Page 51 of Restless Hawke

The man gives him a little nod of acknowledgment. “Yes, sir.”

As soon as he moves away from us, I turn my head toward Coen. “You’re going to take care of me, how? Throw me out on my ass?”

He starts to lead me away from the lobby and casino, his firm grip on my arm directing me toward a bank of elevators and preventing me from holding my ground unless I want to be dragged across the Italian marble. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

Probably.

If I were in his position, I likely would.

Yet, this elevator clearly doesn’t lead outside to the streets of New Orleans.

The doors glide open the moment he hits the call button. We step in, his hand still coiled around my arm, ensuring I’m not going to bolt. My heart thunders against my ribs; the thought of being confined in an elevator with Coen Hawke again is enough to make my legs shake.

Coen maneuvers us to one side, then swipes a keycard across a reader and hits the button labeledPH. But before I can be sealed in with him and my fate, two other couples enter, which means that whatever Coen wants to say or do is going to have to wait until we don’t have an audience.

Because something tells me whatever it is wouldn’t play well with Hawke Hotel customers.

And here, Coen has to maintain some level of professional decorum.

This is the shining jewel in his family’s empire, and he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish it simply to get his revenge against me.

Would he?

Coen offers the others a smile as they each scan their keycards and press the buttons for their floors.

The elevator doors close.

Tension permeates the air.

Everyone seems to notice, glancing toward us a few times, even though we haven’t done or said anything to draw their attention.

We rise three floors, each number ticking by slowly. It stops, and one of the couples disembarks, leaving us facing the other.

I give them a tentative smile, and they shift awkwardly, their gazes dipping to Coen’s hold on me.

Coen’s hand tightens as if in response.

I turn my head slightly so I can whisper to him. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere private where we can have aconversation.”

Why do I think that word doesn’t mean to me what it does to him?

I raise a brow at him. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

He smirks, dark humor dancing across his cold gaze. “This isn’t the type of conversation I’m talking about…”

Well, that’s ominous.

The other couple finally exits on their floor, and the elevator continues up until we reach our destination without another word from either of us.

It dings, the doors opening to reveal a small entryway and a single door labeledPENTHOUSE.

“You have a thing for penthouses, huh?”

He scowls and leads me toward the solitary entrance. “I happen to know it’s unoccupied at the moment.”

Coen swipes his key and pushes open the door, directing me inside, but it’s impossible to concentrate on what the room looks like when he still has his hand on me.