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

me, but it’s there. Deep down, on some level, you know it.”
    She didn’t move. Not a muscle. Not a quiver or a twitch of those perfect lips.
    She did feel it.
    “Mr. MacGrath?” the steward blurted from the rear of the plane. “The Porsche you requested has arrived.”
    “Porsche?” That got Isabelle twirling around in her chair and peering out the tiny oval window. “ That …is what we’re driving to your friend’s house?”
    “It’s a Porsche 911 GT2 RS.”
    “Yeah.” She chuckled. “Whatever that means.”
    The car was black as night. Fin on the back. Six hundred and twenty horsepower. Sleek and mean, with the smooth, gliding curves of a sexy woman.
    “It’s the fastest street-legal model on the market.” Jack shrugged, itching to push it to its limit. “If we have to take a drive through wine country, might as well do it in style, right?” He smirked as the steward extended the keys toward him. “Care to see how fast it can go?”
    “Hell yes.” Standing with lightning-quick speed, Isabelle snatched the keys out of the steward’s hand. “And I’m driving.”

Chapter Six
    J ack could barely focus on his GPS. “Turn right.”
    Isabelle shifted, barreling around a sharp curve.
    “Hard left.”
    Pedal to the metal, she did as she was told and gripped the wheel tight. The car hugged the bend effortlessly, even though they buried the speed limit.
    “Up ahead,” he said over the powerful purr of the engine. “One mile. Winery is on the right.”
    But the winery came faster than she anticipated.
    Guess that’s what happened when you drove one hundred–plus.
    “Right here.” Jack’s voice constricted. “You’re going to miss it.”
    “No, I’m not.” She downshifted, causing the engine to roar. “Hold on.”
    Braking hard, she waited until the car was below sixty, and then released the brake and turned right. The car lost traction, and exhilaration filled her right up. Jack gripped her knee, squeezing tight. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she recovered from the skid, shifted again, and came to a sudden stop in front of a Tuscan-style home. Tall pillars. Stone moldings on the front. Soft mood lighting, even in the daylight. And now that she had the chance to check out her surroundings, grapevines stretched out as far as the eye could see.
    Leaning over, Jack yanked the keys out of the ignition. “I think I’ll take these.”
    She giggled, but as his hand brushed her knee she went hot. “Did I scare you?” she asked, rubbing the spot that was still tingling from his touch.
    “It was just what I needed.”
    What’d he mean by that?
    Before she could pry, he opened the door and got out, stretching. She followed, meeting him on the passenger side of the car. Out of morbid curiosity, she checked his hands. They had been shaking last night, after all. Now, they were still and sure.
    Strange.
    “Jack!” a woman’s voice called from the direction of the front door. Her accent was thick. Spanish, maybe? Italian mixed with a little Greek? “Get over here and give me a hug.”
    “Great to see you, Jasmine.”
    He waltzed over and scooped her up into a huge embrace. As he spun her around, Isabelle got a good look at Jack’s “friend.” His only friend, it seemed. Branson excluded, of course. Jasmine was taller than her. Probably five foot nine. Razor-short blond hair, falling around her face and framing her chin. And she was skinny with boobs, damn it. Wearing a flowery maxi dress, a cropped jean jacket, and wedge sandals.
    Some things in life weren’t fair.
    “The place looks amazing,” Jack said. “As do you.”
    When he set her down, she nudged him with her elbow and then pointed at Isabelle. “Going to introduce me to your lady?”
    Your lady?
    She wasn’t his any more than the Porsche cooling off behind them.
    A hint of sadness pricked her, making her frown. Shaking it off, Isabelle stepped up onto Jasmine’s patio and extended her hand. “I’m Isabelle