The Heartless Rebel

Cara sipped her champagne and watched Jack.

“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. “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.”

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. 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.”

BAD BLOOD

A powerful dynasty, where secrets and scandal never sleep!

THE DYNASTY Eight siblings, blessed with wealth, but denied the one thing they wanted—a father’s love.

A family destroyed by one man’s thirst for power.

THE SECRETS Haunted by their past and driven to succeed, the Wolfes scattered to the far corners of the globe.

But secrets never sleep and scandal is starting to stir …

THE POWER Now the Wolfe brothers are back, stronger than ever, but hiding hearts as hard as granite.

It’s said that even the blackest of souls can be healed by the purest of love…

But can the dynasty rise again?

LYNN RAYE HARRIS read her first Mills & Boon® romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead she married a military man, and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com.

BAD BLOOD

Heartless Rebel

Lynn Raye Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Many thanks to Sarah, Caitlin, Abby, Robyn,

Janette, Jennie, and Kate for making this project

so much fun to work on! The only thing that

could have made it more fun was if we’d had a

writers’ retreat somewhere tropical while

we worked. Maybe next time…

CHAPTER ONE

CARA TAYLOR wiped sweaty hands against the tight satin of her skirt, hoping she didn’t leave an imprint. Tonight was the night. The biggest night of her career as a croupier thus far, and she’d just been dealt a blow she wasn’t sure she could recover from.

Bobby wanted her to throw the game. Cara took a deep breath to steady herself. She could do this. She had to do this. The men who would arrive at her table in just a few minutes were some of the wealthiest, most daring men in the world. In many ways, though they made her job possible, she loathed them. They were accustomed to waging millions of dollars on one turn of the cards, and just as accustomed to losing as they were winning. This was child’s play for them.

Did it matter if she was the instrument of their losses tonight? Not one of them would go home poor. Not one of them understood what it was like to lose everything they had, to fight and struggle for survival on a daily basis.

Cara knew. She’d been fighting to save her family since Hurricane Katrina blew through New Orleans over five years ago and devastated their home. And not only their home; Katrina had also blown away the diaphanous veil obscuring her father’s dark secrets. With her father’s betrayal and her mother’s subsequent breakdown, it had been Cara’s responsibility as the oldest to make sure her family was safe and well. It had taken a long time and a lot of work—not to mention putting her own dreams on hold—but she’d gotten them back on their feet.

Tonight, she finally had a chance to put financial worries behind them for good. She would set Mama up with enough money to make sure the house was paid for and the exorbitant insurance premiums covered. Since the hurricane, insurance companies had raised their rates through the roof. And Mama didn’t want to move farther inland.

Though it often frustrated Cara, she also understood it in a perverse way: New Orleans was home. Mama had been born and raised there, and she couldn’t leave it. Nor, it seemed, could Cara’s sister, Evie. She chewed the inside of her lip. If not for Evie staying home to help Mama and their little brother, Remy, Cara wouldn’t be here. And since she was here, she owed it to them all to do everything she could to secure their future.

After tonight, Remy would continue to have the specialized care he needed, which was the most important consideration of all. The bonus Bobby had promised her when she’d agreed to come to Nice for the opening of his new casino would finally enable her to achieve all the goals she’d had when she’d left home.

But first she had to throw this game.

“You understand what you have to do,” an oily voice said from behind her.

Cara turned smoothly, hoping her distress didn’t show on her face. “Of course.”

Bobby Gold winked as he tapped her on the ass. Cara did her best not to flinch. She’d never liked Bobby, but he was the king of the casinos in Vegas—and abroad, as this new multi-billion-dollar facility located in an old French palace in the center of Nice proved.

When she’d begun working as a croupier, it had been for one of Bobby’s rivals. It hadn’t taken long for Bobby to find her and offer her a job. She’d refused at first—but money, and her desperate need for it, had eventually won out. And, other than the occasional leering pass from the man, she’d had no reason to regret her decision.

Until now.

Bobby’s gold tooth caught the light as he smiled.

She’d never been sure if it was an affectation, or if the man really needed a gold tooth. Nevertheless, it disgusted her.

“Keep the players happy, Cara. Use those beautiful breasts of yours to distract them as much as possible. And keep an eye on the man I point out to you. When the stakes get high enough, he’ll give you the signal.”

Cara’s face burned, but whether from Bobby’s casual suggestion she use her breasts to distract the players or from the idea of cheating—of going against her entire moral compass—she wasn’t quite sure. She suspected it was a bit of both. Cheating wasn’t in her lexicon, especially after the devastation her father had caused. Adultery was a different kind of cheating, but the results were the same. It was simply wrong.

And she wasn’t a cheater, period.

Cara slid a nervous hand down her skirt once more. She wanted to pull her shirt closed a bit more, but she wouldn’t do so while Bobby leered at her. Usually, her uniform consisted of a long skirt and a high white-collared shirt with a bow tie.

Tonight, Bobby had given her a new uniform. Short, tight black satin mini, and deep-V crimson silk blouse. The bow tie was still a part of the uniform, only now it was around her bare throat.

Just get through tonight, Cara, and you can go back home and never see Bobby Gold again.

A pang of wistfulness shot through her at the thought of leaving Nice before she’d even gotten to explore it. She’d put her dreams of adventure on hold after Katrina’s devastation, and now that she’d finally gotten to go somewhere wonderful, she was about to leave again.

“I’ll do what I can, boss,” she said.

Bobby’s face grew hard, his gaze cold and cruel. She’d seen that look before. A shiver washed over her at the thought of all Bobby was capable of.

“Make sure that you do, Cara. I’d hate to have to punish you.”

Before she could answer, he turned away and strode toward the bar. Cara let out a long breath. She turned back to the table as the black velvet curtain to the private entrance parted. A tall blond man strode into the room and went straight for the bar. She could hear his accent as he ordered. German. Count von Hofstein, then.

As the minutes trickled by, several more men entered the luxurious room that Bobby had set aside for this very special game. A fat sheikh, who wore a headdress with his three-piece suit and sported a huge ruby ring on the index finger of his left hand. An African man, tall and handsome with luminous ebony skin, came in and took a seat at the table. One by one, the seats filled.

The men were quiet, contemplating the game perhaps.

When there was only one chair left, the curtain parted again and another man entered. Cara’s pulse kicked up. He was tall, lean and impeccably dressed in a bespoke tuxedo. His hair was dark—black or brown—and his eyes were the most piercing shade of silver she’d ever seen. His jaw was strong, handsome, his lips almost cruel in their sensuality. Everything about him screamed money.

And everything about his demeanor said he didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything.

Cara shivered as a chill prickled down her spine. She’d never had quite this reaction to the sight of a man before. She’d moved with her ex to Las Vegas, but she hadn’t done so because her heart had fluttered when James had entered a room.

This man’s expression, so cold and distant, grew even chillier as he looked at her. She quickly glanced away, cursing herself for staring.

Great. He probably thought she was one of those women working in a casino in order to snag a rich husband. She’d had more than one man assume she was looking for a good time, but she’d quickly set the record straight whenever any of them assumed she was up for sale along with the poker chips.

A touch on her arm startled her, and she jumped, her heart slamming into her ribs. Bobby pulled her away from the table. Cara folded her arms over her breasts, hating the way Bobby looked down her shirt, and hating that he knew it bothered her by the way he grinned at her.

“Don’t get any ideas of being noble, Cara,” he said. “That bonus I promised you will go a long way toward helping your sweet mama, so make sure you remember it.” He leaned in close, ran a fat hand down her arm. “The man with the red tie is Brubaker. When it’s time, pass the play to him. He’ll take care of the rest.”

“Yes, boss,” she said, hoping her revulsion didn’t show.

Cara returned to the table and took out her deck of cards. After announcing the rules of the game, she shuffled. Then she passed the deck to the player on her right, who also shuffled. After a series of shuffles and cutting the deck, Cara dealt the cards.

The man with the silver eyes was directly across from her. He picked up his cards. There was no flash of emotion, no indication whether he was pleased or irritated, before he set them back down. During her time in Vegas, she’d seen her share of card sharks and amateurs. She’d always been able to tell what a player thought of his hand by the telltale little signs she’d observed at countless tables.

But this man was unreadable.

Until he looked up and caught her gaze. His eyes bored into hers, and her pulse skittered wildly. For the first time tonight, she was glad she wasn’t wearing a high collar. Because she’d have been sweating beneath this man’s gaze if she had been.

His mind did not appear to be on the cards lying in front of him. Slowly, his gaze slipped over her, lingering on her breasts, before sliding back up. His regard didn’t repulse her the way Bobby’s had. No, if anything, her skin tingled with awareness and heat.

Cara dropped her eyes to the green baize of the table. She had to concentrate on this game, had to be prepared to perform her task when the time came. She didn’t have the leisure to gape at gorgeous men.

Gorgeous, useless men …

Jack Wolfe thumbed the cards he held and waited for someone to call. He hadn’t spent time at a card table lately, but when he’d heard Bobby Gold was opening a casino right here in Nice, where Jack had been spending a great deal of time for his business lately, he’d been unable to resist.

He and Bobby didn’t know each other well, but they went back a long way—and not a moment of it was pleasant. Bobby never missed an opportunity to spew his rhetoric about lazy, inbred British aristocrats and their inability to manage their money. Jack knew it was a dig at his long-dead father, and though he couldn’t care less what manner of disparaging things anyone said about that sorry excuse for a human being, Jack couldn’t turn down the chance to beat Bobby at his own game.

Jack didn’t frequent casinos—the stock market was far more challenging—but tonight was a special case. He’d once gone head-to-head with Bobby in a game of chance. It hadn’t even been serious, just a random event set up by one of Jack’s friends who’d been telling Bobby that Jack was a whiz with cards. Bobby, as a new casino owner at the time, had been unable to resist. And when he’d repeatedly lost everything, he’d grown angry.

Yes, Bobby Gold was a mean brute of a man. Jack didn’t need the money, but he would certainly enjoy watching Gold’s fat face turn purple when he won the jackpot. He’d thought Gold might try to keep him out of the game, but the man merely nodded at him. It made Jack wonder what Gold had up his sleeve.

Cards weren’t a challenge at all, not any longer. It had been years since Jack had enjoyed a game, but he’d never lost the ability to read those around him. And he never would. Reading people was second nature to him. Growing up, he’d needed to be able to tell what someone—his father—was about to do based on the twitch of a muscle, the tick of an eyelid or the jerk of the lips. Then, it had been a survival skill. That it was also a skill which translated to the card table was something he’d found out much later.

These days he preferred the high stakes of stock trading, the rush when he made a killer deal and the satisfaction of doing it all again just a short while later. The sums were much greater, the thrill much more intense. And the need to read people, still very necessary, was relegated to determining the behavior of the pack.

Jack looked up at the croupier again and lifted an eyebrow when she glanced away nervously. The instant he’d walked behind the curtain and seen her standing there, in her little top and even littler skirt, he’d felt like the evening would be much more interesting than he’d originally anticipated.

He’d watched with interest when Gold had taken her away for a word. Her body language was defensive and her face closed off, though he’d thought he’d seen a flicker of unease in the way she’d swept her long hair off her shoulder. When Bobby leaned in and ran a hand down her arm, Jack had to stifle the urge to leap across the table and punch the man in the face.

As the hand finished and the sexy croupier called the first break in play, the men got up from the table and filtered to various corners of the luxuriously appointed room. Some whipped out cell phones while others chatted quietly.

Jack didn’t move. He stretched out his long legs beneath the table and took a sip of his drink. Mineral water with a twist of lime while he was playing. He didn’t drink alcohol when he needed his senses to be sharp.

The croupier straightened the chips with quick movements. Jack found himself mesmerized by the elegance of her long-fingered hands, the way she seemed to caress the chips before letting them go. He imagined those hands on his body and was instantly glad he’d decided to remain seated.

A waiter stopped at the table, round tray held in one hand, towel over his arm. “Would you like something from the bar, sir?”

“No, thanks,” Jack said. “How about you?” he directed to the croupier.

The girl looked up then, her green eyes wide. She truly was extraordinary, from the long dark hair flowing down her back to the high round breasts beneath her obscenely suggestive shirt to the longest damn legs he’d ever seen. What would those legs feel like wrapped around him later tonight?

“N-no, thanks,” she said, her voice throaty and musical—and surprisingly shy, he thought. She’d had no such problems when she was calling the play or rapping out the rules to disgruntled players. It intrigued him, fired his blood.

“I don’t bite,” he said lightly.

She glanced down again, then back up, her gaze fixing determinedly on him. A tiger, this one. “Whether you do or not isn’t the issue, monsieur. I’m not allowed to accept drinks from the guests while on duty.”

“Then perhaps when you are off duty.”

He didn’t think she was aware that she’d bit her full lower lip. “I don’t think so.”

“You’ll be off duty then,” Jack 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 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?