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disagree,” she said plainly.
    Jack followed her trek to each of the paintings. A silent companion. She kept her distance from him and was careful not to brush him accidently. Werewolves usually ran hot, their temperatures a bit higher than non-shifters, but when she touched him, an odd chill seeped into her bones.
    Finishing her Guinness, Isabelle stopped in front of a family painting. Oil on canvas from the early 1800s. The father in the piece had the little girl on his knee. She held out a golden-yellow rayed flower and smiled brightly. Proudly. Her father beamed, his arms wrapped around his daughter as he gazed into her eyes. The little girl’s happiness and her father’s love had been captured for eternity.
    It was the kind of dynamic she’d envisioned when she’d shown her father her very first painting. She’d wanted him to wrap her in his arms. Tell her how proud he was of her. Encourage her to paint more often and display it everywhere in their castle.
    It was a good thing their interaction hadn’t been displayed in the de Young. It would’ve been called A Father’s Shame, and wouldn’t have fit with the other, more whimsical pieces in the collection.
    Clapping echoed from the main hall, followed by an announcement. Muffled voices struck her ears, though she couldn’t make out any conversation in particular. As the speech ended, the crowd moved toward a glass case in the center of the floor. She couldn’t tell what had been displayed.
    “Why Bella Nolan?” Jack said from beside her.
    The air froze in her lungs. “Excuse me?”
    “Why are you determined to make Werewolf in Venice yours? Is it the painting in particular, or all Bella Nolan work?”
    “Oh.” For a second there, she thought Jack was asking about her nom de plume. As if he knew it was her. “I’m collecting her work for a private showing in Dublin.”
    Nodding, his lips pulled into a quick, contemplative frown. “Is that so?”
    “You look confused.”
    He scrubbed his hands through his dark hair. “I’m not. But if you’d asked, I might’ve let you borrow the painting for the showing. You wouldn’t have had to offer to buy it or come with me tonight—not that I don’t appreciate your company. I donate paintings for showings all the time. Like tonight.”
    She’d thought about doing that at first, but the paintings were a gift for her father. A part of Isabelle secretly hoped her dad would fall in love with all of them and want them for himself. Besides, she wanted to take the work home, back to Dublin.
    “I wanted it for personal reasons,” she said, finishing her drink. “To appreciate it. No matter the cost.”

    D amn, the woman was stubborn. An unexpected surprise. He thoroughly enjoyed every snippy remark, every sly grin, every simmer of fire in her eyes.
    It made him feel alive. Under the circumstances, he could use more of that.
    As he thought of a rebuttal, the crowd clapped and mumbled again. This time, someone announced Jack’s name over the microphone.
    Why now? When he and Isabelle were finally getting somewhere?
    “Would you give me one minute?” Taking the hand she’d dropped to her side, he squeezed gently. Starbursts of heat splintered into his palm. “I’ve got to do something. Don’t disappear on me, okay? I’ll be right back.”
    Something told him she wouldn’t be going anywhere; she hadn’t gotten the painting yet.
    Dropping her hand, he moved through the crowd of smiling faces—recognizing not a single person—and his hands began to shake.
    Not now. Please not now.
    He approached the glass case and then turned, searching for Isabelle in the crowd. She’d stayed back. Far enough away that she wouldn’t see his hands tremble.
    “I hope you’re all having a fabulous time tonight,” Jack said, raising his near-empty glass. The ice rattled around inside as a tremor clattered through his arm. “I’d like to personally thank the de Young for their interest in this Renoir.” Hold strong.