Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) (11 page)

She didn’t know how it was possible, but in one day, she’d seen the best San Francisco had to offer.

“Isabelle,” he said against her mouth.

“Mm-hmm?”

He kissed her nose, her cheek, her lips.

“Will you come back to my place? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

There went those butterflies again.

Maybe she hadn’t seen the best of San Francisco yet…

Chapter Eleven

A
little before nightfall, they arrived at his house. She had to pick up her things and head to the airport before too long.

Maybe after another kiss. Or four.

“I’d like to thank you for saving my life last night,” Jack said, leading Isabelle down the hall. “For letting me taste your lips this morning…and this afternoon.” Gently, he caressed her lower lip with his thumb. She shivered at his touch. “There’s only one thing I can think to give you that would show you the depth of my appreciation.”

Oh yeah? How deep would his “appreciation” go?

Taking Jack’s hand, Isabelle let him escort her to a giant door at the end of the hall. “Is this your red room?” she asked, blush creeping into her cheeks. “Because I should tell you now I’m not into it.”

“No, I believe Branson said the color he painted on the walls was stone gray.” Smirking, Jack turned the handle and pushed the door open wide. “But I like the fact that you’re still standing here if that’s where you thought I was taking you. Close your eyes.” Ever so gently, he brushed his hands down her forehead, so she’d close them. “Step in. That’s it.”

Although he guided her, she tripped over her own foot and stumbled. He caught her, snaking an arm around her waist.

“Easy,” he said, leading her into a room that smelled of white tea and fig. The aroma was luxurious and clean, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the temperature took a sudden drop the moment they entered the room. “Before you see the surprise, I want you to know that I appreciate every single item in this room equally.”

Okay, now she was
really
intrigued.

Peeking with one eye, Isabelle searched around the spacious room. It wasn’t a room at all. It was a gallery
. His
private gallery. The walls were painted deep stone gray, as he’d said. Dim lights shone from the ceiling, illuminating the hanging artwork. There were Monets, Renoirs, Warhols, and—

Hold up.

She strode closer to one piece in particular.

“
Werewolf at the Great Wall
,” she breathed, touching the bottom of her painting. She’d painted it fifteen years ago. She could still smell the scent of wood, grass, and earth as it’d surrounded her on that warm summer night. “Where’d you…”

She whirled around, cutting her thought short.

Jack stood in the center of the room, a smug look of satisfaction on his gorgeous face. But it wasn’t the vision of him in his gallery that had the breath ripping from her lungs. It was the collection of art on the wall behind him—the collection of Bella Nolan art.

“I…” Her feet moved closer of their own accord as tears stung her eyes. “You…my—the artwork…it’s…”

Now she wouldn’t have to waste weeks, months, years tracking down her work to display in one place.

Did Jack have any idea how much this meant to her?

Without thinking, she ran into his arms. He caught her, embracing her tightly, nuzzling into her hair.

Her works were all there, with the exception of the very first, of course.
Werewolf in Paris, Werewolf in London, Werewolf in the Outback…

As Isabelle circled Jack’s private gallery, it struck her how foolish she’d been. Her father had been wrong, and she’d believed him wholeheartedly, even when the truth stared her in the face.

Jack wasn’t a thief.

His body was banging; he was sharp-witted and smart, and had a mysterious vibe to him that had intrigued her from the start. Judging from the exchange in his office, he was generous, too. And man, could he kiss. He could probably do other things with as much skill.

But that still didn’t mean they were fated mates.

As much heat as there was in his kiss, the Luminary spark was more than that. It was a
knowing
. A whisper of claiming and possession deep down in her soul. She hadn’t heard it yet.

Despite that, Jack had let her in. He felt comfortable enough with her to tell her about his predicament. He’d taken her to Napa to get another painting, and shown her around his city. He’d been open and honest, revealing his gallery when he could’ve kept it to himself.

And he didn’t know she was the one who’d created them all.

That needed to be remedied.

She stood in front of
Werewolf in Moscow
. Admired Saint Basil’s Cathedral and its brightly colored domes. Brushed her hands over the Northern Lights in the background and the werewolf standing impressively in front of it all.

“I can’t believe you have all of these,” she mumbled, stroking them each as she passed by. “Was Jasmine right? Did you start collecting when you’d given up hope of finding your Luminary?”

Jack wandered through the gallery behind her, his hands shoved into his pockets. She’d noticed he did that when they shook.

“I’m not sure which came first, but she was on target. The work speaks to me. There is a softness to the strokes of the brush that contrasts the sharpness of the urban landscape. And the wolf in those settings…brilliant. I’ve dreamed of being in each of those places in wolf form.”

Interesting.

He’d revealed his collection, making her dream of showing her father all of her artwork a very real possibility.

She’d give him something in return—something to remember her by.

“More than that,” he said, coming to stand beside her, “when I study the art, an odd thrill shoots through me. It’s like an adrenaline rush, but different. It’s electric, if that makes any sense.”

It made total sense; she had the same feeling when they kissed.

“Jack,” she said, turning to him. “I have to tell you something. And it’s something that not many people know.”

“All right.” His dark eyes glistened with uncertainty. “Shoot.”

She paused, looking at each of the pieces of art in turn. She’d never actually told anyone this. In every other case—and there were very few cases to begin with—she’d been discovered when she’d put out the call for werewolf models or been caught in the act by another member of the pack.

Nerves rattled through her and gathered in her stomach.

She took a deep breath and said, “I’m Bella Nolan.”

Frowning, he took a step back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “I painted all of these.
Werewolf in Manhattan, Moscow, Outback, Paris
—all of them.”

He stared, disbelieving, unmoving.

“I started painting years ago, and was proud of what I was creating. My first painting,
Werewolf in Dublin
, was of my father in wolf form, standing in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It wasn’t drawn from life, but from a memory I have when I was young, at my mother’s funeral.” Her throat ached, stinging with the sudden threat of tears. “I showed him, and he—he destroyed it. He ordered me to stop painting, to focus more on pack matters. I couldn’t quit though, not after I had the bug. So to hide it from him and the pack, I continued under a false name, to keep my true identity secret.”

Jack’s hands found her shoulders. “You’re Bella Nolan?”

His hands were calm and steady. Now it was her turn to shake.

As she trembled full force, he wrapped her up and brushed his hands down her hair, soothing her. “I can’t believe it…why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I’ve never actually told anyone before,” she whispered, her head resting against his chest. His heartbeat drummed against her cheek, calling to something deep within her. “It was harder than I thought it’d be to admit it, I guess.”

“How could your father not appreciate this part of you?”

She shrugged. “I’m collecting the art for him, to hopefully make him proud. I’m going to display it in one place so that he can understand the gravity of it. To truly comprehend that it’s not just a hobby, but a deep-rooted part of me.”

“He’ll realize it. Maybe all he needed was time.”

Now for the most important question of all…

“Will you sell them to me?” She slowly bent into him as his hand stilled on the small of her back. “I’d pay well more than they’re worth, of course.”

He exhaled heavily, though he didn’t let her go. He held tight. And then shuddered against her.

“I can’t sell them. I’m sorry but I can’t, not when I know you’re leaving me.” As her heart dropped, he said, “I understand that you need them to show your father and I won’t deny you. You’re more than welcome to borrow them—I’ll even have Branson load them onto my jet for you to take when you go home. You have my warmest blessing to display them all in Dublin.” He went solid as stone in her arms. “As long as you promise to personally return them when you’re finished.”

Borrowing them wasn’t what she wanted, but it
did
give her a reason to come back to him.

“You really want me to come back and pester you some more?” she whispered as he nipped at her earlobe.

“I want you here with me like this, every single day”—his breath was hot and moist on her neck, and tingling her down to her toes—“for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Well not right
here
, per se.” She spun in his embrace and threw her arms around his neck. “We’d get hungry eventually.”

He smirked. “That’s what Branson is for.” And then he kissed her, melting her all over again. “If you’d only stay with me…”

Focus.
Why was it so difficult to think straight around him?

Lust was different from love—she’d be wise to remember it.

For the first time since she met him, she wished—with a tiny, secret part of her heart—that she was the one for him.

She pulled back, despite herself, and looked him square in the eye. “Thank you for the offer to take the paintings to Dublin. I accept.”

Under the circumstances, it seemed like the only way she would be able to show her father at all. And maybe, if one of the paintings really spoke to him, she could make Jack an offer for that one in particular.

This could work…

As Jack’s hands skated up and down her back, they began to tremble. “How long will you be gone?” Suddenly his voice was tight. “A week? Two?”

There was no way to know. “I’m not sure.”

“Why do you have to go now? What’s the rush? Why can’t you wait a week, or a month, or whatever makes you comfortable? You could stay with me, if you wanted.”

He wanted more time to try to convince her of his feelings. To see if she’d come around and realize that she was, in fact, his Luminary. His motives were transparent. But it simply didn’t work that way.

Fated mates
knew
they were. It was a calling in their core. A primal instinct to possess the other.

“Jack…” How to say the words that hurt her the most? Merely thinking about them made her head dizzy with fear. “My father is dying. He has cancer.” The words tasted bitter and rotten, burned her tongue, and carved a big ugly hole out of her heart. “He doesn’t have long left. What I’m doing—the art I’m collecting—it’s my last chance to get him to understand how much this means to me. How much I want it to mean to him.” Her stomach turned, aching as if she’d been speared, all the way through. “I think it could bring us together in his final days.”

“I’m so sorry, Isabelle.” He kissed her forehead, slow and loving. “So sorry. I’ve lost both my parents, all the family I ever had really, so I completely understand what you’re going through. Whatever you need—”

“You’ve already given it to me,” she said, turning her attention to the paintings. “This is what I wanted. I wasn’t sure I’d find all the paintings in time, and I wasn’t even sure how much I’d have to start with. You helped make my dream come true.”

Which was the reason she couldn’t leave him empty-handed. Completely rob him of his favorite pieces without so much as a thank-you. There was one way to thank him for what he’d done, what he’d given her.

“You were kind enough to show me the gallery,” she said, “and made me happier than I think you realize. I’d like to give you something in return. Something for you to remember me by.”

His expression pulled into a frown. “You say that as if you’re never coming back.”

“No, I’ll return to the city.”
I’ll return to you.
She’d almost said it accidentally. Thank goodness she caught herself. “But I can’t strip these off your walls without replacing them with something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

J
ust after three o’clock in the morning, Isabelle stood at the Golden Gate overlook, where three major park trails converged in a wooded area of the Presidio. She was all business, a clipboard and makeshift easel tucked under her arm. Once she told him of her plans to paint him, he’d sent Branson out to pick up all the supplies she needed.

“This place is remarkable,” Isabelle said, staring up at the moon peeking between the trees. “The trails and trees, the Golden Gate in the distance. The lights on the bridge are luminous, aren’t they? Shining like stars. It’s the perfect place to paint you.”

“We shouldn’t be bothered here, at least not for a few hours.” Nerves pinballed through Jack’s stomach. “How long does this usually take?”

“Anywhere from one to five hours, though this canvas is eight by ten so it shouldn’t take me as long as a few of the others.” She went to work setting up. “The light changes fast, so within two hours it’ll look like a completely different painting. I’m going to try to finish before that happens.”

“You’re amazing,” he said, standing with the Golden Gate behind him. “You know that?”

She grinned, and the moonlight illuminated her face in a pearly-white glow. “Let’s see how the painting turns out before you call me that.”