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.