Page 15 of Restless Hawke
3
ALLEGRA
The sound of my heels clicking on the expensive marble tile as I make my way toward the elevator gets instantly absorbed by the cacophony surrounding me.
Slot machines.
People chatting and celebrating wildly.
People lamenting their losses.
Including me…
It was close. Came down to just Coen and me. Blue eyes locked with gray. Given the cracks I saw in his armor, I thought it would be easy to read him. Easy to read that final hand. But he’s too damn good.
I reach the elevators and press the call button, scanning the casino around me for any signs of someone following me, but the coast is clear. Tapping my foot while I wait, I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.
I LOST.
The three little dots pop up almost immediately.
Before I can read the response, the elevator doors slide open, and I step in, press the button for my floor, and lean back slightly against the wall, letting out a relieved sigh as some of the tension I’ve been holding all day starts to melt away.
Finally.
These games always exhaust me. Having to beon.Having to play that role—the sweet, unassuming girl who has gotten in way over her head. Of course, after enough hands, they realize their mistake. But by then, it’s far too late.
Typically, it means they’ve already lost.
But not tonight.
The blow of losing to Coen makes me want nothing more than to take a long, hot bath in that deep soaker tub waiting in my suite and climb into bed to collapse?—
A hand darts out and stops the doors from closing, and my breath catches as Coen walks in, his jaw set hard, spine stiff. Animosity rolls off him in waves, swirling in his gaze, along with something I can very easily recognize—attraction.
Despite it all…
He scans his key card and slams his palm against the button that will take him to the top floor, where the penthouse suite overlooks the Mediterranean.
His icy eyes never leave mine, and I slide my phone back into my purse, resting my hands on the bar across the back of the elevator cab.
The doors glide closed, and he stalks closer. Slowly. As if he’s a predator and I’m the prey he’s afraid will dart if he moves too fast. But even if I wanted to, there isn’t anywhere to go.
He pauses a few steps away, slipping his keycard into his back pocket. “I was right.”
I raise a brow. “About what?”
For some unknown reason, I actually want to know what he’s thinking, what he believes himself to be right about.
Despite the iciness he’s throwing out at me, the corners of his lips twitch with amusement. “Iwasyour mark.”
Hell.
He’s got me there.
There isn’t any way to deny it. There wasn’t any other reason for me to have been there in Atlantic City, watching that game, watchinghim.
And I refuse to feel sorry for doing it. For preparing properly for the match. Grinning, I offer a slight shrug. “Maybe, but what sort of a player would I be if I didn’t scope out the competition?”
