Chapter 3
3
ALLEGRA
T he sound of my heels clicking on the expensive marble tile as I make my way toward the elevator gets instantly absorbed by the cacophony surrounding me.
Slot machines.
People chatting and celebrating wildly.
People lamenting their losses.
Including me…
It was close. Came down to just Coen and me. Blue eyes locked with gray. Given the cracks I saw in his armor, I thought it would be easy to read him. Easy to read that final hand. But he’s too damn good.
I reach the elevators and press the call button, scanning the casino around me for any signs of someone following me, but the coast is clear. Tapping my foot while I wait, I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.
I LOST.
The three little dots pop up almost immediately.
Before I can read the response, the elevator doors slide open, and I step in, press the button for my floor, and lean back slightly against the wall, letting out a relieved sigh as some of the tension I’ve been holding all day starts to melt away.
Finally.
These games always exhaust me. Having to be on. Having to play that role—the sweet, unassuming girl who has gotten in way over her head. Of course, after enough hands, they realize their mistake. But by then, it’s far too late.
Typically, it means they’ve already lost.
But not tonight.
The blow of losing to Coen makes me want nothing more than to take a long, hot bath in that deep soaker tub waiting in my suite and climb into bed to collapse?—
A hand darts out and stops the doors from closing, and my breath catches as Coen walks in, his jaw set hard, spine stiff. Animosity rolls off him in waves, swirling in his gaze, along with something I can very easily recognize—attraction.
Despite it all…
He scans his key card and slams his palm against the button that will take him to the top floor, where the penthouse suite overlooks the Mediterranean.
His icy eyes never leave mine, and I slide my phone back into my purse, resting my hands on the bar across the back of the elevator cab.
The doors glide closed, and he stalks closer. Slowly. As if he’s a predator and I’m the prey he’s afraid will dart if he moves too fast. But even if I wanted to, there isn’t anywhere to go.
He pauses a few steps away, slipping his keycard into his back pocket. “I was right.”
I raise a brow. “About what?”
For some unknown reason, I actually want to know what he’s thinking, what he believes himself to be right about.
Despite the iciness he’s throwing out at me, the corners of his lips twitch with amusement. “I was your mark.”
Hell.
He’s got me there.
There isn’t any way to deny it. There wasn’t any other reason for me to have been there in Atlantic City, watching that game, watching him .
And I refuse to feel sorry for doing it. For preparing properly for the match. Grinning, I offer a slight shrug. “Maybe, but what sort of a player would I be if I didn’t scope out the competition?”
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 something other than 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’s definitely a 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. “I was your 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 sure seem ”—I let my gaze 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 still won .”
“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 the last I 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 a showdown. 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.
I nudge his chest. “This is my stop.”
He glances over his shoulder to see the floor, then turns back to me and shakes his head. “No, it isn’t.”
Fuck.
Heat pools in my core, my belly fluttering at this man’s intensity and confidence.
All those triggers I always say I won’t let affect me. All those traits I search for so I can avoid the men who hold them. Yet, here I am, practically drooling for him and letting him pin me against an elevator wall.
What the hell am I doing?
That brilliant-blue gaze searches mine as the doors close us in once again and we move upward. “Come have a drink with me.”
I raise a brow. “A drink?”
He nods, brushing his lips across my cheek, using one hand to cage me in but leaving the other at his side—almost as if he’s afraid that if he did place it against the wall and fully confine me, I might fight him.
Which I probably would.
Nobody cages me in, certainly not Coen Hawke.
I beat him at that table—even if I didn’t win the final hand—and I’ll beat him at whatever game he’s playing now. “One drink. That’s it.”
Another opportunity to get a leg up on my opponent.
Though, maybe that’s a poor choice of words because even thinking them is enough to make my pussy throb and visions of all the ways my legs could bend around this man flash through my head.
He pulls back and grins, nodding slowly, his eyes drifting from mine down to my lips, my neck, my cleavage, and the shoes again, like he, too, is imagining the ways my legs and these stilettoes could wrap around him.
We move up a few more floors, neither of us willing to move or speak.
The ding seems to break whatever trance we’re in, and he pushes away from me and snags my hand with his. Rough calluses rub against my palm, the contrast sending little goosebumps rising all over my skin.
A poker player with the hands of someone who does manual labor…
It struck me the first time we met, when he first touched me, and after playing against him today, I’m even more intrigued by the contradiction that is Coen Hawke.
His voice, low and controlled, laced with his confidence and strength, has taunted me the way his grin has since we met at the bar a week ago. It’s the reason I shouldn’t be allowing this, but I can’t seem to muster up an objection to him pulling me out of the elevator and into his suite that takes up the entire top floor of the hotel.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the water and reflect the Monaco city lights.
Bright.
Glittering.
Luminous.
Stunning.
I’ve seen this view from other buildings, other vantage points over the years, from various homes and hotels in this tiny country, but this is almost as breathtaking as the man whose hand is currently wrapped around my own.
He stalks straight to the bar near the windows and releases my hand to grab a bottle of scotch and quickly pour two fingers. “Are you a scotch drinker?”
I drag my gaze away from the windows long enough to raise a brow at him. “Not really. I prefer bourbon.”
A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “You like the sweetness.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I love the spice and the burn.”
Those now-warm again blue eyes darken at my comment, and he reaches for another decanter and pours from that. His fingers graze mine as he slips the glass from his hand to mine. “Oh, I promise you, a good scotch has just as good of a burn as any bourbon, and there’s something about the rich, smoky, peaty flavor that you’ll become addicted to quite quickly.”
I take a sip of the bourbon, and the spicy heat dances across my tongue and down my throat as I swallow. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”
He takes a sip of his own drink, then advances, sliding his free hand around my waist and tugging me up against him—his hard, firm body as solid as a rock, an impenetrable wall, just like the man himself is at the poker table.
Under most circumstances.
Today, he was rattled. At least, momentarily. He managed to pull out the win, but I still succeeded in at least putting the tiniest hairline fracture in that wall.
Shaking him was harder than I imagined it would be. Apparently, what happened at the bar wasn’t enough to take him off his game.
Impressive and infuriating.
As is the way my body responds to his touch, his closeness, his scent.
He dips his head, his lips hovering just above mine. “Let me give you a taste so you can see what it is you’re missing.”
* * *
COEN
This is a terrible idea.
I knew it the moment she sat down across that table.
I knew it the second she smiled at me.
I knew it the minute she fucking winked.
I knew it when I followed her into the elevator after the game.
I knew it when I closed the distance between us.
I knew it when I allowed myself to cage her in against that wall.
I knew it when my lips brushed her ear, when that intoxicating, light jasmine scent invaded my lungs the same way it did in that bar.
I knew it when I led her in here.
I knew it when I wrapped my arm around her waist and tugged her up against me.
I know it now as my lips hover a mere hairsbreadth from hers, waiting for her response.
Please fucking God, say yes…
Gray eyes, the color of the storms that come in and hit New Orleans, churning up the warm waters and releasing heavy rain on the city, stare me down, unblinking, unwavering, from under thick, heavy, dark lashes.
Even now, she doesn’t give an inch.
Almost like she’s waiting to see how long my restraint will last.
Seconds tick by, feeling more like an eternity with her sumptuous curves pressed against me, the warmth of her skin permeating my palm, even through the material of her dress, her soft breaths mingling with my own.
Finally, she ghosts her lips over mine. I can’t even call it a kiss. More of a tease—something I’m learning this woman is very good at. “I could be persuaded to have a little taste.”
Fuck.
My cock fully hardens at the sultry dip in her voice and the promise that lies in it, and it pushes against her taut stomach as I slam my mouth to hers fully.
I glide my tongue along the seam of her lips until she finally opens for me, and the sweet, spicy burn of her bourbon meets the smokiness of the scotch I just drank.
She hums her approval, and the sound goes straight to my cock, making it twitch in the confines of my pants. Begging for her to make it again when I’m inside her and can feel what her cunt does when that fucking sound comes out.
I tighten my grip on her waist, digging my fingers against her lower back, and she presses her free hand to my chest, then pulls back, her tongue sliding out over her lips. “You’re right. That is good.”
Good?
More like staggering…
I watch her casually lift her glass to her bright-red lips and take another sip, her grin visible through the crystal.
She’s enjoying toying with me far too much.
Fuck, this woman is dangerous.
That night at the bar, I should have walked away.
Even lingering after the game for a drink at the central bar risked someone identifying me and sending word to one of the Hawkes and their many spies. But as soon as I saw her sitting there, that vibrant-green dress called to me like a fucking siren on the sea.
It didn’t matter that I thought she was a professional, that bringing her up to my room after I had just won at the tables was the perfect way to end up in a really bad situation.
None of it mattered once I saw her.
Nor does the fact that she played me for a fool, that I let her get under my skin in a way no other player has at that table.
Right now, all I want is her under me, or over me, or in front of me.
However she wants it.
I’ll take anything she’ll give me.
She eyes me, watching expectantly for me to make another move as she sips at her drink. Her tongue glides along her lips, like she’s savoring every last drop of the sweet liquor, when all I can think about is savoring her.
“Stay with me tonight.”
Her brows rise slowly, as if my request is unexpected, but I don’t know how it could be when I’m not exactly hiding the evidence of what I want from her. Nor has she been particularly shy about her intentions with me, either.
Though, it could all be part of the game she’s playing.
Given what she’s already managed, she’s very talented at getting under someone’s skin, but even knowing that, I still can’t bring myself to regret asking.
Those perfect breasts rise and fall rapidly, barely contained in the confines of her dress. Another carefully planned distraction for all the men at that tournament table—including me. “You know this is a terrible idea.”
I nod slowly, watching her otherwise stormy eyes reflect the beautiful lights from the crystal chandelier hanging in the suite. “I know you’re a dangerous woman, Allegra. I knew it the moment I saw you in Atlantic City, and you confirmed it when you walked into that tournament today. But the scary thing is, I don’t fucking care, at least not for tonight.”
She smirks, running a finger down my chest and stopping at my belt. “What about tomorrow?”
My cock aches with her touch so close. My hands itch to have her writhing and wanting the way I am.
“I’m not playing you at the table tomorrow.” I trail a fingertip down her bare arm, making her shiver. “I have other games in mind.”
A pink blush spreads up her neck and across her cheeks, and she shifts, pressing her stomach against my cock in a way that has me biting back a groan. “Oh, I bet you do, Mr. Hawke.”
I grin at the formality. “Coen, please.”
Those dark brows of hers rise. “A very interesting name…”
“Is it?”
She nods. “Do you know what it means?”
I snort and take a sip from my drink, wishing she hadn’t asked the question. “I do. It was an intentional choice on my parents’ part.” That familiar agony of knowing what a fucking disappointment I am hits me hard. “It means wise counselor.”
“Are you a wise counselor?”
Her question makes me draw back slightly, letting her slip from my hold.
She can’t possibly know what she’s digging into, what her questions are slowly chipping away at, the pain she’s exposing. If I were a more suspicious person, I would say it’s almost like she’s looking for another way in, another weakness to exploit, since her attempt to take me off my game wasn’t good enough today. But there isn’t any way Allegra could know the sordid Hawke history or how questioning me about it would make me feel like I’m free falling from one of those windows down into the ocean without a damn parachute.
“I don’t think anyone in my family would say ‘yes’ right now, but it was what they wanted from me. What they expected.” I snort at the absolute absurdity of how badly things have gone and take a long drink. Releasing a sigh, I shove my free hand through my hair. “At least they’re batting 500.”
Her soft brow furrows. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what that means.”
Allegra’s confusion shouldn’t be so adorable, but it somehow is, and it’s enough to break me from my foul mood and focus on what’s in front of me.
I grin at her. “You don’t watch much baseball, huh?”
She barks out a laugh and pulls out of my hold, spinning in her tight black dress and sky-high heels. “Do I look like I watch a lot of baseball?”
I examine her over the rim of my glass, taking in every exquisite detail. “No. But then again, I’ve always been taught not to judge a book by its cover.”
Her head tilts, and she gapes at me. “Says the man who thought I was a hooker…”
Ouch.
That one stings a little because I never should have said it, and she’s absolutely right to point out my folly.
“I apologized for that…”
She offers a look that makes my heart flip in my chest—some mix of playful coyness and alluring. “Uh-huh. So, what does ‘batting 500’ mean?”
“It means hitting fifty percent of the pitches thrown to you. That’s considered a very good average in baseball, but I meant it in regard to their children.”
Her gaze softens, her lips twisting slightly. “I don’t…understand.”
I snort and take a longer pull from my glass, wishing it were easier to forget all my failures.
This isn’t something I should be telling a complete stranger, especially not someone who clearly has had an agenda from day one, but after weeks of running from them—from it —I can’t seem to stop myself.
It’s like some part of me needs to talk about it, to unload the baggage I’ve been carrying around with me, along with my guilt.
“My father’s the family attorney, and my older brother, Isaac, is his protégé and has essentially taken over after my father had?—”
I clear my throat, struggling to get the picture of him lying in that hospital bed on a ventilator after being shot out of my head.
It takes far longer to clear than I want it to.
That pain and panic clog my throat the same way it did that day the shots rang out at Hawke’s Daily Grind.
“He had some medical problems and is kind of being forced to retire—as much as he ever will.”
Allegra nods slowly, swirling her drink as she watches me, acutely aware of the shift in the mood. “And you didn’t have any interest in that—becoming a lawyer?”
“I didn’t have any interest in becoming anything.”
Shit.
The answer slips out before I can stop it.
Before I can think better of what I’m saying or what it means.
But the truth should be easy to speak, and that certainly was.
I’ve never had that drive that burns through Isaac. I’ve never had the tenacity of Kennedy or the intelligence of Pope. I don’t possess the killer instincts of Atlas and Bishop. I don’t have the creativity of Jude. And I can’t connect with people the way Angelina, Alessandra, and Astrid can.
“From the day I was born, I was the odd man out—the spare.”
And nothing has changed.
She frowns slightly. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”
I wave her off, not wanting to discuss the bitter Hawke family dynamics that have always surrounded me.
No…
I would much rather lose myself in her all night before I head off to the next stop and get back to that topic of conversation. “You never answered my question.”
Her hips sway in the dress as she advances again. “Which one?”
“I asked you to spend the night.”
She clutches her bourbon in her palms. The same hands that held her cards so close to her ample chest—which is exactly what she’s doing right now. Just in a different game.
Fuck, she was good…
She doesn’t have a tell.
Didn’t give anything away while I took one look at her and felt like I was fucking crumbling. Keeping my shit together long enough to win that game took every ounce of self-control I possess. Which means I am completely tapped out at this point.
That explains this horrible decision and why I don’t care about the consequences of it.
Her lips curve gently into a half-smile, and her eyes dance with the kind of mix of playfulness and intent that makes my blood run hot and my cock ache again. “I’ll think about it.”
I open my mouth to reply when the elevator dings and the doors start to slide open.
What the fuck?
This is a private suite, only accessible with my room key.
If it were someone from the hotel, they would’ve called before they came up?—
The doors fully open, and I freeze.
Familiar, hard, dark eyes meet mine.
Shit.
They sent in the big guns—literally.