Christopher hastened to explain. “It's a wholly respectable group. No young

lady who attended would need to fear for her reputation, and we have several who come regularly. Everyone takes turns ferreting out new works to share.

We've hit on a writer who might… well please is the wrong word. It's terrible stuff, but it might just incite some interesting conversation.”

Her nerves eased. “I would enjoy that. I do like poetry.”

“It's not for the faint of heart,” he warned, wondering how she would react to

the Browning.

“I'm ready for anything.”

Christopher grinned at her words. In another woman's mouth, they might

have been seen as a flirtation, even an invitation, but Katerina's obvious innocence showed she meant the words literally; that she liked poetry and was willing to listen to it.

“Famous last words, Katerina. Now then, my dear, here we are at the

balcony.” Sure enough, the arched, wood-framed doors appeared before them.

“What would you think if we… stepped outside on it?”

Her breath caught, and her heart sped up. “I scarcely know. I've never been…

taken to the balcony before.”

“Would you object?” he asked, and his expression looked suddenly

vulnerable.

“I don't think so.” She felt hesitant but could not disguise the note of curiosity in her voice. I hope I don't sound too eager. It won't do for Christopher to think me a hussy.

He swept her out the door. Far from the partial warmth of the drafty parlor,

the chilly wind teased her through the thin fabric of her gown and disarranged her hair. Instantly freezing, Katerina suppressed a shiver as best she could.

A sliver of moon, like the clipping of a fingernail, peeped between the naked

branches of the trees that rose from the garden below. She looked up at Christopher, wondering what was next.

“Do you know why men take women to the balcony, Katerina?” he asked

her, and the intensity in his voice had bled to heat.

Can he really mean what he seems to be saying? Her heart began to beat faster. “Yes.”

“And do you fancy trying it?”

She swallowed but did not speak.

Tell me how you want this done, love,” he urged.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“I'm offering you a kiss. Do you dream of being kissed, Katerina?”

Oh, Lord, he does mean it, and he's such a handsome man, and so kind.

What a magnificent opportunity. “Yes.” Oh, how I want this, and I do like Christopher so. He's perfect.

“How?”

She didn't know how to answer the question. She didn't even know how to ask for clarification. She gazed into his eyes, silently begging him to explain.

“Do you want my hands on you?” he asked.

Her breath caught. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Around my waist.” She mouthed rather than spoke the words. He embraced

her, his arms wonderfully warm.

“Where would you like your hands to be?” he continued.

“Your…” her voice stopped. She took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of

cologne and aroused man, and tried again. “Your neck.”

“Do it then.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, she slid her arms around him.

“There. Is that just right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Beneath her barely audible reply, Christopher could feel Katerina's heart

pounding against his chest.

“Look up at me.” Brown eyes met gray, and another of those unforgettable magnetic shocks rocketed through him. “Close your eyes, little one, and feel your first kiss.”