’d gladly lose the painting to keep the adrenaline pumping through his veins the way it was now.

A tiny
bleep
sounded from her direction. Dropping her paddle into her lap, she fished her cell phone out of her purse and checked the screen. If Jack wasn’t mistaken, the color drained from her cheeks. She blinked quickly, her lips parting in disbelief. Or was it sadness…?

“Sold,” the auctioneer declared from the front, “to Mr. Jack MacGrath for one million dollars.”

Victory.

The pixie flipped her gaze to the front and then to him. Alarm flickered in her eyes before she stared at her phone once more.

Congratulations on your win,
she projected, sliding out into the aisle.
It’s too bad the piece didn’t go to someone who’d truly appreciate it. Good day.

What the hell did she know about him or the art he appreciated?

He watched his painting being escorted to the back and then followed the pixie into the foyer.

She was already gone.

He’d just purchased
Werewolf in Venice
to add to his collection—the only reason he’d come to McDougal’s today—yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d left something unfinished. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The only way to get rid of the prickly sensation, he’d learned, was to jump into the day’s hectic schedule. Check things off his list. One by one. He didn’t even know the pixie’s name, so he’d never see her again. Putting her behind him wasn’t going to be a problem.