Page 35 of Restless Hawke

FOUR DAYS LATER

There’sno mistaking the heat of the gaze raking over me.

It sizzles across my skin.

Burns through my core.

Makes me wish I could press my thighs together without anyone noticing me shift in my seat.

He hasn’t even fully entered the poker room yet, barely made it to the doorjamb, but Iknowit’s him.

No one else has ever raised this kind of response in me simply bylookingat me. I haven’t even met his gaze. I intentionally keep mine focused on the man to my right, whom I’ve been chatting with casually since I took my seat at the table several minutes ago.

Giorgio was a pleasant-enough opponent in Monaco, and today, he is almost overly friendly, like he realizes he missed some major opportunity then and doesn’t want to let it get away now that he has me within his reach.

Perhaps seeing that I am real competition last week has altered his opinion of me.

When I first sat at that table, I didn’t have the respect of anyone, but by the time I left—after almost crushing Coen in the final showdown—I had hoped to have gained it.

His flirtation suggests he has less professional reasons for his interest, but the gleam in his eye certainly wasn’t there in Monaco. Knowing I can hang with the boys has gotten me a new admirer, one who appreciates a woman who can play a strong game.

But I have zero interest in Giorgio Nikolaou—now or ever.

Only a single man has occupied my thoughts the past week, and it certainly wasn’t him.

The one currently being forced to take the sole available seat, immediately to my left, is another story entirely.

Coen…

The heat of his glare sears every fiber of my being as he approaches with sure, unhurried steps—as if he doesn’t have a care in the world and doesn’t give a shit that I’m here and am directly next to him.

This seating arrangement isn’t by chance, and he knows it.

Anyone who has done any research into Coen as a player knows where he likes to sit, which made it very easy for me to make the request to be seated here. Where I have access to him. Where I can use everything in my arsenal to my advantage.

It gives me the high ground in this battle of wills.

He slides into his chair, his immaculate black suit pulling slightly at his shoulders as he leans over slightly toward me, but he doesn’t meet my gaze or even look me in the eye. Instead, he grins at the man to my right. “Giorgio, always a pleasure.”

Giorgio inclines his head in response, and Coen settles back in his seat, unbuttoning his coat so it hangs loosely over the crisp dark shirt he wears under it. Cuff links with a family crest featuring anHwith wings glint at his wrists as he casually turns to his left and starts up a conversation with the player to his left—something he typically never does.

So, that’s the game we’re playing today in addition to poker…

He’s angry with me.

Mad that I left him standing on that curb in Monaco.

Annoyed I’m here and didn’t tell him I would be when he was so frantic to know when he might see me again.

The man is smart enough to see this for what it is—another tactic to get under his skin.

I knew I’d be at this table in Macau when he asked me that question. I knew he would be sitting at the felt with me. I also understood what letting him know that would have meant—giving himhope.

Walking away and leaving him wanting without any idea when he might lay eyes on me again was the stronger play—and I was taught well to always look for the upper hand.

He’s off-balance again.

Which means I’ve already won.