Heartless Rebel

by Lynn Raye Harris

  Jack’s first instinct was to meet Jacob with a fist to the face. But he wouldn’t do it. He was better than that, and he wouldn’t allow Jacob to see how affected he truly was. “Jack—”

  “Get the hell away from me, Jacob,” he burst out. “I don’t want to talk to you. The time for talking was when you decided it would be easier to abandon us than stick with us and do your duty. I have nothing to say to you.”

  Jacob looked almost serene as he endured Jack’s tirade—which only made Jack angrier. Then Jacob held up his hands, as if to put a stop to the torrent of words.

  “I understand this is a shock,” Jacob said, “but I can see that now isn’t the time. I’ll talk to you when you’ve calmed down.”

  Jack took a step toward his brother, violence radiating through every cell, every nerve ending. “When I’ve calmed down? I’m not the one who ran away when I couldn’t take the pressure! You can have nothing to say to me, Jacob. Nothing I want to hear.”

  Jacob’s lips compressed, but then he nodded and turned away. Jack watched his brother’s retreating back. Anger whipped through him, followed by frustration and even that old, childish sense of abandonment. Jacob had been the closest thing he’d had to a father figure.

  “Jack? Are you ready?”

  He felt Cara’s hand on his arm, the comforting weight of it, the solidity of her body beside him. People in the bar had turned to look at them, but they turned away now that the drama was finished. “Jack?”

  She was looking up at him with a mixture of concern and tenderness. He put his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. Any other time, he’d want to be alone. This time, strangely, he did not.

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  They were sharing a suite, Cara realized, but she didn’t protest. The suite was luxurious, with a giant king-size bed and a couch in the living area for her to sleep on. She could have insisted on her own room now that he no longer needed her help for anything, but she couldn’t leave him, not like this. She wasn’t exactly certain what had happened in the bar, but the effect on Jack had been extraordinary.

  He’d lost his temper, something she’d not seen him do even when threatened by Bobby and his men. He’d punched one of Bobby’s guys, yes, but he’d been in control the whole time. The Jack she knew never lost control. But he had just now—spectacularly. She’d thought he was going to launch himself at Jacob. She didn’t know anything about what had happened between them, but clearly it weighed heavily on Jack’s mind. Had done so for years.

  Jack stood by the window, hands thrust into his pockets. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the bar.

  “Do you want me to order drinks from room service?” she asked. It wasn’t that she wanted a drink, but she needed to say something, needed to fill the oppressive silence and see if she could get him talking again.

  Anything to get him talking.

  He glanced over at her. “Sure.”

  “What do you want?” She flipped through the menu, pretending a casualness she didn’t feel. If she seemed normal, maybe he’d relax. Maybe he’d even open up to her. It wasn’t likely, she acknowledged, but it was worth a try.

  “Order a bottle of champagne,” he said. “Or whatever you prefer.”

  “Champagne is fine.” Cara picked up the phone and dialed room service. She’d never ordered room service in her life, had certainly never stayed in a hotel of this magnificence. The walls were papered in pale blue silk. The chandelier in the center of the suite was an ornate Venetian glass concoction shaped to look like flowers budding from a vase. The glass was multihued, beautiful beyond description.

  There was a watered-silk chesterfield sofa flanked by two modern leather chairs sitting on the biggest oriental carpet she’d ever seen. Sleek glass-topped tables rounded out the living area. Huge silk panels hung on the windows, held back by ornate tassels.

  It was without doubt the most luxurious hotel room she’d ever been inside. While she waited for the champagne to arrive, Cara drifted over to the antique desk. She recognized the style as French because she’d seen furniture like this back in New Orleans. It was polished walnut, inlaid with flowers and scrolls. Cara sank into the upholstered chair and opened the drawers one by one, just for something to do.

  A deck of cards lay in the center drawer. She took them out and flipped open the box. The backs had London landmarks on them. Quickly, she shuffled, loving the feel of the cards in her hands. She was good at what she did, dammit. It wasn’t fair that she’d had to leave the way she had, that she might never work in a casino again. Because Bobby had reach, that was a certainty. Not only would he never hire her again, he might also have her blacklisted in every casino she ever tried to work in.

  A knock sounded on the door and she got up to answer. A man wheeled in a trolley with a champagne bucket and two glasses. Deftly, he opened the champagne and poured some in each glass.

  Jack came over and handed the man some cash, and then he was gone.

  Cara sipped her champagne and watched Jack. He took his glass over to the window and downed it.

  “I found a deck of cards,” she said as she took the bottle over and poured him another drink. “Why don’t we play a hand or two of poker?”

  His gaze swung toward her.

  “I know you’re used to winning,” she said, “but you’ve never played me. I’ll try not to embarrass you, though.”

  Jack couldn’t resist a challenge. And she was going to challenge him if that’s what it took. She didn’t know if she could really beat him, but he didn’t need to know she wasn’t confident. She was good at cards, no doubt about it. And she was damn good at bluffing.

  “What are the stakes?” he asked, and her heart soared. She’d intrigued him enough to shake him from his brooding.

  “If I win, you take me to some awful touristy thing that I’d love, but you hate.”

  “For instance?”

  “I don’t know.” She cast about wildly, thinking of the sort of nutty things they’d had in Las Vegas, before making up something suitable for London. “A Jack the Ripper ghost walk. Or a Henry VIII turkey-leg banquet.”

  He almost grinned, she was certain. “And if I win?”

  Cara shrugged. “We go somewhere you want instead.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much incentive,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne.

  His eyes narrowed, his gaze slipping over her body. Her skin warmed, her nipples tightening beneath the fabric of her dress. Any second and he would know the effect he was having on her.

  “I have a better idea,” he said as his eyes met hers again.

  “What’s that?”

  “We play for the clothes on our backs. Or we don’t play at all.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CARA’S heart thundered in her ears. Strip poker. Could she do it? Because she knew what would happen if she lost.

  Her body felt tight, achy, the tender area between her thighs melting, softening. Her body craved his so strongly it scared her. If they ended up in bed together, she didn’t know what would happen after, but she feared he would be finished with her. This lovely feeling she had when she was with him would die.

  And she wasn’t ready for that to happen just yet.

  Cara took a deep breath. But she wouldn’t lose. She had just as good a chance of winning as he did. Maybe better, because she’d played from the other side of the table for so long that she had an instinctive feel for how things would shake out.

  “Fine,” she said. “We play for clothes.”

  Jack smiled for the first time in hours. It was a devilish smile, a supremely confident smile. Warmth curled inside her belly, flooded her limbs.

  “There’s only one problem,” she continued. “What’s that?”

  “You’re wearing more clothes than I am. Either you spot me a couple of hands, or you count that jacket, shirt and tie as one item.”

  He shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it on a nearby chair. “The shirt and tie count as
one item.”

  She tipped her chin to his waistline. “And the belt?”

  “Goes with the pants.”

  Cara picked up the deck of cards. If it got his mind off of what had just happened, if it gave her back the man she’d come to know, she’d risk it. “All right, then. I guess we’re on. If you pull one of those chairs over here, we can play at the desk.”

  “The bed, Cara. It’s bigger.”

  Her ears felt hot. Not from embarrassment, but from sensual overload. She wanted to play strip poker on a bed with this man. And she wanted to win, because she wanted to see that magnificent body again.

  “Fine.” She picked up her champagne. “Let’s go.”

  “After you.”

  She led the way into the bedroom, set the champagne on the bedside table and kicked off her heels before climbing onto the bed. When she turned around, Jack was watching her, his eyes smoky with desire.

  “We could just skip the cards,” he said, his deep voice vibrating over her nerve endings. “Save a whole lot of time and trouble.”

  “On the bed, Jack. Get ready to lose your shirt.”

  He slipped out of his shoes and socks, then got onto the bed opposite her. The center of the king-size bed was a good playing surface, if a little unorthodox. Cara shuffled the cards and Jack cut. Then she dealt with quick, practiced movements.

  “I love watching your hands stroke those cards,” Jack said.

  “No trying to distract the dealer,” she answered coolly. Then she picked up her hand.

  She glanced at Jack—except that he was looking at her, as well. Both trying to gauge the other’s reaction for a clue to the hand they held.

  “You’re a good bluffer,” Jack said.

  Cara arched an eyebrow. “Who says I’m bluffing?”

  “I can always read people, but you’re good at hiding your emotions at the table. I noticed that in Nice.”

  “Practice,” she said, though her heart was tripping along with adrenaline. No doubt his proximity had an effect, as well.

  Jack tossed two cards down and smiled. Cara looked at her hand again. She had two fives, which was good, but she hoped for better.

  Tossing three away, she dealt the next round. This time she picked up an ace, a two and another five. It wasn’t stellar, but it was a good hand.

  “Call,” Jack said.

  Cara laid down the cards. Jack only smiled. She’d seen that smile before, when Bobby’s man had thought he’d won the pot. Then Jack laid down his hand. She scanned it desperately, relief flooding her when she realized he’d lost.

  “Three of a kind beats two,” she said.

  “As I see it, there can be no losers here.”

  “Your shirt, please.”

  Jack’s smile sent a shot of pure lust straight to her center as he began to loosen his tie. A second later he tugged it free and tossed it at her. Slowly, he unbuttoned the crisp white shirt he was wearing.

  “You have a T-shirt on under that!” she exclaimed as the shirt fell open to reveal another layer beneath.

  “You should have thought of it before. Too late now.” He peeled the shirt off and dropped it on the floor.

  Dammit, why did men wear so many more garments when they were dressed up than women did? It hardly seemed fair. She hadn’t even worn stockings, which she was now regretting. But in the South, the weather was too oppressive to wear stockings; she’d gotten used to going without them whenever she wore a dress. Besides, her legs were good enough that she didn’t need them.

  Fortunately, Jack lost the next round, as well, his straight falling victim to her flush. He didn’t seem quite as perturbed as she would have expected for losing two hands in a row and she began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose, toying with her to make her overconfident. She wouldn’t put it past him, but she refused to be distracted by the ploy.

  When he pulled the T-shirt over his head, Cara stifled a gasp. The skin on his left side was black and blue where Bobby’s thugs had hit him.

  “It looks worse than it is,” he reassured her. “I have strong core muscles, which protected my ribs pretty well. Apparently, there is a benefit to working out.”

  Cara swallowed. The bruising did look brutal, and yet the smooth ridges of muscle were every bit as impressive as she recalled. He wasn’t beefed up like a hard-core gym rat; rather, he was leanly muscled, sexy as hell. She wanted to run her tongue along those ridges.

  Cara stifled her impulses and concentrated on the cards. She had to be careful, or Jack would take her down so quick she wouldn’t know what had hit her until too late.

  But the next hand played out rapidly. The first clue she had that she’d lost was Jack’s smug smile. Her gaze dropped to the cards. Two pair beat one pair. Damn.

  “The dress, Cara,” Jack said.

  She thought about insisting on removing her panties instead—because at least she would have the coverage of the dress to protect her. But what if she lost another round? She couldn’t get her bra off without removing the dress, so that would mean the dress would be next and she’d be sitting here in nothing but a bra.

  Heat spread through her, permeating her bones, her blood, every cell of her body. But was it the heat of embarrassment or sexual heat?

  She didn’t know, but she shoved herself onto her knees and grasped the hem of her dress. Nothing left but to brazen it out. Because she wouldn’t renege on a bet. Slowly, she peeled the dress upward, revealing her thighs, her belly, her breasts, before pulling it over her head and dropping it onto the bed.

  Jack’s eyes had darkened to pewter as he watched her. She knew what he was seeing. The white silk of her panties was thin, and the lacy demicups of her bra barely held her breasts in whenever she leaned forward. Her nipples had tightened some time ago. She had no doubt Jack could see the hard little bumps through the silk. “Satisfied?” she asked.

  “Hardly.”

  “I believe it’s my turn to deal again,” she said.

  She gathered the cards, leaning forward just enough to make him think her breasts were about to pop free. It was a cheap shot to distract him, but she didn’t care. Jack wasn’t going to give her any quarter; she needed to be as ruthless as he was.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything as sexy as a woman dealing cards in her underwear before,” he said, his voice deep and husky with desire.

  She looked up, her heart skipping a beat at the intensity of his stare. “I’m surprised,” she replied. “I would have imagined you’d played this game quite often.”

  “I have,” he said. “It doesn’t usually last this long.”

  Cara blinked. “We’ve only played three hands.”

  He lifted one eyebrow, his expression smug, superior. Her insides quivered. “The women I’ve played in the past usually prefer to lose rather quickly. The good part is what comes after.”

  Cara tried not to imagine his naked body stretched out beside another woman. On top of another woman. Playboy. Player. Man-whore.

  She had to think of him that way, or she would find herself in way over her head before this was over with.

  “That’s nice,” she said crisply. “Now pay attention to the game and stop trying to distract me with sex.” She shuffled the cards and handed him the deck to cut. “I’m not going to be so easy to beat.”

  Jack actually tsked as he cut the cards. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Cara?”

  “Figured out what?” She took them back and swiftly dealt the next hand. “That I never lose.”

  “Neither do I.”

  The next several hands passed with nothing happening, each one ending in a stalemate as one or the other of them folded. Jack got up from the bed. She watched his retreating back as he walked out into the living area, the way the muscles rippled and bunched as he moved.

  When he returned with the champagne bottle, she forced herself not to stare. “Sure is hot,” he said. “More champagne?” Cara nodded. She was dying of thirst, but whether it was for liquid or
because of him she wasn’t quite sure. He handed her the glass and she took a small sip and set it on the nightstand. She planned to drink it very slowly so as not to let it interfere with her head.

  Because Jack already interfered with her head just by being so close.

  It was important to keep playing, and just as important to keep the rest of her clothes on. Jack had lightened up considerably since they’d started. She didn’t fool herself he’d forgotten anything about what had happened in the bar with his brother. He’d merely shoved it to the back of his mind while he worked to beat the clothes off her body.

  But he seemed happier, seemed like the Jack she’d come to know, and she liked that he wasn’t brooding any longer. Whatever had happened with Jacob, it clearly still bothered him a very great deal. She wanted to know, and yet she knew she couldn’t ask him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. What right was it of hers?

  It wasn’t. Why did that thought sadden her?

  Jack sat down and picked up the cards. It was his turn to deal the next hand, which he did with efficient movements. Cara’s pulse kicked higher at the three aces she held. Jack tossed down three cards.

  Sweat beaded her upper lip as she picked up the two cards he dealt her. Relief surged through her: two sevens.

  “What do you say, Cara?” Jack asked. “Your bra against my trousers—or do you want to fold and preserve your dignity?”

  Cara thrust her chin out. “Show me your hand, Jack.”

  “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.” When his cards hit the bed, she let out a shaky breath.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said, laying her cards down oh so slowly, “I’m looking forward to seeing your legs again. Get to stripping, darling.” She couldn’t stop the smug grin that popped into place.

  Jack lifted an eyebrow, gave her a quelling look. “So the kitten has claws, I see. Nicely done.”

  Then he stood and slipped open his belt. The sweat on her upper lip didn’t abate. Though she was sitting on a bed in her underwear, her body was burning up. Especially when he unzipped his pants and shoved them down his hips.