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
