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Only Maria’s hands had stopped Lara from stumbling heedlessly into her. One on her shoulder, and the other, the strangest thing of all, splayed on her stomach. It could have been just where Maria had happened to catch her, but that hand had lingered, far hotter than the winter sun even through her coat and blouse, corset and chemise. Its heat had burned in Lara’s cheeks as she’d stammered her apologies, and had lingered, too, long after she hurried down the street.
Yet for all that strangeness, the palpable, somehow possessive memory of Maria’s hand pressed to her flat stomach, it had still been just a moment. Could it truly be connected somehow to the change that had come over her?
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