The Heartless Rebel. Lynn Raye Harris
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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.
“Guests aren’t allowed in the staff areas,” she told him.
“Then don’t go into the staff area,” he replied, the corners of that sardonic mouth turning up in a heart-pounding grin.
What would his mouth feel like on hers? Would those lips be as hard and demanding as she thought? Or would they be gentle, thorough and absolutely addictive?
Her vote went for absolutely addictive no matter what. Not only that, but she could listen to him talk for hours. There was something about a British accent that turned her into a puddle. It sounded so enchanting, as if every British person lived a life of glamour and knew exactly what to do in every social situation. Beside him, she felt small, insignificant. Unpolished.
Cara pushed a strand of hair over her shoulder, willing away the heat, the achiness, this man inspired. “You shouldn’t be talking with me, Mr. Wolfe. I have a job to do, and you’re a guest.”
“But I like talking to you, Cara.”
“Only because you think you can score,” she said, trying to infuse her tone with acid. It didn’t quite work because his smile didn’t waver.
“Ah, so now we come to the truth.” He set his drink aside, shaking his head at the waiter who hovered. The waiter disappeared. “Call me Jack.”
“I’d rather not.” Oh, but she would. Repeatedly. She imagined saying his name while they were entwined. The room would be dark, the atmosphere sizzling. She closed her eyes as a bead of sweat dripped between her breasts. Why was she thinking these things? She never did this, never wanted a man she’d only just met. Never wanted to sink into a hot, dark bed with him.
“I think you would,” he said, his voice a deep, sensual purr. “You feel this thing between us, too. You want to know more.”
Cara swallowed. “You’re mistaken, Jack. I want to finish this game, and I want to go home and get out of this outfit.” Her words trailed off as the look on his face grew more intense.
“And I want to get you out of that delightful outfit.”
Her heart was pounding, thrumming, making her dizzy. “At least you’re honest.”
“But you aren’t.” His smile mocked her.
“I admit I find you attractive,” she defended, heat enveloping her. Whether it was the heat of embarrassment or the sexual heat of being near this man, she wasn’t quite sure. “But I don’t know you, and I’m not in the habit of going home with men I don’t know.”
That was the honest truth, though she was beginning to wonder if she didn’t need to let her hair down a little bit. She’d been so uptight since coming to Nice. And now, with the task she faced before this night was through, tension roiled inside her. Maybe a night with Jack Wolfe could relieve the tightness beneath her skin.
So long as he didn’t figure out that she was the one responsible for him losing.
“Then perhaps we should get to know each other,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she replied, surprising herself in the process. Was she really considering this? Or was she letting the flattery of a man like him flirting with her go to her head? Or maybe she didn’t know what to say, so she said the first thing that popped into her mind.
No matter what, however, she wasn’t leaving with Jack Wolfe. Because as soon as this game was over, she was taking her money and going home to New Orleans. Her conscience pricked her, but what choice did she have?
For Mama, Evie and Remy, she told herself. I’m doing it for them.
He took a step toward her, his big body radiating heat and sexuality. She wanted to melt against him, wanted to let the big strong man rescue her. Except that’s not what Cara Taylor did. She took care of herself, and she didn’t need rescuing. Not ever.
“I look forward to it,” he replied smoothly, his silver eyes darkening as his gaze slipped down her body. It was a blatantly sexual look—and she loved it.
What she didn’t know was why. “It’s time to return to the table,” she said quickly, sidestepping him before he could touch her. Because if he touched her, she was afraid she wouldn’t have the strength to do what she needed.
She caught Bobby’s gaze as she made her way back to the table. His brows were drawn down, his face twisted into a cruel sneer. Her heart thumped for a different reason now. If she didn’t do Bobby Gold’s bidding, there was no telling what he’d do to her. Money would be the least of her worries.
CHAPTER TWO
IF NOT for Cara, Jack would have gotten bored a long time ago. The cards were too easy, too inconsequential. If he lost, he’d make it back on the stock market. But he wouldn’t lose. He never lost. People thought he had the good luck gene in spades, but the truth was he’d learned to rely on his skill with probability and numbers because he had to. Once his father had died, once his brother Jacob had abandoned them—and then Lucas shortly after—the responsibility to take care of his younger brothers and sister had fallen to Jack.
He’d needed to use every resource he had in order to make money, but it wasn’t enough. He could take care of his family’s finances, but he couldn’t heal the open wounds that refused to close. They’d all, every one of them, suffered at the hands of William Wolfe. He’d tried to fix it, but nothing would ever make it right. Annabelle, sweet Annabelle, would carry the scars of what William had done to her for the rest of her life.
Jack shook off the memories of his sister’s scarred face and focused hard on the game. This was no time to get lost in thoughts of the past. Fifteen million euros in casino chips were piled in the middle of the table. The sheikh was sweating profusely and Count von Hofstein’s brows had drawn into a permanent frown.
Even Cara looked pensive. She was biting her lip again, that luscious lip he longed to suck between his own. Her fingers, so certain and sure as she did her job, were trembling. One of the men at the table, an insignificant man with a red tie he’d recently loosened, seemed to glare at her as if he were trying to impart a telepathic message.
She looked up then, directly at Jack, and his gut clenched. She seemed … uncertain. Her expressive eyes were wide and her creamy skin appeared to have lost a shade of color, making her appear pale and fragile.
“Sir?” she said.
It took him a moment to realize she was talking to him. And that it was his turn.
“Call,” he replied, tossing his chips into the pile. Because he was tired of sitting here, because he wanted to get out of the dark, cloying atmosphere of this room and back into the fresh air. Because he wanted to talk Cara Taylor into getting into his car and going for a drive along the coast. He still had a few days before he had to be in London for Nathaniel’s wedding. Spending it in bed with a vibrant woman like Cara seemed a perfect plan.
The man in the red tie, the only player who hadn’t folded this round, laid his cards on the table with a smirk. “A full house, Mr. Wolfe,” he said. “Queens and kings.”
Jack only sighed. “That’s excellent.” And then he flipped his cards over one by one. Ten. Ten. Ten.
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