Moondrift. Anne Mather

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      Karen encapsulated Jordan’s own summation of the situation when she said she thought Rhys was bringing his daughter to Trade Winds deliberately. ‘He wants you to see her,’ she declared frankly, coming into the office where Jordan was unsuccessfully trying to repair the stapling machine. ‘And no doubt he’s curious about you, too. Who wouldn’t be after ten years? I must admit, I got quite a shock myself when I saw him.’

      Jordan’s head lifted. ‘You said—you said he looked much as you remembered.’

      ‘Yes, I did.’ Karen draped herself over a corner of the desk and examined her finger nails. ‘But I was only a kid when he was last here, remember? I didn’t realise how——’ she coloured—‘well, how attractive he is. I’m sorry, Jordan,’ she added awkwardly, ‘I realise you’d rather not hear this, but I feel I should warn you. He hasn’t lost his—appeal.’

      Jordan’s lips tightened. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘No, I mean it.’ Karen shifted her position. ‘Honestly, Jordan, that picture we saw of him in the Woman’s Journal didn’t do him justice.’

      ‘Are you a fan?’ Jordan’s voice was clipped, but at least she succeeded in hiding the pain her sister’s words had caused her. What was Karen implying? she wondered uneasily. That she might have made a mistake in breaking with him? Or that Karen herself found him attractive, too? ‘I imagine Rhys Williams knows his appeal better than anyone,’ she added, unable entirely to suppress the tinge of bitterness. ‘After fifteen years of the kind of success he’s enjoyed, it would be difficult not to.’

      ‘Oh, Jordan!’ Karen stared at her defensively. ‘I’m not saying I’d ever get involved with him. It’s just that, having seen him, I’m beginning to understand how you must have felt when he started to take an interest in you.’

      Jordan drew a deep breath. ‘I see.’

      ‘Were you—I mean, did you——?’ Karen faltered, and then finished lamely: ‘Were you very close?’ which was obviously not what she had been going to ask at all. ‘You don’t talk about it, do you? I only know the bare facts: that you used to spend a lot of time with him when he was here, and that Daddy didn’t approve. Then his wife turned up, with the child. That’s all I know.’

      ‘That’s all there is.’ Jordan’s voice was crisp. ‘Oh, I’ve told you, I was too young to know better. And like Daddy said, he took advantage of me.’

      Karen opened her mouth to ask the obvious question this provoked, then closed it again. Evidently she would have liked to question her sister more closely about her involvement, but discretion—and a certain lack of assurance—caused her to think again. Although, as Jordan was older, Karen had often confided in her, the situation had never been reversed. This particular part of her past was something Jordan had always avoided, and over the years it had been tacitly agreed that that episode was taboo.

      Now, however, Jordan sensed Karen’s curiosity with some sympathy. Not for the first time, she wished she had someone she could confide in. There had never been anyone, except Nana, who was too old now to burden with her problems. She had sometimes wondered, had her mother been alive, whether she might never have become infatuated with Rhys Williams in the first place. An older woman might have been wary of his interest in her daughter and tactfully defused the situation. Jordan’s father had not realised what was happening until it was too late, and by then Jordan was fathoms deep in love with the sophisticated young musician.

      In her room later, dressing for the evening, Jordan deliberately chose one of the least attractive outfits in her wardrobe. Her striped navy and white shirt had a round Peter Pan collar, and the narrow sleeves had broad, workmanlike cuffs. With it she wore a plain navy skirt, whose only drawback in her eyes was its shortness, but flat-heeled leather sandals seemed to negate any attention being drawn to her legs. Her hair she plaited into a single braid before skewering it securely on top of her head, thus removing any trace of gentleness it might have given to her features.

      It was a quarter to eight when she went downstairs, and in spite of her intention to go straight to her office, she was cornered by two of the guests who wanted to discuss the whereabouts of some caves on the island.

      ‘Maury—that’s our friend—stayed here last year, and he was telling us about these fantastic caves you can dive into,’ exclaimed Shelley Palmer, a young American who was holidaying with her boy-friend. ‘He says they’re really worth the trouble, and Jason and I wondered if you knew where we could hire some equipment.’

      Jordan offered her polite smile. ‘Well, we can arrange the scuba equipment for you,’ she agreed. ‘But I would advise you to talk to our resident expert first. The caves are worth a visit, but only someone used to deep-water diving should attempt it.’

      ‘Oh, Jason’s used to it,’ the American girl dismissed her fears airily. ‘He works for an oil company. He’s done a lot of deep-sea diving, haven’t you, darling?’

      Jason Ascani looked rueful. ‘Some,’ he conceded, giving Jordan a reassuring grin. ‘But we may take a rain-check on that particular trip, Shelley. Your experience is limited to shallower waters.’

      ‘Hey, don’t be a spoilsport!’ Shelley pursed her lips. ‘You promised you’d give it a try.’

      ‘As I recall it, I said I’d give the matter some thought,’ Jason told her firmly. ‘And now, we’re keeping Miss Lucas from getting on with her job.’ He grinned at Jordan. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if we need any further information.’

      ‘You do that,’ Jordan nodded, and was just about to make good her escape when it happened. One moment she was following them across the lobby, feeling a little sorry for Shelley as she loudly protested her competence, and the next she had frozen to a standstill. Two people had entered the hotel during their discussion, and were now approaching the reception desk. One was a girl, a teenager, wearing a pale blue cotton jump suit, her streaked blonde hair expertly cut to frame her face like an inverted bell. The other was a man, casually but expensively dressed in narrow-legged black corded pants and a silk shirt of the same sombre shade, a jerkin that matched his slacks looped carelessly over one 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.

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