"Let's see then," he murmured, his chill voice matching the breeze off the Baltic, "if you remember everything I taught you." His hands moved up her back as he finished speaking and came to rest on her shoulder, his fingers sliding under the neckline of her gown in a small gesture of possession.

"Don't you dare." Her own fury and self-determination reverberated through her heated words. Her eyes shone like golden flame.

He stood, his hands lightly cupping her bare shoulders, his touch gentle as though his intentions were benign, as though her fury were irrelevant. "Darling, don't be naive. I attack redoubts bristling with artillery and enemy. Surely-" his fingertips traced the curve of one shoulder, an incongruously delicate juxtaposition to his heated words "-you don't think one small woman can stop me." His voice was very low, unhurried, almost tranquil.

"I'll scream," she challenged. Her hands were still caught against his chest, his body still curtailing her freedom.

"Perhaps later," he replied casually, his palm already sliding up the slender column of her neck. "You always scream," he softly murmured, "at the end." The tip of his finger gently tapped the yellow diamond pendant swinging from her ear. "I'm glad you like the earrings."

"You can't do this, Stefan," she warned. "Someone could walk out any moment." Her voice was more contained than her emotions with Stefan's aroused body pressing into her flesh. "Just release me now and you can go about your business." She tried to keep her tone reasonable and moderate.

"But you're my business." His answer was a teasing murmur, his hands drifting down her shoulders once again, stopping to test the resistance of the gold lace ruffle just below the curve of her shoulder.

"You came all the way to Saint Petersburg to see me?" Her query was laced with doubt and a dizzying curiosity and suspicion, too.

"Of course." His reply was so blatantly nonchalant it resisted belief. "And now," he said, the hush of his voice as languorous as his half-lidded eyes, "I'd like to see you."

"Stefan, be sensible," Lisaveta pleaded, suddenly realizing he was fully intent on satisfying his passion, here, now, within sight and sound of the ballroom. "Please…"

"I remember," he said with a faint smile, "you always pleaded-" his voice dropped to a whisper "-and were impatient."

His tone and words kindled heated memory and Lisaveta fought against the images evoked. She would not be seduced by him; she wouldn't be dragged from a ballroom with abrupt and staggering discourtesy and then begin to melt because his deep low voice was reminding her of endless hours of shared rapture and, yes, of her impatience and the reasons for it. Taking a breath to steady her tremulous feelings, she forced her mind away from those arousing memories.

"Stefan," she implored, not certain she could curtail his full intent, "at least move away from the vicinity of the door, I beg you."

He didn't pretend not to understand. Her voice and inflection were intense. Glancing briefly at the opened doorway no more than three feet away, he said, "Darling, you've taken on new refinements in Saint Petersburg." His words were sardonic and challenging, as if he wanted further concessions from her. "What will you do if I move?"

She didn't answer for a moment, provoked by his suggestion she had to somehow please him first. "Why must I do something to keep you from being pigheaded?"

He shrugged. "I thought we were negotiating for a new venue."

"A new venue?" Although she spoke in a whisper, the violence of her feelings was evident. "Is that what you call rape now?"

His lashes dropped fractionally in ironic reply. "Really, sweetheart, why all the ruffled outrage? It's not as though my wanting you will harm you in any way."

"This spectacle-should someone walk out of the ballroom-notwithstanding!" she fiercely replied.

He sighed as though her stinging response required at least one reasonable party. "Very well," he said, not in explanation but in magnanimity, "we'll move." And lifting her into his arms, he walked with her across the terrace and down the three wide stairs to the lawn below. "Is this better?" he inquired politely, as if the location of his assault on her were the only point in question.

Lisaveta lay rigid in his arms, refusing to touch him, and gazed around, her golden eyes incredulous. Stefan was standing at the base of the stone stairs directly in line with the ballroom door, in the middle of a great open expanse of lawn, the moon bright overhead. "No," she indignantly retorted, "this is not better!" She bit off the words as if they were poison.

He turned so they faced the villa, kicking the train of her gown out of his way. "You decide then," he said with no more emotion than if they were discussing the merits of lavender versus yellow kid gloves as a fashion accessory.

"Why are we doing this?" Lisaveta breathed, dismay vibrating in every hushed syllable.

Stefan looked down at her for a moment and his face in shadow held a menacing quality. "I know why I'm doing this," he said, his intention absolutely plain in his simple declaration, "and at the risk of further offending you, I don't really care why you are or aren't. I hope that's not too blunt."

It was another galaxy beyond blunt. "In that case, my decision is irrelevant," Lisaveta quietly said.

He didn't answer because the substance of his reply was clearly understood, and he thought for a moment how powerful jealousy was. He'd never been this rude to a woman before. In fact, he prided himself on his charm with the opposite sex. But then, he'd never been barraged by such overwhelming frustration before, and the force of his emotions was driving him. He felt it unkind to liken this to war, but the simile came prominently to mind. Lisaveta was the redoubt he wanted and he intended to triumph in his assault. She was the eternal enticing female who bewitched him like Circe or Venus, and he coveted her-at Kars, on his ride to the railhead at Vladikavkaz, on his train journey north and now, here, this instant.

Moving a few feet from where he stood, he set Lisaveta on her feet within the shadow of the terrace wall and without speaking slid the lace ruffles off her shoulders, forcing the bodice of her gown downward over the fullness of her breasts until they were exposed, pale white and enticing in the moonlight.

She stood rigid beneath his hands, knowing resistance would be useless, hating him at that moment for his callous indifference but feeling also an unnerving familiarity to the touch of his hands.

Placing his palms with infinite slowness under her breasts, he lifted them high, surveying their mounded beauty. His eyes were calculating as a critic; no soft emotion shone from their blackness. When he considered all the other men who might have admired them thusly, his temper flared. He was angry and tormented, twisted with jealousy, and it showed in his stance and moody expression, in his deplorable aggression and in his words.

"What do they usually say? How lovely, Countess?" Each quiet word was hollow with aversion.

"I don't answer to you," Lisaveta whispered, stung by the rudeness of his remark, trying for a moment to twist free until his fingers squeezed sharply and she instantly stood quiescent.

"I think we've gone over this before. The concept," Stefan softly said, "of physical superiority."

"Stefan, this isn't like you." She hesitated for a moment and then added. "I wish you'd reconsider."

He almost laughed. How quaint and bland a statement after he'd traveled across the expanse of Russia to do exactly this. "I'm afraid I won't," he said.

"I'll resist." Her voice was flat.

"Fine."

He didn't seem concerned and the mildness of his reply was more unnerving than his harsh anger. She knew she couldn't prevail against his strength. "Will entreaties help?" She was appealing, her voice softly earnest, trying any measure to deter him. Any second someone could walk out on the terrace, any moment they could be seen.

He released her breasts and for a moment she thought she'd succeeded in deflecting his purpose, but he didn't even glance at her when he answered, absorbed in lifting the gathered folds of skirt out of his way. "No," he said, struggling momentarily with the lawn petticoat beneath the burgundy silk, "nothing will help." The lightweight charmeuse fabric of her gown and the fine tissue of her petticoat was crushed around her hips in swift efficiency, and without pause, single-minded with jealousy and desire, Stefan slipped his fingers between the opening in her drawers and slid them inside her.

With shame and consternation Lisaveta felt his fingers glide into her moist interior without resistance, his nearness alone rousing her passion despite all rationale; he had only to touch her and she welcomed him, insensible to her anger or logic, as if her body could anticipate the pleasure he offered and willingly, selfishly, turn liquid with wanting. Fighting the staggering impulse to sigh in satisfaction, she stood motionless under his hands, resisting with all her faculties the building waves of bewitching sensation, determined to appear unmoved.

She'd simply remain impassive, she told herself, her eyes already closing against the pulsing between her thighs; she wouldn't respond, she'd ignore the flame racing through her blood and heating her skin, bringing a flush to her face and throat and naked breasts. She'd forcibly detach herself from the languid provocation of Stefan's gently stroking fingers, from their acute, intense penetration. She'd not allow him the satisfaction of-she caught her breath as his fingers touched her deep inside and uncurbed pleasure pulsed upward.