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“Miranda. Miranda Lockwood.” I gave him my hand to shake – only he didn’t let go of it. “On what, exactly, are you basing this analysis?”
“Your tells.”
“As in ‘poker tells’?”
“Yes.”
“And what, pray tell, are my ‘tells’?”
He grinned. Whenever he did that, it was somewhat attractive, in an idiotic, man-child sort of way. “If I reveal those, you might change them, and then I couldn’t read you as well.”
For a second I had a brief glimmer of trepidation, the feeling that maybe my motives were more transparent than I thought. But then I reminded myself who I was, and who I knew this Connor Templeton fool to be.
There is never an easier mark than a man who believes he’s a master poker player. His ego is too wrapped up in reading other people and winning the hand to ever admit he is wrong.
“Again, nothing you’ve said would make me the most out-of-place person here,” I said.
“Well, that, and you’re far too beautifully dressed to be acting so aloof.”
With that, he lifted my hand and kissed my fingers, keeping his eyes intently on mine the entire time.
My prey had taken the bait.
The amusing thing was, in the two months following that I played hard to get, he thought of me as some big-game fish – like he was reeling me in.
When actually he was just an insect struggling in my web.
Two years later, as I walked into another charity ball…
…nothing had changed.
