Page 8 of Restless Hawke
Despite the repeated insult of thinking I was a working girl, I grin at him. “Were you?” I raise my brows. “Because, as we’ve already established, youchosethe seat next to mine, knowing full well what you thought I was. I think you like the danger. The fact that it’s forbidden and could cost you everything.” I lean even closer, ensuring my lips graze his ear. “You thrive on it.”
His back stiffens slightly, but the interest still controls his gaze when I pull back, keeping it locked on me. “You’re really not going to give me your name?”
Shaking my head, I tug out of his hold, those callouses skating roughly over my skin as I prepare to make my exit. “What’s the point?”
I don’t wait for him to try to argue.
It wouldn’t matter if I did.
Nothing he could say would get me to stay or to reveal the information he so eagerly seeks.
My heels click on the marble with each step I put between us.
I don’t look back, even though I can feel his gaze locked on me as I descend the two steps from the central bar and make my way out onto the casino floor.
And I don’t bother fighting the full-blown grin that pulls up my lips as I disappear into the crowd and walk away from him for the second time…
Confident he’s following and memorizing my every move.
Just like he did when I dropped the bait at the poker table earlier.
2
ONE WEEK LATER
COEN
The elevator doors slide closed, sealing me into the obscenely opulent space. Pleasant instrumental music floats over the speakers. So different from what they play in the casinos in the States. Just like everything in Monaco, the music screams luxury and is meant to help enhance the entire experience.
But even the soothing notes can’t undo the dark mood that has settled over me and locked itself in tight since the moment I woke this morning in the plush bed, in the lavish suite with the glittering view of the Mediterranean.
It only gets worse.
Every second.
Every minute.
Every hour.
Every single fucking morning I climb out of whatever hotel bed I’ve slept in.
Every damn day.
The longer I’m away from New Orleans and the Hawkes, working to make amends and protect them from Satriano…the knife in my heart only drives in deeper.
Twists harder.
Hurts more.
Like the serrated edge is catching on something vital and tugging with each inch it goes in until I’m fully impaled.
I press my hand over the spot as the elevator continues to drop, along with my stomach. And that feeling in my gut doesn’t have anything to do with the tournament I’m about to play or how important it is that I win.
The realization that I’ve been lucky to make it another week without them finding me has been weighing heavily on me since I left Atlantic City. Even putting a vast ocean between us hasn’t cured the need to look over my shoulder constantly.
I won’t be able to hide forever…
The only reason I was even able to sneak away and get out of New Orleans during the wedding reception was because everyone was so preoccupied with the hotel opening and celebrating Cass and Kennedy’s big day.
