Heartless Rebel (16 page)

 
          
Cara
picked up the deck of cards. If it got his mind off of what had just happened,
if it gave her back the man she’d come to know, she’d risk it. “All right,
then. I guess we’re on. If you pull one of those chairs over here, we can play
at the desk.”

 
          
“The
bed, Cara. It’s bigger.”

 
          
Her
ears felt hot. Not from embarrassment, but from sensual overload. She
wanted
to play strip poker on a bed with
this man. And she wanted to win, because she wanted to see that magnificent
body again.

 
          
“Fine.”
She picked up her champagne. “Let’s go.”

 
          
“After
you.”

 
          
She
led the way into the bedroom, set the champagne on the bedside table and kicked
off her heels before climbing onto the bed. When she turned around, Jack was
watching her, his eyes smoky with desire.

 
          
“We
could just skip the cards,” he said, his deep voice vibrating over her nerve
endings. “Save a whole lot of time and trouble.”

 
          
“On
the bed, Jack. Get ready to lose your shirt.”

 
          
He
slipped out of his shoes and socks, then got onto the bed opposite her. The
center of the king-size bed was a good playing surface, if a little unorthodox.
Cara shuffled the cards and Jack cut. Then she dealt with quick, practiced
movements.

 
          
“I
love watching your hands stroke those cards,” Jack said.

 
          
“No
trying to distract the dealer,” she answered coolly. Then she picked up her
hand.

 
          
She
glanced at Jack—except that he was looking at her, as well. Both trying to
gauge the other’s reaction for a clue to the hand they held.

 
          
“You’re
a good bluffer,” Jack said.

 
          
Cara
arched an eyebrow. “Who says I’m bluffing?”

 
          
“I
can always read people, but you’re good at hiding your emotions at the table. I
noticed that in Nice.”

 
          
“Practice,”
she said, though her heart was tripping along with adrenaline. No doubt his
proximity had an effect, as well.

 
          
Jack
tossed two cards down and smiled. Cara looked at her hand again. She had two
fives, which was good, but she hoped for better.

 
          
Tossing
three away, she dealt the next round. This time she picked up an ace, a two and
another five. It wasn’t stellar, but it was a good hand.

 
          
“Call,”
Jack said.

 
          
Cara
laid down the cards. Jack only smiled. She’d seen that smile before, when
Bobby’s man had thought he’d won the pot. Then Jack laid down his hand. She
scanned it desperately, relief flooding her when she realized he’d lost.

 
          
“Three
of a kind beats two,” she said.

 
          
“As
I see it, there can be no losers here.”

 
          
“Your
shirt, please.”

 
          
Jack’s
smile sent a shot of pure lust straight to her center as he began to loosen his
tie. A second later he tugged it free and tossed it at her. Slowly, he
unbuttoned the crisp white shirt he was wearing.

 
          
“You
have a T-shirt on under that!” she exclaimed as the shirt fell open to reveal
another layer beneath.

 
          
“You
should have thought of it before. Too late now.” He peeled the shirt off and
dropped it on the floor.

 
          
Dammit,
why did men wear so many more garments when they were dressed up than women did?
It hardly seemed fair. She hadn’t even worn stockings, which she was now
regretting. But in the South, the weather was too oppressive to wear stockings;
she’d gotten used to going without them whenever she wore a dress. Besides, her
legs were good enough that she didn’t need them.

 
          
Fortunately,
Jack lost the next round, as well, his straight falling victim to her flush. He
didn’t seem quite as perturbed as she would have expected for losing two hands
in a row and she began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose, toying with her
to make her overconfident. She wouldn’t put it past him, but she refused to be
distracted by the ploy.

 
          
When
he pulled the T-shirt over his head, Cara stifled a gasp. The skin on his left
side was black and blue where Bobby’s thugs had hit him.

 
          
“It
looks worse than it is,” he reassured her. “I have strong core muscles, which
protected my ribs pretty well. Apparently, there is a benefit to working out.”

 
          
Cara
swallowed. The bruising did look brutal, and yet the smooth ridges of muscle
were every bit as impressive as she recalled. He wasn’t beefed up like a
hard-core gym rat; rather, he was leanly muscled, sexy as hell. She wanted to
run her tongue along those ridges.

 
          
Cara
stifled her impulses and concentrated on the cards. She had to be careful, or
Jack would take her down so quick she wouldn’t know what had hit her until too
late.

 
          
But
the next hand played out rapidly. The first clue she had that she’d lost was
Jack’s smug smile. Her gaze dropped to the cards. Two pair beat one pair. Damn.

 
          
“The
dress, Cara,” Jack said.

 
          
She
thought about insisting on removing her panties instead—because at least she
would have the coverage of the dress to protect her. But what if she lost
another round? She couldn’t get her bra off without removing the dress, so that
would mean the dress would be next and she’d be sitting here in nothing but a
bra.

 
          
Heat
spread through her, permeating her bones, her blood, every cell of her body.
But was it the heat of embarrassment or sexual heat?

 
          
She
didn’t know, but she shoved herself onto her knees and grasped the hem of her
dress. Nothing left but to brazen it out. Because she wouldn’t renege on a bet.
Slowly, she peeled the dress upward, revealing her thighs, her belly, her
breasts, before pulling it over her head and dropping it onto the bed.

 
          
Jack’s
eyes had darkened to pewter as he watched her. She knew what he was seeing. The
white silk of her panties was thin, and the lacy demicups of her bra barely
held her breasts in whenever she leaned forward. Her nipples had tightened some
time ago. She had no doubt Jack could see the hard little bumps through the
silk. “Satisfied?” she asked.

 
          
“Hardly.”

 
          
“I
believe it’s my turn to deal again,” she said.

 
          
She
gathered the cards, leaning forward just enough to make him think her breasts
were about to pop free. It was a cheap shot to distract him, but she didn’t
care. Jack wasn’t going to give her any quarter; she needed to be as ruthless
as he was.

 
          
“I
don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything as sexy as a woman dealing cards in her
underwear before,” he said, his voice deep and husky with desire.

 
          
She
looked up, her heart skipping a beat at the intensity of his stare. “I’m
surprised,” she replied. “I would have imagined you’d played this game quite
often.”

 
          
“I
have,” he said. “It doesn’t usually last this long.”

 
          
Cara
blinked. “We’ve only played three hands.”

 
          
He
lifted one eyebrow, his expression smug, superior. Her insides quivered. “The
women I’ve played in the past usually prefer to lose rather quickly. The good
part is what comes after.”

 
          
Cara
tried not to imagine his naked body stretched out beside another woman. On top
of another woman.
Playboy. Player.
Man-whore
.

 
          
She
had to think of him that way, or she would find herself in way over her head
before this was over with.

 
          
“That’s
nice,” she said crisply. “Now pay attention to the game and stop trying to
distract me with sex.” She shuffled the cards and handed him the deck to cut.
“I’m not going to be so easy to beat.”

 
          
Jack
actually tsked as he cut the cards. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Cara?”

 
          
“Figured
out what?” She took them back and swiftly dealt the next hand. “That I never
lose.”

 
          
“Neither
do I.”

 
          
The
next several hands passed with nothing happening, each one ending in a
stalemate as one or the other of them folded. Jack got up from the bed. She
watched his retreating back as he walked out into the living area, the way the
muscles rippled and bunched as he moved.

 
          
When
he returned with the champagne bottle, she forced herself not to stare. “Sure
is hot,” he said. “More champagne?” Cara nodded. She was dying of thirst, but
whether it was for liquid or because of him she wasn’t quite sure. He handed
her the glass and she took a small sip and set it on the nightstand. She
planned to drink it very slowly so as not to let it interfere with her head.

 
          
Because
Jack already interfered with her head just by being so close.

 
          
It
was important to keep playing, and just as important to keep the rest of her
clothes on. Jack had lightened up considerably since they’d started. She didn’t
fool herself he’d forgotten anything about what had happened in the bar with
his brother. He’d merely shoved it to the back of his mind while he worked to
beat the clothes off her body.

 
          
But
he seemed happier, seemed like the Jack she’d come to know, and she liked that
he wasn’t brooding any longer. Whatever had happened with Jacob, it clearly
still bothered him a very great deal. She wanted to know, and yet she knew she
couldn’t ask him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. What right was it of hers?

 
          
It
wasn’t. Why did that thought sadden her?

 
          
Jack
sat down and picked up the cards. It was his turn to deal the next hand, which
he did with efficient movements. Cara’s pulse kicked higher at the three aces
she held. Jack tossed down three cards.

 
          
Sweat
beaded her upper lip as she picked up the two cards he dealt her. Relief surged
through her: two sevens.

 
          
“What
do you say, Cara?” Jack asked. “Your bra against my trousers—or do you want to
fold and preserve your dignity?”

 
          
Cara
thrust her chin out. “Show me your hand, Jack.”

 
          
“If
that’s what you want, sweetheart.” When his cards hit the bed, she let out a
shaky breath.

 
          
“Oh,
Jack,” she said, laying her cards down oh so slowly, “I’m looking forward to
seeing your legs again. Get to stripping, darling.” She couldn’t stop the smug
grin that popped into place.

 
          
Jack
lifted an eyebrow, gave her a quelling look. “So the kitten has claws, I see.
Nicely done.”

 
          
Then
he stood and slipped open his belt. The sweat on her upper lip didn’t abate.
Though she was sitting on a bed in her underwear, her body was burning up.
Especially when he unzipped his pants and shoved them down his hips.

 
          
He
was wearing a pair of white briefs, and her gaze slid to the bulge in them. The
very large bulge.