Heartless Rebel (11 page)

 
          
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 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.”

 
          
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.