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 looked 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.
I hated him. I’m glad he’s dead.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
“Sorry for what? That he’s dead or that I’m glad?”
She withdrew her hand, sighed. “Sorry that you feel that way. Because you must have your reasons, and so I’m sorry for them, whatever they are.”
The traffic zipped by on the street, hardly slowing. He was used to it, used to the idea that the world continued spinning without care while you felt as if it had left you behind somehow. He wanted it to stop, wanted to get back on board. But it never did. It never had.
“You aren’t shocked?” he asked.
Her eyes were so liquid, so warm and sad all at once. She shook her head. “No.”
Something flooded him, some feeling of relief and anger and pain all combined. Why? “You’re an odd woman, Cara Taylor.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in a soft smile. “You just told me I was an amusing woman. Which one is it?”
He couldn’t help but shake his head at the wonder of her. “Both, I think.” And then he reached for her hand, lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss on the back before turning it over and kissing her palm.
He heard the intake of her breath, that slight catch that said she was as aroused as he was by the contact. “Jack.”
“I want you, Cara.”
She bit her lip, her skin flushing a delicate pink. It was such a sweet, innocent reaction—and it fired his blood, made him harder than the marble tabletop.
“I’m not ready for this,” she said. “So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours—”
“You need time.” His body ached for hers, and yet he knew that he shouldn’t push her. It wasn’t fair to push her. Perhaps, if last night had been normal, they’d have fallen into bed together and it would all be over. He’d be on his way to England, and she’d be getting ready to go to the casino. “I understand.”
“Do you really? Because I get the impression you’re very accustomed to getting what you want when you want it.”
He kissed her warm skin again, then let her hand go. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
She pushed a strand of her long, silky brunette hair over her shoulder. The sweater the boutique had sent up looked amazing on her. It brought out the green in her eyes, the cream of her skin. The woman at the boutique had asked what Cara’s coloring was. He hadn’t realized the results would be quite so spectacular when he’d described her eyes and hair.
“I like you, Jack. But I’m not sure sleeping with you is a good idea. This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”
A thought occurred to him then.
Something he’d not thought of before because she seemed so earthy, so sensual, even while she had that edge of innocence.
“Are you still a virgin?”
She bit her lip, looked away. “No, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I’m in the habit of falling into bed with strange men.” When she swung her gaze to him again, she looked fierce, determined. “I don’t need to be a virgin to want to exercise caution.”
“And here I thought I was irresistible,” he drawled, more to make her laugh than anything. He didn’t know why he liked making her laugh, why he laughed when he was with her. He wasn’t the laughing kind, not usually.
“Incorrigible, maybe,” she said.
Yes, he was definitely that. Hopeless. Irredeemable. Most definitely irredeemable. “This isn’t over, Cara.”
“I didn’t think it was. I’d be stupid to think so.”
“Then you must realize the truth.” Because there was no denying it, no possibility of denying it when the electricity snapped between them so strongly that the air was saturated with it.
“What truth is that, Jack?”
“That you want me, every bit as much as I want you. And we will end up in bed together, sooner or later.”
Cara studied Jack as he stood on the deck of the boat they’d boarded to cruise the Seine. He looked comfortable, at ease, and yet she sensed the undercurrent flowing through him. He was a complex man. He was both very approachable and extremely distant. She had the feeling that if she spent years with him, she might never really know him.
And that saddened her most of all. Because she wanted to know him, wanted to understand how he could hate the man who’d fathered him. She didn’t hate her own father, but she was bitterly, terribly angry with him. She knew how those feelings could take root deep inside and never leave you.
She didn’t doubt Jack had reasons, good reasons, for the way he felt. But it worried her to imagine what they might be.
It was growing dark now, but the night lights of Paris were incredible against the blue-black sky. She tried to enjoy the sights, the Notre Dame Cathedral, the famous stone bridges, the people who walked beside the river, engrossed in conversation or, in some cases, kissing.
But it was difficult with Jack standing so close, with the remnants of their conversation so fresh in her mind. She wanted to go into his arms, wanted to stand in his embrace while the city slid by. She pulled her sweater tighter around her. April in Paris was colder than she’d realized.
Jack turned to look at her, as if he were somehow attuned to her distress. Without a word, he put his arm around her and pulled her close.
“Your ribs,” she said.
“This side is fine. It’s the other side that’s bruised. Touch me there, I might scream like a little girl.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m not the one laughing, am I?”
“Jack.”
He grinned and turned to look at the sights again. She thought he must be somewhat bored, since he had a home here and had surely done this before. It was such a touristy thing to do.
It warmed her, the knowledge he would do such a thing for her. It was getting late—perhaps he’d prefer to be home, soaking his battered body in the tub again. But he was here, and she was having a marvelous time.
After they’d finished dinner, he’d taken her shopping. She’d been so embarrassed, so unsure, but he’d told her it was okay, told her to let the shopgirls help her. He’d offered to leave if it made her more comfortable, but she’d told him no. She’d felt as if she would be hopelessly lost if he weren’t there. Her French was passable, but it was quite different from the French spoken here. The accents she’d grown up with, the lovely thick rolling of the tongue, the inclusion of Creole and other immigrant languages in the vocabulary, made communication a little more difficult when precision was required.
And she wanted to be precise when it came to her clothing.
“I don’t want to spend more than two thousand,” she’d told him, her pulse thrumming. It was a huge sum to spend on clothes, and yet she’d thought a smaller number wouldn’t work in the kinds of boutiques they’d been in.
He’d given her that devilish grin. “Let me worry about that.”
She shook her head adamantly. “No. Take it from what you’re paying me already. I insist.”
“Then we’ll do it your way,” he’d said without argument.
The boxes and bags had added up after she’d tried on several outfits. She’d grown suspicious then, insisted she didn’t need so much for a wedding, but he’d overridden her protests.
“We’ll do an accounting later, when I pay you,” he said. And then he’d arranged for everything to be taken back to his place and brought her on board this boat.
She tilted her head up to look at his handsome profile. “This is nice, Jack. Thank you.”
His warm body was comforting. She wanted to press even closer, but she dared not. For two reasons. One, she wasn’t sure he was telling the complete truth about his ribs, and two, it was dangerous to want to be close to him. Dangerous for her peace of mind, for her willpower.
He’d said they would end up in bed together sooner or later. She knew he was probably right, and yet she was determined to fight it as long as possible. Because she knew it wouldn’t be completely casual for her. He was a typical man, of course. He wanted into her panties. Once he’d gotten there, his desire for her would abate. She’d no longer be interesting, amusing or any of the other things he thought she was at the moment.
She’d just be another notch on his bedpost.
And the more time she spent with him, the less she could be satisfied with a casual encounter.
Really, Cara?
It was insane, and yet she knew it was the truth. Jack Wolfe was wrong for her—and yet she wanted him to be right. There was far more to him than she’d thought just yesterday—was it really only yesterday?—when he’d flirted with her at the casino.
But he was way out of her league. He was rich, amazingly so, and she was just a poor girl from New Orleans. She wasn’t the kind of woman he’d truly be interested in. It bothered her, that feeling of not being good enough. Rationally, she knew she was a good person, a person worthy of love and tenderness.
But life had been so hard the past few years. Reality had crashed down when Katrina blew it to pieces over top of her. Until then, Mama and Daddy had sheltered her and Remy and Evie, provided for them, and made life seem so full of possibilities.
She’d been planning to go to college, to work her way through community college first and then apply to Tulane. Until Katrina had stolen her house and family away. Daddy had walked out, and nothing was ever the same again.
How could he have done it? How could he have lied for so long and left them once the truth was out? He’d chosen his other family over them, and she could never forgive him for it. She hadn’t spoken a word to him in almost six years. Didn’t expect she ever would again.
She stole another glance at Jack. Was he trustworthy? Or was he the sort of man who could turn his back on everything and everyone he’d known? She just didn’t know if she could ever trust any man again. Daddy, James, Bobby—they’d all promised her things, and they’d all broken those promises. Jack would break his promises, too, if she were to allow him into her life any more deeply than he already was.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, turning his head to look down into her eyes.
She shrugged. “I was just thinking about how wonderful it is to be here, to see things I’ve only ever read about.”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Is that all?”
“Have you ever been married?” she blurted, surprising herself as much as him. Now where had that come from?
“No.” His voice grew chilly when he said it, as if in warning. Careful where you tread, little girl.
“Why not?” She wanted to know. She wasn’t sure what knowing the answer would tell her about him, but maybe it woul
d tell her something.
“Why the questions, Cara?”
“I’m trying to get to know you. You’re rich, successful, and it seems as if you would have been married with a family by now.”
His nostrils flared as he turned his head to look out over the dark water. “I guess I didn’t want the responsibility.”
Of all the answers he could have given, that was somehow the worst. He didn’t want the responsibility. Because being a rich playboy was easier. He didn’t need to care about anyone but himself. He could change women the way he changed clothes. He could drive fancy cars, stay out all night and get beaten up trying to rescue damsels in distress—even if the damsel preferred to rescue herself. He wasn’t the kind of man who would ever be happy tied down. He was exactly as she’d thought: unreliable for more than the moment, however long the moment lasted.
“What about you, Cara? Have you ever been married?”
The question startled her, probably because she hadn’t expected him to turn it back on her. But she could answer honestly. “No, not yet.”
“Never been close?”
She shook her head. “There’s been no one that important.”
“That surprises me,” he said. “What about the boyfriend you went to Vegas with? He must have been important if you were willing to leave home for him.”
“Maybe I thought so at first,” she said, staring out over the dark water. “But I realized he wasn’t.”
“When he ran off with the showgirl?”
“No, when I realized he was just an excuse.”
“An excuse?”
How could she tell him how desperately she’d wanted to escape Louisiana without it sounding bad? Without it sounding like she’d abandoned her family because she felt hemmed in by responsibility?
Did it even matter? Why did she care what he thought? She hadn’t abandoned them at all. She’d actually made things better by going somewhere that she could make more money. Because she had, her family was doing better than ever. They were no longer desperate to make ends meet.
“He was the excuse I needed to leave,” she said coolly. “I needed the shove out the door, and he provided it.”
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