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I look up.
“Greetings.”
“What?”
“Handshakes. Introductions. Eye contact. You’d be amazed how often people get them wrong.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’ve shaken hands before.”
“Not with these people.”
“Are their hands different?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
I smile before I can help it.
He steps closer and extends his hand.
I stare at it.
Long fingers. Clean nails. Muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. A unique black ring with the same symbol I’ve seen around Vexley House.
“When you shake,” he says, “don’t offer limp fingers. Don’t overcompensate and crush. Firm pressure. Direct eye contact. Two pumps at most. Then release.”
“Two pumps?”
“Yes.”
I take his hand.
The second my palm meets his, heat shoots up my arm.
Not warmth.
Heat.
He closes his fingers around mine, and the room seems to narrow. His hand is larger than mine. Stronger. But he doesn’t squeeze too hard. He holds me exactly as he told me to hold someone else.
Except neither of us moves.
I look up.
The air between us changes.
I feel it.
I know he feels it too because his grip tightens for the smallest fraction of a second before he releases me abruptly.
Too abruptly.
He turns toward the desk. “Good,” he says.
My hand tingles. I curl my fingers into my palm.
“Was that one pump or two?” I ask, because apparently desperate attraction combined with nerves and fear make me forgetful or just plain stupid.
He looks back at me and then drops his gaze to my right wrist. My bracelet has slipped from beneath my sleeve.
