Page 12 of Restless Hawke
He does his best to try to hide his reaction. The tensing of his shoulders. The stiffening of his spine. The way he swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his lightly tanned neck. The way he shifts in his chair that seems to have suddenly gotten very uncomfortable for him.
There’s nothing better than seeing your opponent off balance before the game starts. Watching grown men who pride themselves on not having tells and being able to control their reactions squirm from one single look or a half-smile is enough to prove why it was so easy for sirens to ensnare them and bring them to their watery graves.
Always have the upper hand…
Something taught to me at a very young age and a mantra I have always tried to remember over the years. It’s served me well. Gotten me through some very hard times and situations that others might have found overwhelming.
I’ve kept my wits about me.
Held my own even when surrounded by powerful men with sinister intentions.
Today is no different. There may not be aphysicalthreat at the table. But the one in his eyes shouldn’t be ignored.
I was right in my assessment of him in Atlantic City. He is used to getting his way. Used to people following his commands and coming out on top.
Heis used to having the upper hand—and I already have it when it comes to him.
Anton moves around the table, introducing each of the players. “Coen Hawke…”
Hearing his name finally has him shaking his head and clearing away the startled trance that seemed to have settled into place the moment he saw me. But his eyes don’t return to their typical warm Caribbean-water coloring. They stay hard and sharp as ice, as if he thinks he can somehow wield it at me from across the felt.
When Anton reaches me, he inclines his head and grins at me. “And finally, Ms. Allegra Knight.”
I offer a sweet smile to all the players, making sure to meet each and every gaze at the table to show them I’m friendly and not appear threatening. Most of them will probably buy it, will think I’m in over my head and that they can stomp all over me.
Good.
Let them underestimate me.
It makes for so much more fun when I wipe the floor with them.
I likely take far too much joy in the prospect, and I’ve certainly celebrated destroying these types of men—both at the tables and elsewhere—but it’s hard not to enjoy it when I understand how men think andwhatthey think of me.
There isnothingas satisfying as seeing an arrogant prick fall from the pedestal he’s placed himself on.
And there will be alotof tumbles today.
Starting with Coen Hawke.
I settle back and wait as the dealer calls for the blinds and the first cards hit the table.
Quick hands reach out to snatch them up, like the longer they sit on the felt might somehow change what’s printed on the other side. I don’t even look at mine, instead taking the opportunity to watch each of the other players check theirs. Starting across from me, I move around the table, but when I make it to Coen, his eyes are locked on me, not his cards, which remain untouched like my own.
His cool, accusatory gaze narrows on me slightly, but I break it and continue to the other players between us on this side.
Talk to me…
I’ve spent weeks researching each and every one of the players around this table—after using my many charms to get the list of who would be participating in the tournament—but it doesn’t mean there won’t be surprises from them.
Tells I didn’t pick up on in my earlier scouting.
Strategies I may have missed.
I need to keep my head cool, stay focused on the game, and avoid looking at Coen Hawke and the way those once-warm eyes have returned to icy shards being thrown at me like daggers.
He’s figured it out now…knowsexactlywhat I was up to that night, and he’s prepared to make me pay for it.
Good luck with that.
