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?”
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.
The man’s brow glistened.
Jack flipped over the two of hearts and the man sucked in his breath triumphantly, his fingers reaching automatically for the pile.
“Not quite,” Jack said as he turned over the last card. The man’s jaw dropped.
Count von Hofstein groaned. “Mein lieber Gott.”
Cara Taylor looked at the last card and smiled. But the corners of her mouth wavered as she did so. “Four of a kind. The gentleman wins.”
Jack stood. He didn’t feel satisfaction or triumph. He simply felt done.
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I’m going to cash out.”
Cara’s fingers definitely trembled as she gathered the cards. Red Tie glared at her furiously before turning to look over his shoulder. A prickle of awar
eness tingled through Jack. This wasn’t good, and yet it was too late to change the outcome. Dammit, he’d known Bobby Gold was up to something.
As if in confirmation of the fact, Bobby stepped from behind a door at the other end of the room. He stopped to talk with one of the bouncers. A few seconds later, the man made his way toward the table. The other players were getting up to stretch their legs, but Jack didn’t miss the look on Cara’s face when the man stopped beside her and leaned down to whisper something in her ear.
Beefy fingers spanned Cara’s upper arm as she turned and walked toward the back of the room with him. Another croupier stepped from the wings—a blonde with fake breasts and a spray tan—and took out a fresh deck.
“Gentlemen,” she cooed. “Surely you aren’t finished yet. Mr. Gold would like to spot each of you fifty thousand euros as his gift to remain in the game.”
Jack’s intuition kicked him in the gut as Cara disappeared behind the door Bobby had just exited. He knew what fear looked like, knew the kind of terror an abusive man inspired. He’d witnessed it often enough growing up. Cara Taylor was scared about something.
And he couldn’t leave without finding out what it was. He’d been unable to protect his siblings from William Wolfe’s wrath, but he’d be damned if he’d let Cara get hurt tonight.
* * *
Cara’s cheek stung where Bobby had backhanded her. Blood trickled down her lip from where his ring sliced her. She sat on a small chair in a win-dowless room and cursed herself for her inability to do what he’d wanted.
But as she’d stood there, looking at the pile of chips in the center of the table, she’d known she couldn’t cheat. Mama would be ashamed of her. She would be ashamed of herself. The only thing she had was her integrity. To allow someone else to take that away?
Unthinkable.
And yet she now wished she’d done just that. Because Bobby was furious. He’d hit her and screamed at her and locked her up in here. She didn’t know what came next, but she was certain it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Bad Blood Collection Page 67