On their last night in New Orleans, her trunks were packed and stood against one wall in the sitting room on the ground floor, but Ginny paced the thick gold carpets of the second-floor bedroom, waiting for Steve to return. A lamp burned with low light; the windows were open to allow in fresh air and the sound of his arrival. He’d been gone all day. No doubt by now Paco had told him about their meeting, warned him that she’d be waiting for him with questions.

How like Steve, to avoid her when he didn’t want to deal with inconvenient questions!

She intended to be calm when he finally arrived, but this time she would not let him distract her from finding out his intentions, no matter what he did. This time, there would be no secrets between them.

In spite of her resolutions, however, Ginny found her temper and her patience strained when Steve arrived. He did nothing to avoid it, of course, sauntering in well after midnight when she had long given up and gone to bed, waking her as he shut the bedroom door. A single lamp illuminated the room, leaving it in pale light and deep shadows.

Ginny considered feigning sleep, but she somehow gave herself away and saw through slitted eyes that he knew she was awake. Indignant, she sat up, glaring at him.

“Did you know, my love,” he said softly, “that your eyes glow like a panther’s in this light? All green fire and hot flames. Is that passion I see, or should I prepare to defend myself?”

“You should prepare to answer my questions,” she began tartly, but he shrugged and yawned, obviously intent upon ignoring her as he sank onto a chair and tugged off his boots, then let them drop to the floor.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake, Ginny, when it’s so late and we have to get up early. I hope you’re packed, and that you aren’t trying to take half of New Orleans’s dress shops with you.”

“Tessie finished packing for me.” She pulled the coverlet up to her neck, eyeing him narrowly as he stood up and shrugged out of his shirt, then began to unbuckle his belt. The muted clink of his buckle sounded loud in the soft gloom. “Where have you been? With Bishop? Have you decided yet if you’re going to stay with me, or if you’re going to go running all over Mexico or wherever it is he wants you to go now?”

Pale light gleamed on his bare chest and shoulders, softening the patchwork of scars from knives, bullets, a whip—that memory was far too cruel, and she shuddered as he said, “I hear you’ve been talking to Paco.”