Heartless Rebel Read Free

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
was no way he could lose. Unlike the count, he wasn’t swayed by arrogance. The
count’s hand simply wasn’t good enough, which the man would 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