Ginny stepped from the brougham and turned back to meet the senator’s eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s late and I’m quite weary.”

Once inside the house, shivering at the dampness that lingered in rooms unheated by a welcoming fire, she knew that she had not heard the last of this from either her father or Sonya.

God, would the past always come back to haunt her? It didn’t matter where she went, there were all these reminders of painful losses, events that had molded and shaped her life and her love—Steve.

Of everything, he was the only constant, and at the same time, the most unpredictable aspect of her life. She wanted to be certain of him, always certain of their love and their future together.

And just where is he tonight? Damn him, he knows how I hate being uninformed about his actions—especially when it is my future that’s involved. Does Steve ever think of that, or of me, or only of what he wants…?

It would have gratified Ginny to know that Steve was thinking of her at that very moment.

Green-eyed temptress! His copper-haired wife had led him halfway around the world, and he still did not really know her. Not even after all these years and the wild, savage nights she had spent in his bed, a tigress that was all passion and abandon. Their attempts to become reacquainted were still awkward, the old habits dying hard and slow.

He vacillated between anger at her stubbornness and the familiar passion that was always there, always compelling. At times he thought that he would not be able to get enough of Ginny, of holding her and stroking her passionate, squirming little body, tasting her mouth, and the soft spot beneath her ear that made her shiver and cling to him, moaning like a cat in heat. It was a constant emotional tug-of-war, an internal struggle to rid himself of the old barriers between them.

Rain pelted cobblestones beyond the banquettes and gutters, a steady driving downpour that sent refuse rushing in a fetid river toward Royal Street. No gaslights lit this area; it was dark, save for wavering glows from windows and open doorways. Muted laughter, ribald songs, snatches of raucous music mingled with the sound of rain against stone, drifting on the brisk wind to where he stood.

As a younger man, curiosity had taken him to the Swamp, an area known to be infested with every low character that came to New Orleans. But now he barely paused at the corner, and turned in the other direction toward the row of neat houses a world away from the degradation and danger that lay on Gallatin Street.