Page 13 of Restless Hawke
I wink at him.
Coen scowls and finally checks his cards, knowing I’m still watching.
But all the time I surveilled him in that game in Atlantic City, notoncedid he do anything that I would consider a tell. He never gave any indication of what cards his hand might hold—even if he’s more than willing to show me how he feels aboutme.
Not a twitch of a muscle.
Not a twist of a lip.
Not a shift of weight.
Not a tightening of a hand.
Absolutelynothing.
He’s a true player, one in complete control of his emotions—at least sitting at the table. Sitting at that bar, that’s a different story. And I’ve already seen the crack I made in his smooth façade.
It will only be so long before hebreaks.
A round of bets goes around the table until it reaches me.
I finally look at my cards—a pair of kings. Hearts and clubs.
Not a bad start.
Hopefully, it bodes well for the upcoming game.
I need the cards to love me today.
After tossing in my chips, I wait as the dealer pulls the flop, offering a sweet smile to anyone glancing my way. Appearing as young and naïve as I can.
They all believe I’m some dumb bimbo who only got into this game because of my breasts and my looks. Let them believe it. The only one here who might have an inkling is Coen Hawke.
And only because he caught me.
All the others were oblivious to my time spent watching and analyzing them over the past several weeks leading into this tourney—which means they aren’t as observant as Mr. Hawke.
I have to give him that, at least.
He saw me watching that table in AC.
HeknewI was up to no good.
And he was right.
I hadn’t anticipated him seeking me out at the bar after, but once it happened, there wasn’t any reason not to milk it and use it to further my advantage over him.
It clearly worked if his reaction today is any indication.
We make it through five hands—two to me, one to Coen, and one to Giorgio—before I finally catch a tell from the man sitting to Mr. Hawke’s left.
Butch, a brash Texan who loves to eat big steaks and talk to anyone and everyone who will listen. I didn’t dare get close to him at the tournaments when I watched him, too afraid I would catch his eye and I wouldn’t be able to get away without hours of conversation. But I got close enough to witness that when he rubs his forefinger and thumb together under the table where he doesn’t think anyone can see it, it means he’s already counting his money.
He has an incredible hand.
I survey everyone else around the table, and Coen’s gaze surreptitiously darts down to his left. His jaw tenses—the closest thing I’ve seen to a tell from him. But he isn’t looking at his own cards. He caught what his neighbor is doing just as easily as I did.
Coen tosses in his bet and waits for Butch to scan the table, as if he’s assessing what he wants to do when both Coen and I know he’s going to raise with what he’s holding.
