Heartless Rebel (2 page)

 
          
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. And the need
to read people, still very necessary, was relegated to determining the behavior
of the pack.

 
          
Jack
looked up at the croupier again and lifted an eyebrow when she glanced away
nervously. The instant he’d walked behind the curtain and seen her standing
there, in her little top and even littler skirt, he’d felt like the evening
would be much more interesting than he’d originally anticipated.

 
          
He’d
watched with interest when Gold had taken her away for a word. Her body
language was defensive and her face closed off, though he’d thought he’d seen a
flicker of unease in the way she’d swept her long hair off her shoulder. When
Bobby leaned in and ran a hand down her arm, Jack had to stifle the urge to
leap across the table and punch the man in the face.

 
          
As
the hand finished and the sexy croupier called the first break in play, the men
got up from the table and filtered to various corners of the luxuriously
appointed room. Some whipped out cell phones while others chatted quietly.

 
          
Jack
didn’t move. He stretched out his long legs beneath the 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?”