Page 7 of Restless Hawke

He snorts, then takes another drink before he sets down his glass and leans closer. “A stunning woman likeyou, in a dress likethat,alone, at a place likethis, hanging out near the high-stakes room and then thebar?” He twirls his finger around in the air. “My family’s in the business—casinos, not hookers—and I know a professional when I see one.”

A professional…

I allow my lips to curl up into a saccharine-sweet smile that has lured many men to unsuspecting danger like a siren’s call. “What if Iama professional?” My gaze travels over the bar around us—all the open seats along it on either side, the more casual, comfortable, lounging chairs and couches set up all against the wall behind us—then I lean toward him. “You chose the seat next to me, already suspecting what I was. So, what does that say about your intentions?”

The grin he offers sends heat blazing through my veins. “Care to find out?”

More than I should…

I snort and take the final sip of my drink, setting the empty glass on the bar and inclining my head toward the bartender. “You can close my tab.”

My newfriendbeside me raises a brow. “Tab? You don’t have somebody buying you drinks?”

Like a mark hoping to take me up to their room?

He really does think I’m a hooker.

Holding his gaze, refusing to look away, I shake my head. “Despite what you think, no. I really did come here to have a drink and to people-watch.”

At least the man has the decency to flinch.

It’s finally sinking in what a mistake he’s made, and he doesn’t seem like the type of man who makes them often.

Or who likes doing it…

The bartender slides the bill to me, and I scribble my name and room number on it, ensuring my bar neighbor can’t see what I write before I return it. “Thank you.”

I climb off my stool and step back from the bar, but the man with zero sense and blue eyes that would be easy to drown in reaches out and wraps his hand around my upper arm, stopping me from walking away.

Callouses graze across my skin and send a shiver of awareness through me.

He doesn’tlooklike the kind of man who would have rough fingers and hands.

He’s too clean and polished.

He screams money and lots of it.

And right now, he’s begging for forgiveness with those damn gorgeous eyes of his.

Any humor that once lived in his gaze and the tilt of his lips fades. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

I offer a mirthless laugh, pursing my lips and squaring my shoulders. “No, you just thought I was a hooker.”

His eyes soften even more, warming in a way that isfartoo inviting. “Truly. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

“Why would I give you that?” I raise a brow. “Why would I give you anything?”

The perfectly square jawline that goes with all the other insanely Adonis-like features tenses. “Because I don’t get distracted at the poker table, and I was when I saw you earlier…”

Something flutters in my chest.

Hot.

Dangerous.

I lean down to brush my lips against his ear. “Then, it is rather unfortunate that you had such a low opinion of me.”

When I pull back, his eyes have darkened, now swirling like a hurricane is forming at the center. “I know places like this, and the best way to lose what you just won at the table is to bring a professional up to your room and get trick-rolled. I was trying to be careful.”