Page 88 of Restless Hawke
Dad offers me a grim look. “You know we’ll figure something out. We always do. I’ll talk to everyone today. We’ll come up with a plan now that we know about his hotels. We’ll dig. We’ll find his weakness and a way to take him out.”
That reassurance should make me feel better, but somehow it doesn’t.
Mostly because no plan ever seems to be enough to counteract whatever Satriano is planning.
And something tells me it goes far beyond what he’s already asked of me.
* * *
ALLEGRA
The lockon the hotel room door beeps as I swipe my card across it. I push open the door and step in, letting it close behind me with a heavyclickthat seems to echo through the still, silent, impersonal space.
There’s nothing homey or friendly about it. Not at all like the warmth I felt in that penthouse at the Hawke Hotel.
This place is sterile.
Feels empty, despite being fully furnished with high-quality finishes and pricy accessories.
Still, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief at making it inside this door safely.
Thank God, I didn’t stay at the Hawke Hotel.
Coen would’ve come after me.
I know that without a shadow of a doubt.
At least this way, I have a chance of getting out of here without having to see him again. Without having to look into those infinite blue eyes and find all that passion that filled them last night, along with something far different than the hatred I found there when I arrived only two days ago.
Less than forty-eight hours since I touched down in NOLA.
Things changed.
We went too hard, too fast.
Like a runaway train, we barreled down an unknown track, completely unaware of where it led or what might await us at the end—and it turns out it was heartache.
For both of us.
Because I heard his words last night as I fell asleep.
His demand that I come clean and tell him everything.
As if it’s that easy.
I step farther into the suite, tossing my purse onto one of the chairs before I make my way into the bedroom and straight to the bathroom, kicking the door closed behind me and cranking on the water in the shower as hot as it’ll go.
It still won’t be able to match the scalding heat of that man.
Dammit.
The moment I left the Hawke Hotel on Saturday, I should have headed straight to the airport and flown back to New York. I should have ignored the pull to Coen. Declined the invitation to dinner from his family. Locked away my own desire to see him again and to learn more about him.
He was just supposed to be a mark.
But somehow, Coen Hawke has markedme.
He’s permanently seared himself into my skin, and I don’t know if it will ever be possible to shake him or this feeling.
