Heartless Rebel (15 page)

 
          
His
body was stone. Pure, hard marble.

 
          
And
yet he knew he couldn’t rush this, knew he wasn’t quite in the right state of
mind just yet.

 
          
“How
about a drink in the bar?” he said. “We can’t have got all dressed up for
nothing.”

 
          
“That
sounds good.”

 
          
They
made their way back toward the sleek bar on the other side of the lobby. Heads
turned as they passed, and he knew it was because of the gorgeous brunette at
his side. They’d just found a table and sat down when Jack saw Jacob watching
him from across the bar.

 
          
White-hot
fury exploded inside him with a force he was unprepared for. The first time
he’d seen Jacob’s face in how many years? Nearly twenty goddamn years. Jacob
was older—they all were—but his face was still so familiar. It was a shock on
so many levels to see Jacob, and yet anger was by far the dominant emotion
churning through Jack.

 
          
“Jack,
what’s wrong?” Worry laced Cara’s voice, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away
from Jacob to answer her.

 
          
Jacob
looked so cool, so unflappable. So goddamn smug.

 
          
Hatred
boiled inside his gut, his brain, hatred that threatened to rip him apart at
the seams it was so strong. And more. He didn’t want to acknowledge the more,
but he knew what it was. Disappointment, betrayal, rage, fear. Love.

 
          
It
was the love that was worst of all. Knowing the love was dead and gone and
there was nothing left but emptiness where a brotherly bond should have been.

 
          
He
stood abruptly. “I changed my mind. Let’s get a drink in our room,” he said,
holding his hand out to Cara.

 
          
Her
brows drew together as she studied him. Then she sighed and unfolded those
impossibly long legs.

 
          
Jack
looked over to the bar again, but Jacob was gone. Cara was on her feet when the
crowd parted and he caught sight of Jacob. His older brother was coming
straight for him, his strides purposeful.

 
          
Jack’s
first instinct was to meet Jacob with a fist to the face. But he wouldn’t do
it. He was better than that, and he wouldn’t allow Jacob to see how affected he
truly was. “Jack—”

 
          
“Get
the hell away from me, Jacob,” he burst out. “I don’t want to talk to you. The
time for talking was when you decided it would be easier to abandon us than
stick with us and do your duty. I have
nothing
to say to you.”

 
          
Jacob
looked almost serene as he endured Jack’s tirade—which only made Jack angrier.
Then Jacob held up his hands, as if to put a stop to the torrent of words.

 
          
“I
understand this is a shock,” Jacob said, “but I can see that now isn’t the
time. I’ll talk to you when you’ve calmed down.”

 
          
Jack
took a step toward his brother, violence radiating through every cell, every
nerve ending. “When
I’ve
calmed down?
I’m not the one who ran away when I couldn’t take the pressure! You can have
nothing to say to me, Jacob. Nothing I want to hear.”

 
          
Jacob’s
lips compressed, but then he nodded and turned away. Jack watched his brother’s
retreating back. Anger whipped through him, followed by frustration and even
that old, childish sense of abandonment. Jacob had been the closest thing he’d
had to a father figure.

 
          
“Jack?
Are you ready?”

 
          
He
felt Cara’s hand on his arm, the comforting weight of it, the solidity of her
body beside him. People in the bar had turned to look at them, but they turned
away now that the drama was finished. “Jack?”

 
          
She
was looking up at him with a mixture of concern and tenderness. He put his hand
over hers where it rested on his sleeve. Any other time, he’d want to be alone.
This time, strangely, he did not.

 
          
“Yeah,
let’s go.”

 
          
They
were sharing a suite, Cara realized, but she didn’t protest. The suite was
luxurious, with a giant king-size bed and a couch in the living area for her to
sleep on. She could have insisted on her own room now that he no longer needed
her help for anything, but she couldn’t leave him, not like this. She wasn’t
exactly certain what had happened in the bar, but the effect on Jack had been
extraordinary.

 
          
He’d
lost his temper, something she’d not seen him do even when threatened by Bobby
and his men. He’d punched one of Bobby’s guys, yes, but he’d been in control
the whole time. The Jack she knew never lost control. But he had just
now—spectacularly. She’d thought he was going to launch himself at Jacob. She
didn’t know anything about what had happened between them, but clearly it
weighed heavily on Jack’s mind. Had done so for years.

 
          
Jack
stood by the window, hands thrust into his pockets. He hadn’t spoken a word
since they’d left the bar.

 
          
“Do
you want me to order drinks from room service?” she asked. It wasn’t that she
wanted a drink, but she needed to say something, needed to fill the oppressive
silence and see if she could get him talking again.

 
          
Anything
to get him talking.

 
          
He
glanced over at her. “Sure.”

 
          
“What
do you want?” She flipped through the menu, pretending a casualness she didn’t
feel. If she seemed normal, maybe he’d relax. Maybe he’d even open up to her.
It wasn’t likely, she acknowledged, but it was worth a try.

 
          
“Order
a bottle of champagne,” he said. “Or whatever you prefer.”

 
          
“Champagne
is fine.” Cara picked up the phone and dialed room service. She’d never ordered
room service in her life, had certainly never stayed in a hotel of this
magnificence. The walls were papered in pale blue silk. The chandelier in the
center of the suite was an ornate Venetian glass concoction shaped to look like
flowers budding from a vase. The glass was multihued, beautiful beyond
description.

 
          
There
was a watered-silk chesterfield sofa flanked by two modern leather chairs
sitting on the biggest oriental carpet she’d ever seen. Sleek glass-topped
tables rounded out the living area. Huge silk panels hung on the windows, held
back by ornate tassels.

 
          
It
was without doubt the most luxurious hotel room she’d ever been inside. While
she waited for the champagne to arrive, Cara drifted over to the antique desk.
She recognized the style as French because she’d seen furniture like this back
in New Orleans. It was polished walnut, inlaid with flowers and scrolls. Cara
sank into the upholstered chair and opened the drawers one by one, just for
something to do.

 
          
A
deck of cards lay in the center drawer. She took them out and flipped open the
box. The backs had London landmarks on them. Quickly, she shuffled, loving the
feel of the cards in her hands. She was
good
at what she did, dammit. It wasn’t fair that she’d had to leave the way she
had, that she might never work in a casino again. Because Bobby had reach, that
was a certainty. Not only would he never hire her again, he might also have her
blacklisted in every casino she ever tried to work in.

 
          
A
knock sounded on the door and she got up to answer. A man wheeled in a trolley
with a champagne bucket and two glasses. Deftly, he opened the champagne and
poured some in each glass.

 
          
Jack
came over and handed the man some cash, and then he was gone.

 
          
Cara
sipped her champagne and watched Jack. He took his glass over to the window and
downed it.

 
          
“I
found a deck of cards,” she said as she took the bottle over and poured him
another drink. “Why don’t we play a hand or two of poker?”

 
          
His
gaze swung toward her.

 
          
“I
know you’re used to winning,” she said, “but you’ve never played me. I’ll try
not to embarrass you, though.”

 
          
Jack
couldn’t resist a challenge. And she was going to challenge him if that’s what
it took. She didn’t know if she could really beat him, but he didn’t need to
know she wasn’t confident. She
was
good at cards, no doubt about it. And she was damn good at bluffing.

 
          
“What
are the stakes?” he asked, and her heart soared. She’d intrigued him enough to
shake him from his brooding.

 
          
“If
I win, you take me to some awful touristy thing that I’d love, but you hate.”

 
          
“For
instance?”

 
          
“I
don’t know.” She cast about wildly, thinking of the sort of nutty things they’d
had in Las Vegas, before making up something suitable for London. “A Jack the
Ripper ghost walk. Or a Henry VIII turkey-leg banquet.”

 
          
He
almost grinned, she was certain. “And if I win?”

 
          
Cara
shrugged. “We go somewhere you want instead.”

 
          
“Doesn’t
sound like much incentive,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne.

 
          
His
eyes narrowed, his gaze slipping over her body. Her skin warmed, her nipples
tightening beneath the fabric of her dress. Any second and he would know the
effect he was having on her.

 
          
“I
have a better idea,” he said as his eyes met hers again.

 
          
“What’s
that?”

 
          
“We
play for the clothes on our backs. Or we don’t play at all.”

 
          
CARA’S
heart thundered in her ears. Strip poker. Could she do it? Because she knew
what would happen if she lost.

 
          
Her
body felt tight, achy, the tender area between her thighs melting, softening.
Her body craved his so strongly it scared her. If they ended up in bed
together, she didn’t know what would happen after, but she feared he would be
finished with her. This lovely feeling she had when she was with him would die.

 
          
And
she wasn’t ready for that to happen just yet.

 
          
Cara
took a deep breath. But she wouldn’t lose. She had just as good a chance of
winning as he did. Maybe better, because she’d played from the other side of
the table for so long that she had an instinctive feel for how things would
shake out.

 
          
“Fine,”
she said. “We play for clothes.”

 
          
Jack
smiled for the first time in hours. It was a devilish smile, a supremely
confident smile. Warmth curled inside her belly, flooded her limbs.

 
          
“There’s
only one problem,” she continued. “What’s that?”

 
          
“You’re
wearing more clothes than I am. Either you spot me a couple of hands, or you
count that jacket, shirt and tie as one item.”

 
          
He
shrugged out of the jacket and tossed it on a nearby chair. “The shirt and tie
count as one item.”

 
          
She
tipped her chin to his waistline. “And the belt?”

 
          
“Goes
with the pants.”