Page 26 of Restless Hawke

It certainly didn’t seemfriendly.

Not hostile exactly.

But they definitely weren’t about to embrace and sing “Kumbaya,” either.

I tap my foot, unable to stand completely still as I wait for any sign that one of them survived what went down in Coen’s suite.

“Ms. Knight, did you need something?”

I turn back toward Anton and offer him a bright smile, quickly mustering up an excuse for why I’m lingering like a complete creeper stalking someone—which I kind of am at the moment. “I was looking for you, actually…”

Time to turn on the charm.

Shifting slightly in my heels, I position myself where I can keep an eye on the elevator and Anton without him noticing my split attention. I clasp his hands in mine and squeeze gently.

“I wanted to thank you for hosting such a lovely event and for taking such good care of us.”

His cheeks pinken at the compliment. “Oh, well, you’re quite welcome, ma’am. I’m glad you enjoyed it, even if you didn’t win.”

I chuckle lightly and catch the elevator doors gliding open out of the corner of my eye. Leaning in, I kiss each of his cheeks. “Until next time.”

Coen’s visitor strolls from the elevator, his muscular frame tense beneath his expensive suit.

No bruises.

No split knuckles.

No blood.

No signs of any physical struggle linger on him, but the energy radiating off the man definitely says a battle was waged up in that suite.

Who won?

That question lingers in my head as I fall in behind him, keeping my distance and mingling with the crowd enough that he hopefully won’t notice me.

Something tells me that if he does, he isn’t the type to be too happy about it.

I increase my pace to get closer but leave at least one person between us in case he turns and spots me. Each strike of my heels against the marble floors makes me wince, but with the buzz of activity around us, he doesn’t seem to notice the sharp sound.

Good.

Because he got a good enough look at me upstairs to recognize me, and it’s not like I can hide if he happens to turn around.

One hand moves to his suit coat’s inner pocket, and I brace myself for what might come out of it. The way he carries himself, it could just as easily be a gun as a phone.

He pulls out the latter and dials someone, bringing the phone to his ear. “He’s not coming home.”

The words are clipped.

Angry.

And they simultaneously manage to hold so much pain and worry in them that my chest tightens painfully.

He keeps walking, his perfectly tailored suit falling elegantly off his broad, tense shoulders as he makes his way toward the front of the casino. Intelligent and far-too-observant eyes take in everything around him, scanning the casino and the people who mingle around the tables and machines.

A round of cheers erupts at a table to my right, drowning out whatever he says next to the person on the other end of the phone.

Shit.