Heartless Rebel (7 page)

 
          
“Why
are you still here?” Jack asked.

 
          
The
question startled her. “Because you’re too stubborn to go to a doctor.”

 
          
“If
I did, would you leave?”

 
          
She
hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” she said, though the word wanted to stick in
her throat.

 
          
“A
good reason not to go, then.”

 
          
“Jack—”

 
          
“But
where would you go?” he interrupted. “Where is home?”

 
          
He
lay on the bed and she pulled the covers up. “New Orleans,” she told him.

 
          
“A
grand city.”

 
          
“You’ve
been to the casino there, no doubt,” she said a bit crisply.

 
          
“I
have. But why aren’t you working there? It’s far safer than working for a man
like Bobby Gold.”

 
          
Cara
shrugged. She didn’t want him to know the truth. That she felt like she’d never
make anything of herself if she stayed in Louisiana, that she wanted adventure
and romance, and that she wanted to travel to far-flung places. It sounded
childish when she said it. And yet those were the longings of her heart. She
wanted to escape. She’d always wanted to escape.

 
          
Guilt
stabbed into her. She had no right to feel that way.

 
          
“I
thought there was more money to be made in

 
          
Vegas.”
She picked up a pillow and clutched it to her chest. “Why don’t you go to sleep
now? It’ll do you good.”

 
          
He
tipped his head at the pillow. “Planning to suffocate me in my sleep?”

 
          
“It’s
a thought,” she said. “But no. I’m going to sleep on the floor.”

 
          
He
caught her wrist in a broad hand before she could turn away. “There’s no need
for that, Cara. It’ll be uncomfortable.”

 
          
“I’ll
be fine.”

 
          
“This
bed is big enough for two.”

 
          
She
wasn’t sure this
room
was big enough
for two when he was the other person sharing it with her. He encroached on her
space simply by breathing. Made her jumpy and achy all at once.

 
          
“I’d
hate to bump into your ribs in the night,” she said. The words were hardly more
than a whisper.

 
          
“I
appreciate your concern. But I don’t think that’s the reason.”

 
          
“Of
course it is,” she said.

 
          
“Get
in the bed, Cara. You can put the pillow between us if it makes you feel
better. To protect my ribs,” he added.

 
          
Was
that sarcasm she heard in his voice?

 
          
But
she was tempted. Because the floor would be hard, and because she was so tired
and achy already that she just wanted to sleep in a soft bed.

 
          
Tomorrow,
everything would look better, especially if she slept well. Her head would be
clear and she could think of what to do next. Of how to get home when her
passport and all her money was back in Nice.

 
          
“Fine,”
she said. “But if you touch me anywhere inappropriate, I’ll black your other
eye.”

 
          
Jack
only laughed.

 
          
JACK
slept fitfully. The injuries woke him from time to time, but it was the
proximity of the warm woman next to him and the dreams he sunk into whenever he
fell asleep that kept bringing him back to the surface. He wanted to reach for
her, pull her into the curve of his body and just hold her. Because he wanted
to be close to someone.

 
          
The
dreams hadn’t bothered him in years, but tonight they were back in force. His
father was a chameleon, making them all laugh and building a fabulous tree
house for them one moment, only to explode the next. The screaming and rage
rained down on him, on his brothers and sister, like fire from above. The tree
house was destroyed as the sobs of his younger siblings rent the air.

 
          
But
Jack had never cried when his father raged.

 
          
Unlike
the others, he’d always known when William was on the verge of cracking and
he’d mostly avoided his father’s wrath. But he’d ached for his siblings, for
the ones who seemed to draw William’s attention most of all. Tonight, it seemed
as if he was destined to relive those memories every time he closed his eyes.

 
          
And
he figured he knew why. Nathaniel’s wedding … the trip home. In a couple of
days, he would probably come face-to-face with Jacob again. Jacob, who he’d
looked up to and admired. Who he’d wanted to be exactly like when he was
growing up.

 
          
Until
Jacob had betrayed them. Until he’d left and they’d had to learn how to live
without him there to guide them. He’d loved Jacob, but Jacob hadn’t loved
him—them—enough to stay.

 
          
Though
it hurt like hell, he pushed himself up and swung his legs from the bed. If one
of Bobby’s men hadn’t delivered a blow that had knocked him unconscious, he’d
hate to think of the sort of shape he’d be in now. Because they would have kept
punching until they did more damage than just a few bruised ribs.

 
          
“What
are you doing?” Cara cried, scrambling up beside him.

 
          
“Looking
for something to drink.”

 
          
“I’ll
get it. You stay there.”

 
          
He
hated being dependent, hated that she’d had to help him undress when it wasn’t
for pleasure. But he let her get up and go to the minifridge. When she bent
down and opened it up, the interior light shone on her bare legs, on the curves
of her bottom beneath the towel she still wore. His body reacted, in spite of
the aches and pains.

 
          
“There’s
water, juice, soda—”

 
          
“Water’s
fine.”

 
          
She
twisted off the cap and brought the bottle to him. He took it and drank, his
eyes skimming her lush body in the meager light peeking between the closed
curtains.

 
          
“How
do you feel now?” she asked.

 
          
“Like
I’ve been run over by a train.”

 
          
“I
need to leave,” she blurted. “My passport and money are still in Nice, and I
can’t go home without them.”

 
          
Something
inside him twisted at the thought of her leaving. “It’s too dangerous, Cara.
You need to stay away from Gold.”

 
          
Her
golden-green eyes sparked with temper. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, but I can’t
leave Europe without my passport. What am I supposed to do, hide from Bobby
forever? If I take some friends with me, he won’t bother me.”

 
          
Jack
couldn’t help but laugh, though it hurt to do so. “Stay away from Nice, and
stay away from Bobby.”

 
          
She
crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Did she realize, he wondered, that the
towel inched up and revealed a hint of what lay beneath? His body turned to
stone. He didn’t even care that it hurt.

 
          
“I’m
not your property, Jack. You can’t tell me what to do.”

 
          
God
but she exasperated him. Was she that obtuse or did she just delight in
contradicting him? “I’m trying to protect you.”

 
          
If
anything, that statement only made her angrier. “Protect me? My God, if you
hadn’t come barreling in like the Lone Ranger, it’d all be over with and I’d be
on my way home again. I don’t
need
your help, Jack. In fact, I’d be better off without it!”

 
          
Anger
flashed through him. He’d taken a bloody beating for her, and she still
insisted she’d have been fine. “Right. Because when Bobby’s boys needed a
punching bag, they’d have just had to do without because you’re a woman.”

 
          
“God!”
She shoved both hands through her hair, whipping it off her shoulders and then
letting it fall again, a silken waterfall down her back. “They hit you because
you hit
them
. I’ve never seen Bobby
abuse any of the girls. He was angry with me and he slapped me. But that’s the
extent of it. Or would have been if you hadn’t shown up.”

 
          
Jack
reached for the watch he’d left on the bedside table—9:00 a.m. He was done
arguing with her because it was pointless. She was determined to do her own
thing—and maybe she was right.

 
          
Maybe
Bobby’s anger would have faded a bit since he’d gotten the jackpot after all.

 
          
Some
people were determined to keep flying into the fire, even when they knew they
would get singed. Jack knew better, had always known better. And he had little
patience with those who did not.

 
          
“Fine,
then. You go back to Nice. I’m going to London.”

 
          
She
didn’t think he would be able to do it, but Jack managed to dress on his own.
Then he made a call on his mobile. She heard him ask for a Dr. Drake, so at
least he was finally planning to get checked out. The knowledge relieved her,
made her not worry quite so much about what he would do when she was gone.

 
          
Twenty
minutes later, there was a knock on the door. He opened it and took a package
from a young man wearing jeans and a faded rock band T-shirt.

 
          
Cara
ran the towel over her freshly washed hair as she watched him open the package
and take out a couple of bottles. She’d put her clothes back on, though they
were still slightly damp. It was uncomfortable, but that couldn’t be helped.
She had to leave, and she had nothing else to wear.

 
          
Except
she had no cash to go anywhere. How would she get back to Nice when she had no
money, no credit cards and no ATM card? She had to ask Jack for money, and that
galled her. She already owed him for the night in the hotel, and the phone
call, and she hated that she had to ask for yet another loan. She was used to
paying her own way, to taking care of herself, and to be dependent on this man
she hardly knew for money to eat and sleep—and get back to Nice—bothered her
more than she could say. She felt wrong asking, and yet she had no choice.

 
          
She
would
pay him back. Even if he didn’t
believe it.

 
          
Jack
took a couple of pills from the bottles and washed them down with water. Cara
blinked. What kind of man could call a doctor and have painkillers delivered
twenty minutes later? It forced her to reevaluate her assessment of him. He
might be a gambler, but he was obviously a very good one. Perhaps he came from
money and never really had to worry about what would happen if he lost
everything.

 
          
Wouldn’t that be nice?
Cara thought
wistfully. He looked up, met her gaze. His expression didn’t soften from the
hard mask he’d donned when she’d told him she was leaving. Her heart flipped in
response. She had to stifle an urge to go to him, to run her fingers through
his hair, to caress his granite jaw and press her lips to his. He slipped a
wallet from the tuxedo jacket he’d left lying on the bed. Then he took out some
euro notes and tossed them on the bed. “You’ll be needing that,” he said.