Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack) by Kristin Miller

Jack said simply, meeting her stare over the top of the canvas. “She’s here to pick it up and return it to its proper place.”
    “But…” Isabelle glanced at Branson, who stood in the doorway looking unamused by the tug-of-war over the Van Gogh. “You already have someone here to pick it up? You stole it—er, bought it. They were just here.”
    Maybe she hadn’t heard him.
    “Time is a luxury that’s been denied to me.” Jack loosened his grip on the painting, and then let her have it. “I have to make sure things move quickly, or they might not happen at all.”
    Her lips parted, ever so slightly, as if having her mouth open helped her think. But the second the curator strode into the room—fair skin, platinum-blond hair, and legs for days—she clamped her mouth shut.
    “Let me see it,” Ms. Sorensen crooned, taking out a pair of thin-rimmed glasses from her bag. “I’ve been waiting too long.”
    Isabelle turned, holding up the art, but didn’t say a word.
    “It’s just as striking as I remember.” Ms. Sorensen held out her hands. “May I?”
    Nodding, Isabelle handed it over and backed toward Jack’s desk. Ms. Sorensen analyzed the frame, the smudges in the corners, and the canvas itself. As if it passed her inspection, she grinned wide.
    “I’m thrilled it’ll be going home,” Jack said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Might I suggest you amp up security to take better care of it this time?”
    Ms. Sorensen couldn’t tear her studious eyes away from the painting. “Oh, you better believe it. We can’t thank you enough, Mr. MacGrath.”
    As the curator swept out of his office, Jack turned to Isabelle. She leaned back against his desk, staring at the ground and shaking her head, as if trying to process something that was too difficult. Was he finally getting through to her? If anything could change Isabelle’s opinion of him, it had to be this. With the curator returning the painting to its proper home, Isabelle had to know he wasn’t anything like his thieving ancestors.
    “Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.
    “Yeah.” She huffed into a nervous laugh. “Five hundred million of them.”

Chapter Ten
    A little after noon, Jack led Isabelle to his bike, which had been parked alongside his house. It was black and rugged. Wide tires. Bulky engine. Narrow passenger seat on the back. Swinging his leg over, he mounted the bike and handed Isabelle a helmet.
    “Are you sure you’re okay? I mean, after the fight last night—”
    “I appreciate your concern,” he interrupted. “But I told you, I’m fine.”
    He certainly looked fine . He’d changed into dark-washed jeans, a cotton T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. She’d never had a thing for bikers before, but he nailed the viciously sexy facade. And from the warmth blooming between her legs, he could’ve nailed her, too. Right here, right now.
    It was a good thing Branson had brought her bag from the Hyatt to Jack’s place; she was prepared for the ride. While she’d packed light for her trip, she had jeans, a couple cute long-sleeved shirts, and a warm coat. Everything she needed. Except a better defense against Jack’s charm, apparently.
    “What is this thing?” she asked, gawking at the bike.
    “It’s a Ducati.” He brought it roaring to life, vibrating the cement beneath her feet. “And my favorite way to see the city.”
    Nerves flitted through her as she took the helmet and shoved it on. “It’s a monster. Why can’t we take my Camry?”
    “The Camry isn’t nearly as fun.”
    True, but… “This is going to give me helmet head.”
    “Your head is gorgeous, whatever shape it’s in.” Laughing, he turned and tightened the strap beneath her chin. “Well, I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to look adorable in this. But you”—he adjusted it over her head—“pull it off.”
    Okay, so she might’ve felt a little better about this whole thing.
    “Hop on,” he said, putting on his own