Heartless Rebel (9 page)

 
          
“I’m
sorry I’m not better prepared,” she said.

 
          
“How
could you be?”

 
          
She
turned to him again, her face both serious and eager at once. “I don’t dress
like this all the time,” she said. “I do have decent clothing.”

 
          
“I
never doubted it.”

 
          
She
waved a hand over her body. “This isn’t even my usual uniform. Bobby said it
was something special for the game, something to keep the men playing for high
stakes.”

 
          
“It
certainly worked for me,” he told her. “I kept hoping to get a glimpse every
time you bent over.”

 
          
Her
face reddened—and then she laughed. “You lost fifteen million euros because you
wanted to see down my shirt? Wow, and here I thought a guy like you could get a
woman naked whenever he wanted.”

 
          
“Can
I get you naked?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“But
you’ve seen me. I think I deserve a turn.”

 
          
The
blush on her creamy skin was intriguing. She crossed her legs, those impossibly
long sexy legs, and he grew instantly hard. She wanted him, no matter how she
tried to pretend otherwise. He knew enough about women to know that—even if
Cara Taylor was proving surprisingly difficult to read for the most part.

 
          
“This
is business, Jack. Don’t forget it. And whatever clothes you buy for me, please
take them out of the money you’re planning to pay me.”

 
          
“Fine,
if that’s what you want.” Jack shook his head. She was unlike any of the women
he’d ever dated. Most women would leap at the chance to have a designer
wardrobe added to the pot, but not Cara.

 
          
“It
is.”

 
          
“So
why were you working for Gold in the first place?” He was truly curious about
how a sweet girl like her ended up with a shark like Gold.

 
          
She
sighed and turned her head on the seat. In the distance, villages perched in
the center of rolling vineyards. Fields of sunflowers blazoned against the
landscape at regular intervals. It was beautiful and peaceful, and he suddenly
wished he could just keep driving, just the two of them in the car alone,
talking and watching the scenery flow by.

 
          
“You
may have heard of Hurricane Katrina,” she said.

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“My
mama lost her house in the flood. It took months to clear the land and rebuild
everything. In the meanwhile, we lived in a trailer provided by the government.
It was tiny, cramped.”

 
          
She
hesitated for a few moments, and he wondered if she would continue. Then she
cleared her throat.

 
          
“There
were some things that happened, things that Mama wasn’t expecting, but we
finally got the house rebuilt enough to live in. Then I went to Vegas,” she
said, shrugging. “It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I was seeing
someone, and he lost his job. He said we could make a lot more in Vegas,
because tourism was strong, and I definitely needed extra money to help out at
home. Tourism had dried up in New Orleans, you see …” She took a breath, turned
to look at him, almost as if she were daring him to say anything negative about
her choices. “I waitressed for a while, but when one of the casinos announced
they needed dealer trainees, I applied. The money was supposed to be better,
and I wanted to send more home.”

 
          
She
shrugged again, as if it meant nothing—and yet he was certain it meant
everything. “I worked for someone else for a while, but Bobby offered me more
money. So I took it.”

 
          
Jack’s
grip tightened on the wheel instinctively. He understood the drive to help
family only too well. The need, the desperation, the necessity. They were more
alike than she knew.

 
          
“So
what happened to the boyfriend?”

 
          
Her
fingers clenched in her lap. “We parted ways.” She turned to him, fixed him
with the full force of her wounded stare. He didn’t think she could possibly be
aware of all she revealed in that look. “He stole my money and ran off with an
exotic dancer.”

 
          
Jack
wanted to grind his teeth. But he said, “Then he wasn’t very bright, was he?”

 
          
She
gave a little laugh. “You’re too nice. But you don’t really know me. Maybe the
dancer was a better choice. Maybe I’m horrible or something.”

 
          
It
was his turn to laugh. “Not a chance, Cara.”

 
          
“How
do you know?” she challenged.

 
          
He
glanced at her before concentrating on the road again. “Because you didn’t
leave me at Bobby’s mercy. Because you sacrificed your job for me.”

 
          
“I
didn’t do it for you,” she interjected. “At least, not the job part.”

 
          
“No,
you couldn’t cheat because it’s not who you are. But I still feel responsible.
Bobby’s guy probably would have won without me there. He was the best player,
besides me.”

 
          
“It
doesn’t matter,” she said. “What happened happened. There’s no sense crying
over it now.”

 
          
She
was strong, this woman. He admired that about her.

 
          
“How
did you end up in Nice, anyway?”

 
          
She
leaned back on the seat, her head lolling to one side. “Bobby took only his
best employees, and he promised us all a huge bonus. It seemed like a good idea
at the time. I’ve never been to Europe before,” she added in a soft voice.

 
          
“And
is it everything you thought it would be?”

 
          
“I
really don’t know.” She sighed, a soft sound that whispered over his senses and
made him wonder if she would sigh like that in bed. “I’ve been working nonstop
for the opening, so I never had a chance to explore. Bobby rented an apartment
block to house us in and sent a van every day to pick us up. All I saw of Nice
was from a car window.”

 
          
“Didn’t
you ever have a day off?”

 
          
“No.
I’ve only been in France for two weeks, and we worked every day.”

 
          
“Then
maybe you need to do a little sightseeing.” The wedding was in two days, so he
had plenty of time to get there. Besides, if he were in Paris, there would be
no chance that Jacob would track him down before the wedding. “Tonight I’ll
take you to a great café I know for dinner, and then perhaps a cruise on the
Seine.”

 
          
Her
face lit up as she turned to him. “I’d love that. I’ve always wanted to go to
Paris, ever since I read Hemingway’s
A
Moveable Feast
in high school.”

 
          
“I
like seeing you smile,” he said. She dropped her chin, hiding her eyes from
him. He wondered what he would see there, wanted very much to see it, but she
kept her gaze lowered.

 
          
“I’m
not sure what I’m doing here,” she said after a few moments of silence. “But I
like you. I’m learning to trust you, Jack, and I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

 
          
Something
squeezed tight inside his chest. Because he always disappointed the women in
his life. He meant well, but he inevitably got bored. Once he’d played anything
long enough—cards, stocks, women—it was time to move on to the next challenge.
He wasn’t stupid enough to think he hadn’t left broken hearts in his wake.
Wasn’t stupid enough to think that Cara was different somehow. She had his
attention now, but how long would it last?

 
          
“I
like you, too,” he said. And then, because he
did
like her, because he thought she was charming and naive and too
trusting, he told her the truth. “But don’t trust me, Cara. Don’t ever trust
me.”

 
          
Don’t trust me
.

 
          
Cara
stood at the window of the room she’d been given in Jack’s apartment and stared
at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Below, boats moved along the Seine, and
cars zipped down the streets while the sidewalks were crowded with Parisians
going about their daily business. It was a beautiful city, so vibrant and
alive, and she was giddy with the thought she was actually here.

 
          
But
the way Jack had told her not to trust him kept popping into her mind like an
annoying mosquito. She couldn’t make it go away, couldn’t forget how he’d said
the words—so bleak and raw that it made her soul ache.

 
          
She
hadn’t known what to say then, had been embarrassed she’d said anything at all.
It wasn’t like her to open up to anyone, and especially not to someone like
Jack Wolfe. She hardly knew him, and yet they’d been through so much together—
and he’d seemed so honorable—that she felt she could maybe learn to trust him.

 
          
That
he’d told her not to had shocked her into speechlessness, and they’d finished
the drive in relative silence. At least until they reached Paris and she
couldn’t keep her awe to herself. Jack had once more become the solicitous,
attentive host and he’d pointed out the sights as they drove. She’d gasped and
closed her eyes more than once the closer they’d gotten into the center of
town, certain that his lovely car was about to crash into another of the crazy
drivers who frequented the streets.

 
          
But
it never happened. Cars passed one another with only a hairbreadth between
them, but somehow everyone made it unscathed. Jack had driven up to a grand
building on a side street and touched a button in the car. A garage door
cranked upward and he zipped the car inside.

 
          
It
wasn’t until they’d entered his apartment that the truth had hit her: Jack
Wolfe was extremely wealthy. The apartment was glorious, with high ceilings and
original architecture—plaster friezes, ornate moldings and polished wooden
floors that gleamed with the richness of age and frequent care.

 
          
The
furniture was modern—sleek leather couches and chairs—and the views were
spectacular. She could see so much of the famous city from the huge
floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of the room that it took her breath
away.

 
          
Jack
had shown her to this room to freshen up. In the bathroom, she’d found all the
toiletries she could need, a hairbrush, a toothbrush and a fluffy white robe.
In spite of her morning shower, she’d taken another, washing her hair and
blow-drying it so it hung smooth and sleek down her back.

 
          
A
knock at the door startled her. Heart pounding, she moved toward the entry.

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
“I’ve
had some things sent up for you.”

 
          
Cara
pulled the door open. Jack stood there, so tall and handsome that he took her
breath away. His eye was black, but it didn’t detract from his male beauty. He
looked more relaxed now, and more dangerous.

 
          
Jack
Wolfe was not the sort of man she needed to get involved with. She no longer
believed he was simply a gambler—oh, he was definitely a gambler, but that
wasn’t the
only
thing he did—but she
was certain he was bad for her. He was, she realized, a daredevil. She had
little to base it on, other than the way he’d behaved at the card table and
later when he’d come looking for her. He’d faced Bobby with contempt, and he’d
fought hard against the men who’d punched him, never once begging for mercy.