Heartless Rebel Read Free Page A

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.”