Moondrift. Anne Mather

shoulder.

      Rhys! thought Jordan sickly, knowing, without even needing to look at his face that she was not mistaken. She was experiencing an entirely physical reaction to his presence, and every inch of her skin felt raw, as if someone was scraping a sharp knife across her flesh.

      It was the moment for decision, she know. She could ignore them. She could turn and walk into her office without acknowledging either of them, in which case Rhys would form his own assessment of her motives. Or she could go and greet them as she would any other guest of her acquaintance who might come to the hotel for a meal. The choice was hers, and without doubt her actions would be reported afterwards. Submission or resistance, that was what it boiled down to. To be a mouse—or a cat. She chose the latter.

      Ignoring the sudden intake of breath from Raoul hovering behind the desk, she pinned a polite smile to her lips and advanced towards them, holding out her hand.