Page 16 of Restless Hawke
His gaze rakes over me, from the top of my head down over the low-cut, bodice-hugging black dress that goes to mid-thigh, then across my exposed legs to my peep-toe Louboutins.
“You don’t look like any poker player I’ve ever met.” His eyes heat despite the frigid tone of his words. “And I am confident I never saw you before that night in Atlantic City. I would’ve remembered you…”
I pull my bottom lip under my teeth, and his eyes narrow on the move as I let it release. “I don’t know whether I should take that as a compliment or not.”
After all, he did think I was a professional at somethingotherthan cards.
He prowls even closer as the elevator continues to ascend, then rests his right palm flat against the back wall to my side, leaning into me. “Oh, it’sdefinitelya compliment.”
A little shudder rolls through me at his closeness and words, and I smirk at him, trying to ignore the way his body heat radiates off him and seeps into my skin. How the scent of crisp, clean ocean air seems to cling to him, mingling with the smoky scent of his favored scotch that lingers on his breath.
He was celebrating his win before he came looking for me.
Dipping his head closer, until it brushes my cheek, the same way I did to him before I walked away last week, he releases a little laugh. “Iwasyour mark, but you see, you failed.”
I swallow thickly. “How’s that?”
His lips feather along the shell of my ear, and my legs tremble. “You tried to rattle me, distract me, and it didn’t work.”
He pulls back slightly to search my face, and all I can do is raise my brows.
“Didn’t it? You sureseem”—I letmygaze rake over him now, from his thick, dark hair, vibrant eyes, sinful lips, and to his crisp white dress shirt under a perfectly tailored suitcoat, down the pants that fall from trim hips, and finally to his expensive Italian loafers—“distracted.”
A low growl rumbles in his chest, and with him pressed so close to me, I can feel it in my rib cage.
Coen Hawke is damn near feral, barely restrained.
And it isn’t just anger building up in his blue gaze.
The heat there matches what I saw the other night at the bar when he suspected I was a hooker and was still willing to take me back to his room anyway.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and I finally release my grip on the bar behind me and press my hands against his chest to find his heart thundering there.
I turn my head toward his until my lips brush his cheek, but he pulls back.
A muscle in his clenched jaw throbs wildly. “I stillwon.”
“Lose the battle”—I grin at him—“win the war.”
One of his dark brows rises slowly. “I wouldn’t have struck you as a fan of Pyrrhus…”
Hell.
Of all the people in the world, he is thelastI would expect to recognize where the saying comes from—or to catch the implication that I am far from done with this.
“I do love a good challenge—whether it be reading ancient military strategy or playing Texas Hold’em with a bunch of over-testosteroned men.”
His whole body vibrates with tension.
The man seems to be hanging on by a thread.
Whatever has been boiling up inside of him, threatening to spill over, is about to, and I’d be lying if I said the thought of him unleashing all that on me wasn’t exciting and terrifying all at the same time.
It seems I played with fire…
I hold his gaze, not giving in to the instinct to look away or even blink. It isn’t just a stare down. It’s ashowdown.No different than what happened at the table.
The elevator cab finally glides to a stop on my floor, and a ding fills the heavy silence between us, the doors gliding open.
