Page 11 of Restless Hawke

Never give away anything your opponent can use.

I force air into my lungs. Force every muscle in my body to unwind and relax. Force that nagging feeling in the back of my mind to stay buried until the final cards are dealt.

Panic later.

Play now.

Anton’s eyes suddenly widen toward the door.

Butch crosses his arms over his chest, looking perturbed and ready to tear into our final player. “Finally…”

Hurried steps sweep into the room, but I don’t even bother looking until whoever it is finally settles at the table and the dealer takes his spot.

Anton spreads out his hands. “Welcome, players. I will now remind everyone of the rules of the tournament that were already sent to you…”

He recites the laundry list I’m more than familiar with, given how many of these I’ve played over the years, then walks around and sets our chips in front of each of us based on our buy-ins to secure our seats at this invite-only table.

I follow his hand until he reaches the final player and sets them on the felt—my eyes finally landing on the person we have been waiting for.

My breath catches as those shimmering silvery-gray eyes meet mine from the other end of the table.

Fuck.

One corner of her bright-red lips twitches an acknowledgement, but that’s all I get as whatever Anton prattles on about gets washed away by the whooshing of blood in my ears.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUCK.

I wasright.

Shewassizing me up—scoping out her mark. But it wasn’t because she’s a hooker and she was attempting to get me to take her to bed so she could rob me. That womanknewshe’d be sitting at this table with me in Monaco and wanted to memorize any tells or weaknesses I might have.

She’s a player—and from the look she’s giving me, a deadly one.

I am so fucked.

* * *

ALLEGRA

The intense,startled look on his face is enough to make me feel like I’ve won even before the first card has been dealt, but I still fight a deeper smirk that might give me away to my opponents.

I settle into my seat and prepare to play at a table full of rich, arrogant men. Not that it’s any different than ninety-five percent of the other tournaments I’ve participated in. For the most part, this is still very much a man’s game—despite a few very talented women who have managed to break into the poker circuit—which gives me a tremendous upper hand.

It allows me to use all my assets, and I am more than willing to do it if it means winning.

They all watch me carefully.

Ogling me.

Assessing me.

Sizing me up.

Most of them—if not all—wonder what the fuck I’m doing here.

Furrowed brows, tense mouths, and narrowed gazes give them away.

It throws them off their game, puts them on edge, to have someone like me sitting at the felt. A young, beautiful woman with exposed skin is the type of distraction they don’t want. But only my friend from Atlantic City seems to be trulyshakenby my arrival.