Devon's brows rose sharp at Yvonne's question, his eyes narrowing a touch, the easy grin he had been wearing vanishing fast. The candlelight flickered gentle across his face, picking out the trace of irritation as he leaned back in his chair, arms folding loose but steady. The soft piano notes drifting through Le Cygne's intimate nook seemed to fade even more, almost swallowed by the tension that suddenly hung between them like a thick curtain.
He made no effort to hide how her words struck him, like a sharp poke at scars he kept covered. "Hold on a moment," he said, his voice low but straight, no skirting around. "Is that the reason you invited me here? This dinner, this exhibit, it is all about my father? Is that what this is?"
