The Heartless Rebel. Lynn Raye Harris
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never been sure if it was an affectation, or if the man really needed a gold tooth. Nevertheless, it disgusted her.
“Keep the players happy, Cara. Use those beautiful breasts of yours to distract them as much as possible. And keep an eye on the man I point out to you. When the stakes get high enough, he’ll give you the signal.”
Cara’s face burned, but whether from Bobby’s casual suggestion she use her breasts to distract the players or from the idea of cheating—of going against her entire moral compass—she wasn’t quite sure. She suspected it was a bit of both. Cheating wasn’t in her lexicon, especially after the devastation her father had caused. Adultery was a different kind of cheating, but the results were the same. It was simply wrong.
And she wasn’t a cheater, period.
Cara slid a nervous hand down her skirt once more. She wanted to pull her shirt closed a bit more, but she wouldn’t do so while Bobby leered at her. Usually, her uniform consisted of a long skirt and a high white-collared shirt with a bow tie.
Tonight, Bobby had given her a new uniform. Short, tight black satin mini, and deep-V crimson silk blouse. The bow tie was still a part of the uniform, only now it was around her bare throat.
Just get through tonight, Cara, and you can go back home and never see Bobby Gold again.
A pang of wistfulness shot through her at the thought of leaving Nice before she’d even gotten to explore it. She’d put her dreams of adventure on hold after Katrina’s devastation, and now that she’d finally gotten to go somewhere wonderful, she was about to leave again.
“I’ll do what I can, boss,” she said.
Bobby’s face grew hard, his gaze cold and cruel. She’d seen that look before. A shiver washed over her at the thought of all Bobby was capable of.
“Make sure that you do, Cara. I’d hate to have to punish you.”
Before she could answer, he turned away and strode toward the bar. Cara let out a long breath. She turned back to the table as the black velvet curtain to the private entrance parted. A tall blond man strode into the room and went straight for the bar. She could hear his accent as he ordered. German. Count von Hofstein, then.
As the minutes trickled by, several more men entered the luxurious room that Bobby had set aside for this very special game. A fat sheikh, who wore a headdress with his three-piece suit and sported a huge ruby ring on the index finger of his left hand. An African man, tall and handsome with luminous ebony skin, came in and took a seat at the table. One by one, the seats filled.
The men were quiet, contemplating the game perhaps.
When there was only one chair left, the curtain parted again and another man entered. Cara’s pulse kicked up. He was tall, lean and impeccably dressed in a bespoke tuxedo. His hair was dark—black or brown—and his eyes were the most piercing shade of silver she’d ever seen. His jaw was strong, handsome, his lips almost cruel in their sensuality. Everything about him screamed money.
And everything about his demeanor said he didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything.
Cara shivered as a chill prickled down her spine. She’d never had quite this reaction to the sight of a man before. She’d moved with her ex to Las Vegas, but she hadn’t done so because her heart had fluttered when James had entered a room.
This man’s expression, so cold and distant, grew even chillier as he looked at her. She quickly glanced away, cursing herself for staring.
Great. He probably thought she was one of those women working in a casino in order to snag a rich husband. She’d had more than one man assume she was looking for a good time, but she’d quickly set the record straight whenever any of them assumed she was up for sale along with the poker chips.
A touch on her arm startled her, and she jumped, her heart slamming into her ribs. Bobby pulled her away from the table. Cara folded her arms over her breasts, hating the way Bobby looked down her shirt, and hating that he knew it bothered her by the way he grinned at her.
“Don’t get any ideas of being noble, Cara,” he said. “That bonus I promised you will go a long way toward helping your sweet mama, so make sure you remember it.” He leaned in close, ran a fat hand down her arm. “The man with the red tie is Brubaker. When it’s time, pass the play to him. He’ll take care of the rest.”
“Yes, boss,” she said, hoping her revulsion didn’t show.
Cara returned to the table and took out her deck of cards. After announcing the rules of the game, she shuffled. Then she passed the deck to the player on her right, who also shuffled. After a series of shuffles and cutting the deck, Cara dealt the cards.
The man with the silver eyes was directly across from her. He picked up his cards. There was no flash of emotion, no indication whether he was pleased or irritated, before he set them back down. During her time in Vegas, she’d seen her share of card sharks and amateurs. She’d always been able to tell what a player thought of his hand by the telltale little signs she’d observed at countless tables.
But this man was unreadable.
Until he looked up and caught her gaze. His eyes bored into hers, and her pulse skittered wildly. For the first time tonight, she was glad she wasn’t wearing a high collar. Because she’d have been sweating beneath this man’s gaze if she had been.
His mind did not appear to be on the cards lying in front of him. Slowly, his gaze slipped over her, lingering on her breasts, before sliding back up. His regard didn’t repulse her the way Bobby’s had. No, if anything, her skin tingled with awareness and heat.
Cara dropped her eyes to the green baize of the table. She had to concentrate on this game, had to be prepared to perform her task when the time came. She didn’t have the leisure to gape at gorgeous men.
Gorgeous, useless men …
Jack Wolfe thumbed the cards he held and waited for someone to call. He hadn’t spent time at a card table lately, but when he’d heard Bobby Gold was opening a casino right here in Nice, where Jack had been spending a great deal of time for his business lately, he’d been unable to resist.
He and Bobby didn’t know each other well, but they went back a long way—and not a moment of it was pleasant. Bobby never missed an opportunity to spew his rhetoric about lazy, inbred British aristocrats and their inability to manage their money. Jack knew it was a dig at his long-dead father, and though he couldn’t care less what manner of disparaging things anyone said about that sorry excuse for a human being, Jack couldn’t turn down the chance to beat Bobby at his own game.
Jack didn’t frequent casinos—the stock market was far more challenging—but tonight was a special case. He’d once gone head-to-head with Bobby in a game of chance. It hadn’t even been serious, just a random event set up by one of Jack’s friends who’d been telling Bobby that Jack was a whiz with cards. Bobby, as a new casino owner at the time, had been unable to resist. And when he’d repeatedly lost everything, he’d grown angry.
Yes, Bobby Gold was a mean brute of a man. Jack didn’t need the money, but he would certainly enjoy watching Gold’s fat face turn purple when he won the jackpot. He’d thought Gold might try to keep him out of the game, but the man merely nodded at him. It made Jack wonder what Gold had up his sleeve.
Cards weren’t a challenge at all, not any longer. It had been years since Jack had enjoyed a game, but he’d never lost the ability to read those around him. And he never would. Reading people was second nature to him. Growing up, he’d needed to be able to tell what someone—his father—was about to do based on the twitch of a muscle, the tick of an eyelid or the jerk of the lips. Then, it had been a survival skill. That it was also a skill which translated to the card table was something he’d found out much later.
These days he preferred the high stakes of stock trading, the rush when he made a killer deal and the satisfaction of doing it all again just a short while later. The sums were much greater, the thrill much more intense.