Free Heartless Rebel by Lynn Raye Harris

be
no chance that Jacob would track him down before the wedding. “Tonight I’ll
take you to a great café I know for dinner, and then perhaps a cruise on the
Seine.”
                 Her
face lit up as she turned to him. “I’d love that. I’ve always wanted to go to
Paris, ever since I read Hemingway’s A
Moveable Feast in high school.”
                 “I
like seeing you smile,” he said. She dropped her chin, hiding her eyes from
him. He wondered what he would see there, wanted very much to see it, but she
kept her gaze lowered.
                 “I’m
not sure what I’m doing here,” she said after a few moments of silence. “But I
like you. I’m learning to trust you, Jack, and I hope you don’t disappoint me.”
                 Something
squeezed tight inside his chest. Because he always disappointed the women in
his life. He meant well, but he inevitably got bored. Once he’d played anything
long enough—cards, stocks, women—it was time to move on to the next challenge.
He wasn’t stupid enough to think he hadn’t left broken hearts in his wake.
Wasn’t stupid enough to think that Cara was different somehow. She had his
attention now, but how long would it last?
                 “I
like you, too,” he said. And then, because he did like her, because he thought she was charming and naive and too
trusting, he told her the truth. “But don’t trust me, Cara. Don’t ever trust
me.”
     

  CHAPTER FIVE

 
                 Don’t trust me .
                 Cara
stood at the window of the room she’d been given in Jack’s apartment and stared
at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Below, boats moved along the Seine, and
cars zipped down the streets while the sidewalks were crowded with Parisians
going about their daily business. It was a beautiful city, so vibrant and
alive, and she was giddy with the thought she was actually here.
                 But
the way Jack had told her not to trust him kept popping into her mind like an
annoying mosquito. She couldn’t make it go away, couldn’t forget how he’d said
the words—so bleak and raw that it made her soul ache.
                 She
hadn’t known what to say then, had been embarrassed she’d said anything at all.
It wasn’t like her to open up to anyone, and especially not to someone like
Jack Wolfe. She hardly knew him, and yet they’d been through so much together—
and he’d seemed so honorable—that she felt she could maybe learn to trust him.
                 That
he’d told her not to had shocked her into speechlessness, and they’d finished
the drive in relative silence. At least until they reached Paris and she
couldn’t keep her awe to herself. Jack had once more become the solicitous,
attentive host and he’d pointed out the sights as they drove. She’d gasped and
closed her eyes more than once the closer they’d gotten into the center of
town, certain that his lovely car was about to crash into another of the crazy
drivers who frequented the streets.
                 But
it never happened. Cars passed one another with only a hairbreadth between
them, but somehow everyone made it unscathed. Jack had driven up to a grand
building on a side street and touched a button in the car. A garage door
cranked upward and he zipped the car inside.
                 It
wasn’t until they’d entered his apartment that the truth had hit her: Jack
Wolfe was extremely wealthy. The apartment was glorious, with high ceilings and
original architecture—plaster friezes, ornate moldings and polished wooden
floors that gleamed with the richness of age and frequent care.
                 The
furniture was modern—sleek leather couches and chairs—and the views were
spectacular. She could see so much of the famous city from the huge
floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of the room that it took her breath
away.