long-dead father, and though he couldn’t care less what manner of disparaging things anyone said about that sorry excuse for a human being, Jack couldn’t turn down the chance to beat Bobby at his own game.
Jack didn’t frequent casinos—the stock market was far more challenging—but tonight was a special case. He’d once gone head-to-head with Bobby in a game of chance. It hadn’t even been serious, just a random event set up by one of Jack’s friends who’d been telling Bobby that Jack was a whiz with cards. Bobby, as a new casino owner at the time, had been unable to resist. And when he’d repeatedly lost everything, he’d grown angry.
Yes, Bobby Gold was a mean brute of a man. Jack didn’t need the money, but he would certainly enjoy watching Gold’s fat face turn purple when he won the jackpot. He’d thought Gold might try to keep him out of the game, but the man merely nodded at him. It made Jack wonder what Gold had up his sleeve.
Cards weren’t a challenge at all, not any longer. It had been years since Jack had enjoyed a game, but he’d never lost the ability to read those around him. And he never would. Reading people was second nature to him. Growing up, he’d needed to be able to tell what someone—his father—was about to do based on the twitch of a muscle, the tick of an eyelid or the jerk of the lips. Then, it had been a survival skill. That it was also a skill which translated to the card table was something he’d found out much later.
These days he preferred the high stakes of stock trading, the rush when he made a killer deal and the satisfaction of doing it all again just a short while later. The sums were much greater, the thrill much more intense. And the need to read people, still very necessary, was relegated to determining the behavior of the pack.
Jack looked up at the croupier again and lifted an eyebrow when she glanced away nervously. The instant he’d walked behind the curtain and seen her standing there, in her little top and even littler skirt, he’d felt like the evening would be much more interesting than he’d originally anticipated.
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
