“Come into the garden with me,” he pleaded, his hand tightening on her fingers. His eyes were shining with appeal, with emotions he was attempting to deny. Her stomach flittered with nervousness and anticipation. What was his purpose in asking her to the garden? Seductive or innocent? Mystical or mundane?

“Please, Ara, I beg you; I must speak with you,” he said. She turned to look over her shoulder, at the cultured interior of their hostess’s home, at the finely dressed and powered men and the pastel-colored gowns of the women. In this day and age, it would be scandalous to go alone to the garden with a man. But the low hum of tension and desire pulled at her, and besides that, it had been so long since she had seen him, had had a few moments alone with him.

She went. He smiled when he finally managed to lead her along into the carefully cultivated garden. He led her along for a few paces then turned his back to a Grecian pillar, leaning against it, and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her, a warm molding of lips that instantly made her lightheaded and weak-kneed. His hands roamed upward from her hips to pull at her clothing and push her body against his.

But then she stepped away. “You said we needed to talk.”