Slowly, she began to tell him about what she’d done while they were apart, making no apologies and expecting nothing from him. If ever they were to survive together, he had to know everything. No more secrets, no more surprises or men from her past. If he left because of it, he would have left anyway one day if—when—he knew the truth.

“Because the truth has a way of destroying the lie when you least expect it,” she said, meeting his eyes with a show of confidence she didn’t feel. Inside, her heart was madly thumping, her nerves stretched so tautly that she thought he must be able to feel the tension inside her. “You already know most of this anyway. You deserve to hear the little you don’t already know from me.”

Amazingly, he accepted it all without comment, no harsh words or sarcastic criticism when she told him about Andre Delery, with whom she had left New Orleans after finding out Steve had slept with her stepmother, and she told him that she had loved Richard Avery, but not with the wild, sweet passion she felt for him. She even confessed about Boris Shevchenko, the burly bear of a Russian who had escorted her from Stamboul when Richard sent her away. She spared herself nothing, unflinching from harsh facts.

“I don’t expect you to reciprocate,” she ended flatly, “or to tell me about all your past amours. I just wanted us to start our new life together with no more lies between us, no secrets, no swords hanging over my head.”

Darkness had fallen while she talked, so that the tiny cabin was lit only by the soft glow of a single lantern on the wall opposite the bunk where they lay. The storm had blown itself out and the ship glided swiftly toward their destination—and their future.

Steve’s eyes were dark, a midnight blue in his lean, tanned face, narrowed at her with an expression of fierce attention. She couldn’t tell if he was angry, disgusted or hurt, and dismay clogged her throat so that she found it difficult to swallow rising panic.

Finally he moved, his long, lean fingers brown against the pale skin of her hand as he reached for her, curling them around her wrist to force her clenched fist open. He held her hand, silent, only a muscle leaping in his jaw to betray his tension as he studied her face in the gloom.

“Christ, Ginny,” he said at last, softly, “did you think I would stop loving you if you told me all this? You look like a scared rabbit. You know I’ve been no saint myself. I know you don’t expect details, like names and places, but I can give them to you. What I remember, anyway.”