. "Perhaps," he said, with a softness that bordered on condescension, "I am not that important, after all." His tone was feather-light, his smile the polished kind perfected by those who wore false humility like a second skin.
Esme's own smile widened in return, but her thoughts were like a storm, and the polite curve of her lips hid something altogether darker.
Every instinct screamed at her, an instinct she now realized had begun the moment she'd entered the room and set eyes on him. It was as if his mask had sparked her own memories to life, memories of deceit cloaked in affection.
She'd seen this act before, long ago, from those who'd pretended to care for her—her stepfather, the man who'd married into her family, playing the devoted parent all those years. Beneath his caring gestures and honeyed words had been the same undercurrent she sensed now, an almost uncanny familiarity in the way this old man held himself.
