The Heartless Rebel

by Lynn Raye Harris

  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.

  But she knew she was correct, that she’d surmised the truth.

  He thrived on challenge and adrenaline. He got a rush from danger. He was the worst kind of man in the world for any woman, but especially for her. She wanted someone who was dependable, who was stable and responsible. She wanted what she’d never had.

  But why was she thinking any of these thoughts? She barely knew this man, and she certainly wasn’t planning to fall in love with him.

  “Can I come in?”

  Cara swallowed as she pulled the door wider. Heat blossomed in her belly, between her thighs, crept along her skin in a crimson wave. “Of course.”

  He passed inside, carrying bags from a boutique, and set them on the antique table at the end of the bed. “It’s not much, but it’s enough to go out shopping and to dinner.”

  Embarrassed, she went over and peeked inside one of the bags.

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll have something else sent up. I had to guess at your size.”

  “I’m sure you did fine,” she replied politely.

  “Technically, it wasn’t me. I simply made a phone call and described you to the shopgirls.” His mouth crooked in a smile. A devilish smile. “Aren’t you going to look?”

  “I am looking.”

  “No, you’re peeking past the tissue. Take them out, see what you think. There’s time to send it all back if it’s not right.”

  She withdrew a jewel green sweater set made of the finest tightly knit silk and a pair of cream slacks from one of the bags.

  “The color suits you,” he said as her heart beat harder. “Matches your eyes.”

  “Thank you.” The sweater set was gorgeous, expensive, and she adored the color. It was the kind of thing she’d have bought for herself, if she’d had the money to do so. Most of her clothes came from big-box stores, huge chains that thrived on quantity not quality. It was what she could afford, and she’d never once felt as if she looked cheap—until now.

  “Everything is beautiful,” she told him with a hard knot in her throat.

  “I’m glad you like them.”

  In the next bag, she found a box with a pair of strappy kitten heels. “The size is absolutely perfect.”

  “I saw the bottom of your shoe when you had your leg tucked beneath you in the car.”

  “No wonder we nearly ran into that yellow van,” she teased. Because she didn’t know what else to do. This moment was so intimate, so private and personal, and she felt out of sorts in a way. He wasn’t her lover, yet he’d bought clothes for her.

  It’s a job, Cara, she reminded herself. There was nothing wrong with what she was doing, being here with him like this. It was different than any job she’d had before, true, but it was still a job. And she had no suitable clothes for the wedding. This was simply part of the process. She tried to ignore the fact she was in a bathrobe, and that she had nothing on underneath.

  “Look in the pink bag,” he said, eyes glinting silvery hot.

  Cara’s fingers touched silk. She pulled out a delicate white bra and thong—and shoved them back inside again as Jack laughed. She was so far in over her head that it wasn’t funny.

  Had she really thought she was going to keep this about business between them?

  “So modest. I like that about you,” he said.

  Cara straightened her spine as she stared at him. It was hard to be quelling when you were in a bathrobe. “I’m not in the habit of showing my underwear to men I hardly know. It’s not polite.”

  He laughed again as he took a step toward her. “Can you really say we hardly know each other after last night?”

  Heat enveloped her, wrapped her in its web, made her long for another look at his naked body. She’d tried not to look, but she hadn’t succeeded. And she couldn’t forget what she’d seen. The long, strong legs. The lean hips, the jutting sex. The flat abdomen and muscled torso. He’d had a tan line, she remembered, a boundary line where she could run her tongue and see if it drove him as insane as she imagined it would. Stop.

  “Once again, Cara, there’s an invitation in your eyes.”

  “You think too highly of yourself—”

  He closed the distance between them much quicker than she’d have expected for someone still recovering from a brutal beating. And then he was threading a hand in her hair, tilting her head back, his mouth coming down on hers—lightly, sweetly, because of the cut on her lip. It stung, and yet it was also heaven.

  Sensation crashed through her, tightening her nipples, stretching her skin, leaving a fiery imprint in its wake. The kiss was nothing, and yet it was everything. They were sharing breath, sharing heat and scent and touch.

  He slipped his other arm around her, pulled her close enough that she felt the hard hot heat of him through the woven cotton of her robe. His tongue traced the line of her lips, the touch sensual and overwhelming, and she opened her mouth to let him inside because she suddenly couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  When their tongues met, she couldn’t stifle the moan that emanated from her throat.

  He was so cautious, so gentle, and yet she wanted more, wanted him to unleash the fire. But he remained gentle with her, his tongue stroking against hers so deliciously, not overtly demanding and yet so compelling at the same time.

  It was an intimate caress, this sensual slide of tongues together, and she shivered with the lus-ciousness of it.

  She threaded her fingers into his hair, pulled his mouth tighter to hers. The contact stung, and yet she wanted it, needed it somehow. The kiss deepened, and her insides liquefied.

  Her body ached with need. It had been so long since she’d been with a man. Yet that wasn’t what caused the ache.

  It was him. Jack Wolfe. He was exasperating and exciting and dangerous and tender.

  She couldn’t figure him out, but she knew there was something potent between them, something that would likely consume them both if they gave in to it.

  And she couldn’t afford that kind of annihilation, not now. She had to keep her head, had to keep her heart intact. She had to do the job she’d agreed to do and then she needed to find work. Maybe she’d even find something in London. Even if it were only temporary, at least she would get to have the adventure she’d always wanted.

  Everything was going well at home, and with the money she was about to send, there would be nothing left to worry over. She could finally see the world on her terms.

  Jack’s hand slipped to the curve of her buttock, cupped her, and a shiver of desire shot straight to her core. His mouth grew bolder, more insistent, and she clung to him, enjoying the heady feel of his body against hers.

  She trailed a hand down his arm, over his chest. But when his hands went to the belt at her waist, she stilled. What was she doing? How could she allow this? He was paying her to go to London with him, to attend a wedding, and she was about to let him make love to her?

  Did he think it was his right? Or was he simply acting according to the moment?

  Because she didn’t know, she somehow found the strength to push him away. “No, Jack. I can’t,” she said, aware that she didn’t sound very certain of her
self.

  If he pushed the point, she was afraid she would succumb to his charm. Because he was handsome and glorious and she was strangely susceptible to him.

  He gripped her upper arms, squeezed only a moment and then set her back a step. His chest rose and fell almost as quickly as hers did.

  “I guess we know now, don’t we?”

  She looked up, met his gaze, her heart flipping at the intensity of those glittering silver eyes. “Know what?”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear, ghosted his fingers along her jaw, let them trail down her neck. He stopped at the thrumming pulse point in her throat, smiled. It was a weary smile, a disappointed smile.

  “That we could be very good for each other.”

  Cara tucked her hands into her folded arms, shivered. “Only in bed, Jack. And that’s not enough, I’m afraid.”

  His head tilted as he studied her. She felt self-conscious, silly. Like a girl, not a woman. A skittish virgin. She wasn’t the kind of woman who slept around, but she’d had her share of lovers. He made her feel like she had no experience whatsoever.

  “You’re looking for happy ever after, Cara?”

  Her ears burned with embarrassment. It was so contrary to everything she’d ever experienced, and yet it was the truth. She needed to believe in true love, even if she’d never seen it. That he’d seen to the heart of the matter should surprise her, and yet it didn’t. “Isn’t everyone?”

  “What if it doesn’t exist?”

  She worried about that, too. Because hadn’t she thought that Mama and Daddy were happy?

  Hadn’t she thought they had a wonderful, loving marriage? Until Daddy betrayed them all and left Mama brokenhearted and alone.

  In spite of all that had happened to damage her faith in men and relationships, she stubbornly clung to the hope she needed. There had to be more to life than simply existing.

  There just had to be. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take, I suppose.”

  He looked at her as if he pitied her. “Seems lonely.”

  Cara turned away. It was too much, too close to home. “Thank you for the clothes, Jack,” she said, fingering the green sweater set.

  He let out an exasperated breath, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “I’ll leave you to dress, then. When you’re ready, we’ll go out.”

  And then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and she was alone. Cara sank onto the edge of the bed, trembling with adrenaline and thwarted desire.

  She was in so much trouble here. She had to be careful, had to watch herself. Or she’d end up doing something she would most certainly regret later. Jack Wolfe was a player, a man who loved women and fast cars and dangerous pursuits. He wasn’t the kind of man to be interested in her any longer than it took to win the chase. He would bed her and be done with her.

  And she was afraid she couldn’t bear it if he no longer looked at her the way he did now.

  “Stupid, Cara,” she whispered. Then she got up and began to dress.

  Paris was indeed a feast for the senses. Cara sat at the table on the patio of the small café where Jack had taken her for dinner and gaped at the sophisticated Parisians as they passed by. The table was small, intimate, tucked into a corner of the patio that no one else occupied. The linens were crisp and white, and the food smelled delicious. Cara had worried for a moment that she would feel uncomfortable in this chic city but everyone had been so friendly.

  She felt so different in the clothes Jack had bought her, as if she were sophisticated and cultured, and she’d delighted in their reception at the café. The maître d’, who’d treated her with absolute courtesy, seemed very happy to see Jack, as if he were a regular customer.

  Which, she realized, he must be since he had an apartment nearby. Did he often bring his dates here? The thought was unwelcome. Not because she wanted to be the only woman he’d ever brought to this café, but because it was her experience of Paris—and she didn’t want to imagine anyone else sharing her memory.

  “Is there anything you don’t like to eat?” Jack asked once they had been seated. “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you trust me to order, then?”

  “Yes.”

  He ordered in rapid French and the first course arrived shortly after. Cara couldn’t wait to take a bite of the delicate foie gras. She spread it on a cracker and popped it into her mouth.

  “Oh, God,” she said, closing her eyes as she chewed. “That’s amazing.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  When the waiter returned, she asked him to pass her compliments to the chef.

  “I didn’t realize you spoke French,” Jack said once the waiter was gone again.

  Cara smiled. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Jack. I’m from New Orleans, mon ami. We speak French, though it’s a very different kind of French than they speak here, I have to admit. Which is why I don’t trot it out very often.”

  “You are Cajun, then?”

  “Half. My mama is a Broussard.”

  “And your father?”

  Cara’s grip tightened on her fork. “Just a plain old Taylor. The Taylors were from Mississippi originally.”

  “You are very far from home, then,” he said. Not far enough sometimes, it seemed.

  Cara swallowed guiltily. “You say that as if people don’t ever travel anywhere.”

  “Yes, but you aren’t traveling, precisely. You came to work.”

  Cara ducked her head, studied the pâté as she spread it over another cracker. “I wanted to experience new places. It’s perfectly normal.” She thrust her chin at him. “You’re British, and yet you live here.”

  “This is only one of my homes.”

  Cara felt her jaw drop just a little. She snapped it closed again. “Gambling must be very good to you.”

  He laughed. “It can be.”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose it all on one turn of the cards?” Because she really didn’t understand how he could do it, how he could risk so much and not blink an eye. She worked hard for every dime she had, and no way could she gamble it all on a turn of the cards or a roll of the die. Mama depended on her too much.

  Jack shrugged. “Not especially. It hasn’t happened yet. But, Cara, cards aren’t how I make money.”

  She blinked. “They aren’t?” Because he’d shown every sign of being a professional high roller.

  “No.” He took a drink of his wine. “I own an investment firm.”

  An investment firm. That seemed far more stable than gambler, and yet the knowledge didn’t abate the feeling she had that Jack loved to take risks. Investing was simply another way to play the odds.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” she said. “Once we part ways, I won’t be worried that you’ll be trying to rescue some other croupier from Bobby Gold’s evil clutches.”

  He laughed, and she couldn’t help but laugh with him. She loved the sound of his laugh, the way his voice grew richer and more potent when he did so. It was as if he needed a moment to figure out how to laugh, a moment to let his voice slide into the joy of doing so. It made her wonder if he didn’t laugh very often, and yet that seemed an odd thought because he’d laughed easily enough with her since they’d been together.

  “You’re an amusing woman, Cara Taylor.”

  “I try,” she said, breaking a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. “So what about you, Jack? Where are your roots?”

  His expression morphed, grew more cautious. Shadows drifted across his eyes. Cara shivered inwardly. With the blackened skin under one eye, it made him seem so dark and dangerous and hopeless.

  What had happened to the light? The beautiful light was gone now, replaced by a mask of indifference. It made her sad to see him like this. “I’m British.”

  “I know that.” Her heart pounded in her ears as she tried to make him laugh again with her tone. It didn’t work.

  “My parents are dead,” he said, his fingers toying with the stem of his wineglass. He l
ooked so remote and untouchable, nothing like the man who’d been gently teasing her only moments ago. Nothing like the man who’d kissed her so passionately earlier.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t be. My mother died when I was three. I don’t remember anything about her. And my father …”

  He didn’t say anything else for the longest time. And then he looked up, caught her gaze. Shrugged again. But his eyes.

  His eyes burned so hot and dark that it made her reach for her wine. She took a gulp, let the acidic dryness scour her throat.

  “My father died twenty years ago,” he said. “But it wasn’t soon enough for me.”

  Chapter Six

  Jack couldn’t believe he’d told her he was glad his father was dead. He’d never said it to anyone other than Jacob. Never voiced the words that damned him.

  Cara’s eyes were wide as she watched him. Now was the time when she would protest his cruelty, tell him he couldn’t really mean it. She would be shocked, disgusted. She would want to leave, want to pull out of their arrangement.

  He would let her go.

  Because it was best, because she brought things out in him that shocked him, as well.

  He couldn’t quite control himself around her. Couldn’t control his impulses or needs. And that was dangerous, because he was a man who was always in control. Rigid self-control was one of the hallmarks of his success. He had the ability to stay in the game far longer than another man, because he controlled the fear of failure.

  Men who feared made decisions based on that fear. Jack feared nothing. And because he feared nothing, he always won.

  Cara reached across the table, grazed his hand. His skin sizzled where she touched, the current arcing between them with unbearable heat. He wanted so badly to bury himself in her sweet, lush body. To spend himself in a long, hazy, crazy night of hot lovemaking.

  But he clamped down on the ferocious need, because her need was different. Because she would despise him now, after what he’d said. He hadn’t said the words exactly, but she understood.