They turned a corner and the hall opened into a broad balcony appended on either side by flights of stairs that curved down toward each other. That door down there was probably the exit. "There's my stop," she said, making for the stairs.
His hand on her arm halted her. Had he squeezed or tugged, she would have shaken him off and maybe given him a sock in the gut for good measure: she was ready for it. But he didn't even take proper hold of her. His fingers laid themselves on the spot right above her elbow, a steady, warm touch that somehow stopped her dead.
Queer thought: he had a magic touch to him. She'd bet she wasn't the first lady he'd caught with two fingers.
They took the stairs and knocked on the second room to the left as if they were in the hotel not in the church.
