Springtime of the Spirit by Maureen Lang

of yours, this Christophe Brecht.”
    She tried a smile but was afraid he realized it was forced. “I think perhaps you know him as well as I do, after yesterday. We were never close friends.”
    “How can that be? He seemed intent on bringing you home with him.”
    Another sip. “And he left without me.”
    Jurgen leaned closer. “I heard him leave last night. And I heard your footsteps down the stairs shortly after.”
    She met his gaze. “Then you must have heard my footsteps going back up to my room shortly after that. Alone.”
    “I did. But why did you follow him out?”
    “He threw a stone on my window ledge. I didn’t want him to wake anyone, so I went to tell him to leave me alone.”
    “Why was he so eager to talk to you, and why are you just as eager to avoid him?”
    “Because he wants me to see my parents before they leave Germany.”
    “And you don’t want to?”
    She shook her head.
    “Why?”
    Now was as good a time as any to tell him what would likely come out eventually, especially if Christophe did return as Jurgen must hope—if his interest in Christophe was any indication. “My father is a capitalist of the worst kind. I don’t care if I ever see him again.”
    Jurgen smiled as he reached across the table to pat one of her hands. “Anya, Anya. You speak too passionately. He’s your father.”
    She leaned away from him, taking her hand from his. “You of all people shouldn’t want me to go, Jurgen. He profited from the war. He turned his metalworks factory into a munitions plant, and somehow, while the rest of us were starving, he still managed to receive shipments of metal.”
    “I don’t doubt you. But he’s still your father.”
    “You, too?”
    “I want to be sure you know what is best for you, mein Herz .”
    “I think I’m capable of figuring that out for myself.” She stared into her coffee cup instead of at him.
    Jurgen took the spoon next to her cup and stirred his own with it. “So that is all that’s between you and Christophe? He wanted you to settle things with your family?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    He smiled again and leaned closer, intimately so. “Let’s just say I like to keep track of how many lions are in the den. If he returns, that is.”
    A week ago, if he’d used that tone of voice, summoned the smile he reserved only for women who interested him, Annaliese would have smiled back. Her heart would have fluttered. Instead, she looked away, pretending shyness even if she didn’t feel such a thing at the moment.
    “Anya,” he said softly, “you’ve become very dear to me. You know that, don’t you?”
    “No less than you are to me.” It was true, after all, even if in the past few days she’d thought less about being in his bed than how to understand—or explain—why she no longer dreamed about getting there.
    “It’s difficult for me,” he whispered, “knowing you’re upstairs every night, alone. I’ve often thought about coming to you.”
    He took one of her hands in his and she was glad because it steadied her. She hid her free hand in her lap.
    She must say something, try telling him how confused she was. “I think—sometimes—that’s what I want too. But I’ve never been with anyone before, and for me it seems to be an important step. More important than I once thought.”
    He laughed gently. “Are you worried that I will find you lacking? I expect your inexperience. Don’t be afraid. It’s all perfectly natural. What will happen is a beautiful thing, one I’d like to show you.”
    She didn’t doubt that. And maybe he was right; whatever mysteries there were between a man and a woman should be beautiful. It was, after all, the most personal of things to share and would certainly make each vulnerable to the other.
    “Come here,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet too. “Let me go through the day thinking of you. Tasting you.”
    Then his lips came down on hers. He tasted of the coffee they’d been drinking, only