The Heartless Rebel. Lynn Harris Raye
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table and took a sip of his drink. Mineral water with a twist of lime while he was playing. He didn’t drink alcohol when he needed his senses to be sharp.
The croupier straightened the chips with quick movements. Jack found himself mesmerized by the elegance of her long-fingered hands, the way she seemed to caress the chips before letting them go. He imagined those hands on his body and was instantly glad he’d decided to remain seated.
A waiter stopped at the table, round tray held in one hand, towel over his arm. “Would you like something from the bar, sir?”
“No, thanks,” Jack said. “How about you?” he directed to the croupier.
The girl looked up then, her green eyes wide. She truly was extraordinary, from the long dark hair flowing down her back to the high round breasts beneath her obscenely suggestive shirt to the longest damn legs he’d ever seen. What would those legs feel like wrapped around him later tonight?
“N-no, thanks,” she said, her voice throaty and musical—and surprisingly shy, he thought. She’d had no such problems when she was calling the play or rapping out the rules to disgruntled players. It intrigued him, fired his blood.
“I don’t bite,” he said lightly.
She glanced down again, then back up, her gaze fixing determinedly on him. A tiger, this one. “Whether you do or not isn’t the issue, monsieur. I’m not allowed to accept drinks from the guests while on duty.”
“Then perhaps when you are off duty.”
He didn’t think she was aware that she’d bit her full lower lip. “I don’t think so.”
“You’ll be off duty then,” Jack pressed.
“I don’t know you,” she replied. “But I’m certain by your presence at this table that we don’t have anything in common—”
“How can you say that? I play cards, you deal cards. Much in common, I would think.”
Her lovely throat worked as she swallowed. There was frost in her voice. “That’s not what I was talking about and you know it. Unlike the money on this table, I’m not up for grabs.”
Jack laughed. She had spirit, this woman. He liked that. He held out his hand. “Jack Wolfe.”
He didn’t think she would accept, but she gave his hand a quick squeeze before snatching hers back. His palm tingled where they’d touched.
“Cara Taylor.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cara Taylor. Very nice.”
She didn’t answer him, but a red flush crept up the creamy skin of her neck. Before he could say anything else, the players filtered back to the table, taking their seats and tucking away phones and PDAs.
Once they were settled, Cara dealt a new hand. Jack loved the way her fingers moved, loved the way she seemed so in control and calm when overseeing the game. It contrasted with the tartness of her tongue and that shy vulnerability she’d displayed when he’d been flirting with her. She was an enigma, this woman, and one he intended to explore in great detail later tonight.
He had no doubt she would succumb to his charm. Women always did.
That was part of the beauty of being a Wolfe, even if he despised the name and the man who’d given it to him. Jack knew how to be charming when necessary, and how to be utterly cool at all times. Nothing fazed him.
The play moved quickly, the pot piling up in the center with each hand as the men at the table grew bold. The sleek African drummed his fingers on the table almost silently. It was a nervous habit, and one Jack translated to mean he had good cards but not good enough.
All the better, then.
At that moment, Count von Hofstein’s upper lip ticked up, oh so briefly, in the barest hint of a smile as he glanced down at his hand again. Jack felt a rush of contempt for the man. He was so easy to read, so arrogant and sure.
“Vun-hundret tousand euros,” the count pronounced, his accent thick with excitement.
The other men at the table folded, a collective groan rippling over them. The African hesitated a moment longer than the rest, but he, too, threw his cards down. Jack tossed in his chips. “I’ll see that and raise you another hundred.”
The count’s eyes narrowed, but he flung the chips into the center. “Call.”
A wave of adrenaline flooded his veins. Jack loved this moment, loved when he unfolded the cards and revealed the winning hand. It was a rush like no other, a torrent of feeling that buoyed him and took away the anger and pain of his past, however briefly.
There was no way he could lose. Unlike the count, he wasn’t swayed by arrogance. The count’s hand simply wasn’t good enough, which the man would have known if he’d been paying attention to the play.
Jack glanced at Cara, saw the knowing smile on her face and wondered how she’d figured it out. Perhaps there was a mathematical mind behind all that beauty, after all.
Jack laid the cards on the table. The count deflated. Cara’s eyes sparkled. “A straight flush,” she pronounced. “The gentleman wins.”
It had been over an hour since the game began. Cara kept the cards moving, kept the men at the table. The African decided he’d had enough and left, but the rest of the men didn’t seem eager to go anywhere. Brubaker, Bobby’s ringer, chewed on a cocktail straw, the corners of his mouth tipping into a slimy grin whenever she made eye contact.
The jackpot was climbing to enormous sums. Each hand made the men bolder, the wagers more ridiculous. Jack Wolfe tossed chips into the pot like they were a child’s marbles, the gesture careless and unconcerned. He had a nice pile of chips built up beside him, however. She hadn’t figured out his angle, but he was very good with the cards.
She’d known professional card sharks in Vegas, but could a man throwing around this much money truly be nothing more than a professional gambler? The thought sickened her, and yet she knew it was possible. He might be wagering for a boss, playing for the profit he would make when he won. It seemed like quite a risk for anyone to take in bankrolling this man, yet since he was good enough, she supposed the possibility of rewards outweighed the risk.
For a while, she’d thought he was counting cards. But he wasn’t. He was just that smart at figuring out which cards were left. He folded when his hand wasn’t good enough, though he’d also bluffed his way into the win a few times, as well. He seemed not to care, which translated to a high tolerance for risk, she supposed.
He caught her eye, winked. Liquid heat flowed through her even while she chided herself on reacting to him. She had an inner magnet that attracted her to men who were no good for her. When James had taken off with their rent money, and all the money she’d been saving for Mama, she’d sworn never again to get duped by a pretty face and a charming smile.
Jack Wolfe had both—as well as an extra dose of magnetism she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But he was the kind of man who drifted from casino to casino, playing cards, living off his winnings, sleeping with the sort of women who frequented casinos looking for rich men.
Someone cleared his throat, and she realized the hand had ended.
“Gentlemen, let’s take a fifteen-minute break,” she said, her skin feeling warm with embarrassment at getting caught daydreaming.
She moved away from the table, intending to slip into the back for a while and breathe without Jack Wolfe affecting her senses.
“Want company?”
Cara drew up short as he stepped into view. Mercy, he was a handsome man. Tall, dark, with the kind of brooding good looks that could grace a feature film. In fact, he reminded her of someone. An actor she couldn’t quite think of at the moment. She hadn’t watched a movie in so long that it was no wonder she couldn’t come up with a name. That’s what working twelve hours a day did for you.