Re-read bestselling author Rochelle Alers’ amazing novel that illustrates the bonds of family and love.

A change of scenery can often create an unexpected change of heart…

Gwendolen Taylor, fed up with big city life, finds herself inheriting an antebellum estate in Bayou Teche. Little does she know that this legacy may lead to a love beyond her wildest hopes and dreams.

Originally published in 2006.

A Time to Keep

Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

TITLE PAGE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

EPILOGUE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER 1

The ring tone from Gwendolyn Taylor’s cell phone playing Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 in E-flat major pulled her attention away from the panoramic landscape of Cajun country. She’d just passed a road sign that indicated she’d entered the town limits of Franklin, Louisiana.

Looking at the caller ID on her cell, she pushed a button on the hands-free receiver. “Yes, Lauren.”

“Are we there yet?” Laughter followed the childish query.

Shaking her head and sucking her teeth, Gwen said loudly, “Girl, you need a job that takes you out of the house, because you’re beginning to sound like your kids.” Lauren, a literary researcher and her husband, bestselling author, Caleb Samuels, both worked from home.

“Are you there yet?” Lauren repeated.

She glanced at the GPS navigational screen. “Almost.”

“How is Louisiana?”

“It’s different from our neck of the woods.”

Lauren’s soft laughter came through the speaker. “Don’t you mean my neck of the woods?”

Gwen smiled. “My driver’s license still has a Boston address, my car a Massachusetts plate, and when I open my mouth and say pawk everyone will know that I will never be crowned Miss Sweet Tater Pone.”

“You’re right about that,” Lauren agreed. “But you should know you’re much too mature for an insipid beauty contest.”

Gwen’s delicate jaw dropped. “Mature? Speak for yourself, Mrs. Samuels. You’re the one with three children, and a possible fourth on the way.”

“I told you before that Royce is going to be my last baby.”

“You said that after you had Kayla.”

“He just happened, cuz.”

“Getting pregnant doesn’t just happen Lauren Taylor-Samuels. Didn’t you tell me that you wind up pregnant whenever you and Caleb take afternoon naps together?”

“For your information, Miss Know-It-All, Cal and I no longer nap together in the afternoon.”

“Are you saying you guys have given up knockin’ boots?”

Lauren laughed again. “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”

Gwen took another quick glance at the navigational screen. She was almost there. “You guys should have one more and make it an even four.”

“I’ll have one more if you have one.”

“Can’t, cuz. I don’t have a man.”

“You don’t want a man, Gwen.”

“Correction, Lauren. I don’t need a man.”

“You’re going to need one to make a baby.”

“Not if I go the test tube route.”

“No! You can’t, Gwendolyn.”

Lauren only called her by her full name whenever she was upset with something Gwen said or did. “I can and I will if I’m not married by the time I’m thirty-eight.”

“You better start looking for a man now because you’ll be looking at thirty-eight in less than four years.”

Slowing her late-model sedan, Gwen came to a complete stop at an intersection. Looking both ways she continued in a southwesterly direction. “So will you, Lauren Vernice Taylor-Samuels.” She and Lauren were first cousins, born weeks apart.

“But, I’m the one with the husband and children.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, Lauren.”

“I’m not rubbing it in. You would’ve married years before me if you hadn’t broken off your engagement to Craig Hemming.”

“Craig was wrong for me. He was too old and too possessive. I can’t stand a man who won’t allow me my space.”

“Is that why you’re running away, Gwen? Because you need space?”

“You know I’m not running away.” She didn’t want to argue with Lauren about why she’d sold her condominium and resigned her position as a lifestyle writer at the Boston Gazette to move fifteen hundred miles away and live in a house she’d inherited from a relative she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years.

“I don’t want you to think I’m giving you a hard time,” Lauren continued in a tone she used when correcting her children. “It’s just that I miss you already. You’re more than a cousin. You are my sister.”

“Stop it,” Gwen chided softly, as her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t drive and cry at the same time. I’ll call you tomorrow after I see what Aunt Gwendolyn left me.”

“You promise?”

She smiled, blinking back the tears shimmering in her raven-colored eyes. “I promise. Kiss the children for me, and give Caleb my love.”

“I will,” Lauren said. “Later, cuz.”

Pressing a button, Gwen ended the call, struggling to bring her emotions under control. She was frightened—no, petrified was a better word—to leave all that was familiar to her for something so removed from who or what she was. But she knew her life would not change unless she actively effected that change.

It had taken her four years to become the consummate minimalist; she’d streamlined her lifestyle eliminating what she considered excess as she purged her closet of clothes she hadn’t worn more than twice in a given season, donated books to the local library and nursing homes that were collecting dust on her to-be-read pile, and gave up entertaining men who’d professed their undying love, but were unable to commit to something deeper.

Gwen was still trying to uncover what deeper meant. Did it translate to I love you instead of I like you a lot? Whatever it was, she wanted no part of their superficial games. At thirty-four she was ready to start anew in a different state and with property she’d inherited from her namesake—a reclusive, former actress—her great-aunt.

A smile slowly crept through her expression of uncertainty as she drove down Main Street. A wave of nostalgia swept over her; it was as if she’d stepped back in time. Old-fashioned street lamps lined the street, rolling out beneath an arbor of live oaks.

The lush setting had become a reality. Boston-born, reared, and educated, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was about to trade the cold, harsh New England winters for the lush, sultry heat of Bayou Teche, the largest of Louisiana’s many bayous.

Her parents, her father in particular, were opposed to her moving so far away. Millard and Paulette Taylor had lost one child, a son, to leukemia before he entered adolescence, and sought to hold onto their surviving child at all costs.

She took another quick look at the screen. She would be home within another two miles. Home—a house she’d only seen in photographs, a place that was hers to renovate or decorate to suit her tastes.

Gwen left Franklin’s Main Street and maneuvered onto a narrow, winding road leading to the property known to the locals as Bon Temps. The setting sun turned the surrounding landscape into a swamp that she glimpsed through a shadowy veil. Cypress, pine and oak trees draped in Spanish moss stood like sentinels overlooking a body of slow-moving water teeming with various wildlife while providing perches for species of birds she’d never seen before.

She was so awed by the beauty of the scenery that she didn’t see the three-legged dog hopping across the road. Swerving sharply to avoid hitting the dog, she veered to the right, skidded, and came to an abrupt end in a ditch.

“Damn!” she muttered between clenched teeth.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted into Reverse, then into Drive, stepped on the gas as the car went completely still. There was only the sound of spinning tires. She shifted again, this time into Park, and stared through the windshield. She was literally stuck in the mud.

Gwen saw something moving in the water less than a hundred feet from where she sat—stranded—a prisoner in her own vehicle. She didn’t know what was gliding under the smooth surface, and didn’t much want to know because she wasn’t getting out of the car.

Reaching for her cell phone, she scrolled through the directory while she searched through her leather handbag on the passenger-side seat for her credit card case. Pressing a button, she listened to the ringing for a programmed number.

“Road assistance, Zack speaking.”

Gwen gave Zack her name, membership number and her location. He took the information, telling her he would call her back as soon as he had located a nearby service station.

Drumming her fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, she hummed a nameless tune while awaiting a call back. Ten minutes later, she grabbed the receiver after the first ring.

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Miss Taylor, this is Zack. I called two stations in your area, one doesn’t have a tow truck, and the other is out on a call.”

“What time will he be back?”

“It’s going to be at least an hour.”

“An hour!” she repeated, her voice rising slightly. There was no way she was going to sit in a car alone surrounded by who-knew-what type of wildlife creeping, crawling, or slithering around her.

“Do you want to wait, Miss Taylor?” Zack drawled.

Why, she wondered, did it take him more than thirty seconds to say seven words. The further south she’d driven, the more pronounced the drawl. “I’ll call you back,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She ended the call, then dialed nine-one-one.

“St. Martin Parish Police. Deputy Jameson speaking.”

She took a deep breath. “Deputy Jameson, my name is Gwendolyn Taylor, and I’m stuck in a ditch on the road leading to Bon Temps. I called for road service, but was told they can’t come for another hour.”

“Are you alone, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“What type of ve-hic-le are you driving?”

Gwen shook her head. He’d drawled out vehicle into more than three syllables. “It’s a dark blue BMW sedan.”

“I’ll radio one of our officers to assist you. Make certain you keep your cell phone on in case we have to call you.”

“I will. Thank you, Deputy Jameson.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

Holding the tiny phone in a death grip, she sat back and waited for one of St. Martin Parish’s finest to rescue her.

* * *

Sheriff Shiloh Harper glanced at the watch strapped to his left wrist for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past hour. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end so he could go home, take a cool shower, and crawl into the hammock on the screened-in second-story veranda, where he could remind himself that he was one day closer to prosecuting criminals instead of arresting them.

He was covering for a vacationing deputy, and had spent the shift mediating petty incidents: a teenage boy had pumped two dollars more in gas than he had on him; a fifteen-year-old girl had tried to buy beer with a fake ID; and he’d issued a slew of tickets for drivers exceeding the speed limit in a school zone.

As he slowed the police-issued Suburban SUV, he maneuvered behind a copse of trees to wait for wannabe NASCAR drivers who used a stretch of roadway without a stop sign or traffic lights as their private racetrack. Leaning back in the leather seat, he stared at the radar device and waited for the sun to set. With the approach of nightfall, he was certain to catch at least a couple of speeders before his noon-to-eight-o’clock shift ended.

“Shiloh?”

He sat up, suddenly alert when his deputy’s voice came through the small two-way radio clipped to his left shoulder. “Yes, Jimmie.”

“I just got a call from a woman who’s stranded along the road to Bon Temps. I don’t think she’s from around here because she talks real funny. You want her number?”

“No. Call and let her know I’m on my way.”

Shiloh ended the call, placed the red light on the dashboard and headed onto the roadway. Motorists, seeing the flashing red light, moved over to the shoulder to give the official vehicle the right of way. Within minutes of Jimmie Jameson’s call, he had pulled up opposite a dark-colored, late-model sedan with Massachusetts license plates. A slight smile curved the corners of his mouth when he remembered what his deputy said about the stranded motorist talking funny. Pushing open the door, he reached for a flashlight before alighting from the SUV and approaching the car.

He switched on the flashlight and knocked softly on the driver’s door. Large dark eyes stared at him through the glass; he gestured for her to lower the window. She complied and the smell of new leather mixed with the subtle scent of a sensual perfume wafted from the interior.

“I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle, miss.”

Gwen stared at the shadowy face of the man only inches from her own. “I can’t,” she said breathlessly. The eyes staring back at Gwen reminded of her a cat’s. They were an odd shade of gold-green. What made them appear so unusual was that they were set in a brown face with hues ranging from sienna to alizarin.

His eyebrow lifted. “Are you injured?”

She shook her head like someone in a trance. The time she’d spent in the car waiting for assistance had traumatized her. She’d imagined the most macabre scenarios: an alligator climbing up on the hood of the car and smashing the windshield with his powerful tail; a venomous insect crawling in and biting her; or that the mud was quicksand.

“I can’t get out,” she said, unable to control the quiver in her voice.

Reaching into the car, Shiloh released the lock, and opened the door. Hunkering down, he directed the beam of light around the car’s interior. He trained the flashlight on the woman’s legs and feet, which were clad in a pair of cropped pants and sandals. His expressive eyebrows lifted again. She had nice legs and beautifully groomed feet. Her sandals screamed couture with a price tag that probably exceeded the weekly salary of many local residents.

“Can you walk?”

“Yes, but…” Her words trailed off as she stared at the tall man in a crisp tan uniform and western-style light-colored hat. A star on his chest identified him as the sheriff, and a name tag as Harper.

“But what?” Shiloh asked when she didn’t complete her statement.

Sighing, Gwen closed her eyes. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what? Messing up your shoes?”

She opened her eyes and rolled them at the lawman. A slight frown marred her smooth forehead. How dare he believe she was so vain or insipid that she was more concerned about a pair of shoes than her personal safety.

“Alligators. Snakes.”

A hint of a smile softened Shiloh’s mouth. Jimmie was right about her talking funny. Her Boston accent was as thick as the haze blanketing the bayou before the heat of the sun pierced its shadowy veil.

“The snakes and gators are in the water, miss.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” Smiling broadly, he nodded. “How do you know there isn’t one under my car?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if there is, then I wouldn’t be here talking to you, because I definitely would’ve been dinner.”

Gwen crossed her arms under her breasts over a white tank top, bringing his gaze to linger there. “Exactly. Now, unless you can assure me that there are no animals lurking next to my car I’m not getting out.”

Shiloh was hard pressed not to bare his teeth at her. How was he going to get her car out of the ditch with her behind the wheel? If Miss Beantown refused to come to him, then he would have to take it to her.

After slipping the flashlight into a loop on his belt, he straightened up, reached into the car, and scooped her off the seat. The unexpected motion forced her to wrap her arms around his neck to maintain her balance. He shifted her slightly, molding her breasts to his chest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gwen shouted at him. Her right hand fisted. “Put me down.”

Shiloh tightened his hold under her knees. “In the mud, miss?”

“No. Over there,” she demanded, pointing to where he’d parked his sport utility vehicle.

He shifted her again, smiling. “What do you plan to do with that fist?”

Gwen looked at her hand as if it was something she’d never seen before. Heat suffused her face. There was no doubt she was ready to punch out the tall lawman holding her effortlessly as if she were a child. It was also apparent his diet wasn’t made up of pizza and beer or coffee and greasy doughnuts like some of the cops she’d come to know during her years as a reporter for the Boston Gazette. She relaxed her fingers.

Shiloh smiled. “Good. Now I don’t have to cuff you and haul you in for assaulting an officer. What’s your name, miss?”

“Do you have to know my name?”

Crossing the road, Shiloh ignored her hostile query. “Yes. I’m going to have to file a report.”

“Why?”

He met her questioning gaze in the waning daylight. “I don’t know how you do things up north, but down here whenever someone places a call to our police department we follow up with a written report. Which means I’m going to need your license and registration.”

Gwen frowned. “You think I stole the car?”

Not bothering to answer her question, Shiloh deposited her on the passenger seat of the Suburban. “Stay here until I come back.”

Gwen registered the edge of authority in his slow drawling speech pattern. He’d told her to stay as if she were a dog. Where was she going in the backwoods, and in the dark?

Shiloh returned to her car. Not only did she talk funny, but she also had a quick tongue. What he didn’t want to think about was how nice she smelled and how good she felt in his arms.

Slipping behind the wheel, he adjusted the lever under the front seat to accommodate his longer legs. Not bothering to close the driver-side door, he shifted into Reverse, turned the wheel slightly, then shifted into Drive, maneuvering out of the mud and onto the shoulder. He adjusted the air-conditioning, noting the gas gauge. It registered a half tank. At least she knew enough not to drive around on E, or even close to it.

He picked up her handbag off the passenger seat, recognizing the designer logo with a single glance. His ex-wife’s closet overflowed with designer bags, shoes, sunglasses and clothes. If the item didn’t have someone’s name stitched or stamped on it, then she refused to buy it.

A knowing smile softened his mouth. Miss Beantown drove a six-figure car, wore very nice shoes and carried a very, very nice handbag. There was no doubt the lady from Massachusetts was top shelf. And he wondered, what was she doing driving around back roads at night in Cajun country?

* * *

Gwen could not stop the wave of heat washing over her face and upper body. All it took was a little maneuvering to get her car out of a ditch. How, she thought, was she able to drive through mounds of snow, not spin out on icy streets or highways, yet couldn’t extricate herself from a mud bank?

She stared at the mud-covered boots rather than at the face of the man striding toward her, breathing in quick shallow breaths. Never had she been so embarrassed. She thought about slipping out of the SUV and making a run for her car, but quickly changed her mind. There were enough televised police chases, and she had no intention of adding to the footage.

The driver’s side door opened and she stared, wide-eyed, at the man climbing into the vehicle beside her. Not only was he tall, but also big. Not fat big, but muscled big. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his uniform, and she forced herself not to glance below his chest.

Tilting her chin, lowering her lashes, and affecting a smile that usually left men with their mouths gaping, Gwen sought to replace the scowl on Sheriff Harper’s face with one that was more friendly. After all, he’d taken an oath to protect and serve, not berate and abuse.

Shiloh gave the woman sitting beside him a sidelong glance. “You can stop flirting with me because I’m not going to give you a citation.” He dropped her handbag in her lap.

An audible gasp escaped Gwen’s parted lips. Scorching heat swept over her from head to toe. “I’m not flirting with you. Why would I? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No, you haven’t—not yet anyway.” Shiloh gave her a direct stare. “May I have your license and registration?”

Gwen glanced at his long, well-groomed hands when he opened a leather binder, then removed a pen from a breast pocket. Searching through her handbag, she took out a small leather case and removed the documents he’d requested.

Shiloh took a quick glance at her license. “What’s your name?”

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Address.”

“Which one?”

Shiloh went completely still, his fingers tightening on the pen. “You have more than one?”

She smiled. “Yes. You have the one on my license and registration, but…”

“But what, Miss Taylor?” he asked when she didn’t finish her statement.

“I have a new address.”

He stared directly at her, liking what he saw. Gwendolyn Taylor wasn’t as pretty as she was attractive—sensually attractive. Her round face made her look much younger than her actual age. Her large dark eyes sparkled like polished onyx in a flawless sable-brown face; her nose was short and cute, her mouth full and lush; and her hair was a profusion of dark flyaway curls that fell over her forehead and along the nape of her slender neck. He didn’t want to think of her rounded body. It was a bouquet of lushness. He remembered the tagline about real women having curves. Gwendolyn Taylor had enough curves for two women.

“Where do you live now?”

“Here in St. Martin Parish. I’m moving into Bon Temps. Gwendolyn Pickering was my great-aunt.”

Shiloh stared at Gwen. There had been a lot of talk after the owner of the house passed away earlier in the year. Developers swooped down on Bon Temps like scavengers on rotting carrion. The men had come, checkbooks in hand, to purchase the house and the six acres on which it sat, but Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney refused to meet with them. He’d turned them away because his client had willed her property to a relative—a Massachusetts relative.

“That should please a lot of folks around here,” Shiloh said, after he’d recovered from his shock.

“Why’s that?”

“Because a few fat cats came around asking about buying the property. You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”

“Of course not.”

Shiloh nodded and smiled at her. The expression transformed his handsome face and gave him a boyish look. “Good.” Flipping the top to a computer, he entered the information from Gwendolyn Taylor’s license.

She leaned to her left to view the screen. “I have no outstanding warrants or citations.”

Shiloh inhaled the floral scent of the soft curls brushing his cheek. “Just procedure, Miss Taylor.” He stared at the photograph on the screen. Gwendolyn’s hair was much shorter, the style too severe for her face. She would turn thirty-five in November, and he’d just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday the month before.

Gwen watched as he entered the information on her car’s registration. The commonwealth of Massachusetts DMV had listed Gwendolyn P. Taylor as the owner of the car.

“What does the P stand for?”

“Paulette.”

“Pretty,” Shiloh said without any emotion in his voice.

“Can I go now?” she asked after he’d given her back her documents.

He noted the time on his watch and entered it into the computer. It was seven-forty-five. In fifteen minutes he would be officially off duty. “Yes, you can, Miss Taylor. I’ll come around and help you down.” Shiloh stepped out of the Suburban at the same time a police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing.

Frank Lincoln got out, right hand resting on his firearm. “You all right, boss?”

Shiloh stared at the overzealous young deputy. Frank’s father was a special agent with the FBI, and his grandfather a retired Louisiana state trooper. He’d hired the new recruit because he was ambitious, honest and dedicated to his profession.

“I’m good, Frank.”

There was just enough sunlight left to discern the flush creeping up his face, the bright color matching his orange hair. “I saw your flasher, then I noticed the perp sitting in the front seat, so I thought you were in trouble.”

Now Shiloh knew why Frank had stopped. “Miss Taylor is not a perp. I stopped…”

His explanation died on his lips. He didn’t have to explain to a subordinate what he was doing and why Gwendolyn Taylor was in the front seat instead of in the rear behind a heavy mesh partition where perpetrators were handcuffed when they were taken to the station house for questioning or locked up before they were arraigned at the courthouse.

“It’s almost time for your shift, Lincoln.” Whenever he addressed his deputies by their last name it was usually followed by a reprimand.

Frank saluted Shiloh. “Good night, sir.”

He returned the salute. “Good night, Frank. Don’t forget to turn off your lights.”

“Yes, sir.”

Waiting until the cruiser disappeared from view, Shiloh came around the SUV and scooped Gwen off the seat, then set her gently on her feet. Cupping her elbow, he led her back to her car. He released her arm and opened the door to the BMW.

“If you follow me, I’ll show you how to get to Bon Temps.”

Gwen studied his face, feature by feature, with a curious intensity as the gold-green eyes darkened with an unreadable expression. She liked his eyes and strong chin. There was just a hint of a cleft, as if nature hadn’t quite made up its mind whether to give him one.

“Thank you, Sheriff Harper.”

He touched the brim of the wide hat with a thumb and forefinger. “You’re welcome, Miss Taylor.”

Shiloh waited until she was seated before he returned to his SUV, turned off the flasher, executed a U-turn and headed southward. He glanced up at the rearview mirror. She was following him.

He decelerated and drove onto a paved road leading to a smaller version of the half-dozen restored antebellum mansions offering tours. Live oaks formed a natural canopy as he approached the house known as Bon Temps—meaning “good times” in French.

Shiloh wondered if Gwendolyn Taylor was aware of what had gone on behind the doors of the infamous mansion. He also wondered how well she’d known her namesake, Gwendolyn Pickering. A knowing smile parted his lips. If she didn’t know, then she would once the gossips came to introduce themselves to the newcomer. His first instinct was to warn her, but he changed his mind. There was something about Gwendolyn Taylor that said she could hold her own with anything and anyone. She had with him.

He waited in his vehicle, watching Gwendolyn as she parked her car, walked to the entrance of the house, and unlocked the front door. She disappeared inside and seconds later the first floor was flooded with soft light.

Shiloh smiled when she waved to him. He returned her wave, waiting until she closed the door. It wasn’t until he’d left Bon Temps and headed in the direction of his own house that he chided himself for not checking to see if she was safe—that no intruder or squatter had taken up residence.

Flipping a signal, he drove back to Bon Temps.

CHAPTER 2

Gwen stood in the entryway, staring up at a cobweb-covered light fixture overhead. Muslin slipcovers were draped over all of the tables and chairs and a layer of dust coated the parquet floors bordered in a rosewood-inlay pattern.

Gwendolyn Pickering had passed away in late February, and it was now early May. It was that apparent no one had come to clean or air out the house. She pretended she didn’t see the stained and peeling wallpaper. Walking across the living room, she saw a massive chandelier resting in a corner on a drop cloth, the sooty remains in the brick fireplace, and the threadbare carpeting on the staircase leading to the second floor. Despite the disrepair, she recognized the magnificence of the mansion, which dated back to the 1840s.

Bon Temps was home, and not the three-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a turn-of-the-century town house she’d occupied for the past decade.

Heading for the staircase, she flipped on the light switch on a wall panel and illuminated the landing and the hallway at the top of the staircase.

Her footsteps were slow and determined as she climbed the stairs to see what awaited her. Her late aunt’s attorney had mailed her an envelope filled with photographs of the exterior and interior of Bon Temps, floor plans, copies of the original architectural drawings, and a description of the furnishings with authentication of every inventoried item.

The five-thousand-square-foot house contained four bedrooms, five-and-a-half bathrooms, a kitchen, a pantry, a laundry room, a formal living and dining room, and a small ballroom for entertaining. The floor plans also included a second-story veranda that overlooked an orchard and formal garden.

It took several hours after a lengthy conversation with Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney for Gwen to digest the information that she now owned a house that if restored, would be granted historic landmark status. Mr. Sykes said she could either turn Bon Temps into a museum or live in it, so she’d opted to claim it as her home.

Gwen stopped as she reached the last stair when the chiming of the doorbell echoed melodiously throughout the house. Had someone seen the lights and come to investigate? She tried to remember if she’d locked the door behind her. Turning, she descended the staircase and walked to the door. She breathed a sigh of relief. Unconsciously, she’d locked it. Living in a big city had honed her survival skills—never leave a door unlocked.

The bell chimed again. Peering through the security peephole, Gwen saw the distorted face of the man whom she’d left less than five minutes before.

“Yes?” she asked through the solid wood door.

“Miss Taylor, it’s Shiloh. Please open the door.”

Her eyebrows inched up. He hadn’t identified himself as Sheriff Harper. She disengaged the lock. The man who’d rescued her from the ditch looked different without his hat. His close-cropped black hair hugged his head like a cap. The soft yellow light from the porch lamps flattered the angles of his dark brown face. He looked like someone she’d seen before.

She affected a smile. “Yes, Sheriff?”

Shiloh’s gold-flecked green eyes lingered on her lush mouth. “Please call me Shiloh.”

Her smile faded. “Why?”

“Because I’m off duty. Your place has been vacant for several months although my men do check at least twice a week to make certain squatters or vandals haven’t broken in. I just came back to make certain you were all right.”

Gwen knew it was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t take her gaze away from Shiloh’s face. Who did he look like? She mentally ran through the faces of people she’d met and interviewed over the years, but came up blank.

She blinked as if coming out of a trance and opened the door wider. “You’re off duty, yet you’re still on the job?”

He angled his head, smiling. “I’m always on the job, Miss Taylor.”

Shiloh liked listening to Gwendolyn Taylor’s voice. It was a welcome change from the slow drawl and distinctive inflection of the Cajun dialect of most people in the parish. Not only did she talk different, but she also looked different from the women in the region. Despite her casual attire, there was something about her that silently screamed big city, and he wondered how long it would take for her to abandon Bon Temps, tire of the slower lifestyle, and return to Massachusetts.

Gwen gave him a warm smile and offered her right hand. “I’d like you to call me Gwen.”

Shiloh took her smaller hand in his, enjoying its softness. It was with reluctance that he released it. He’d returned to Bon Temps to make certain it was safe for Gwendolyn Taylor to enter, and he’d also returned to see her again. He didn’t know what it was about the transplanted Bostonian, but something about her intrigued him. Not knowing whether there was a Mr. Taylor or a few little Taylors, but like a besotted teenager he’d come back for another glimpse of a woman whose voice drew him to her like a moth to a flame.

He nodded, smiling. “Then Gwen it is. Do you mind if I check around?”

She stepped aside. “Not at all.”

Shiloh moved into the entryway, his sharp gaze cataloguing everything. Even to someone who lived his entire life in the South the heat inside the house was oppressive.

He walked into the living room, stopping short, and a soft body plowed into his back. Turning quickly, he reached out to steady Gwen as she swayed and struggled to keep her balance.

“Just where are you going?” he asked, glaring down at her stunned expression.

Gwen felt the unyielding strength in the fingers around her upper arms, inhaled the lingering scent of a provocative men’s cologne, and shivered from the press of Shiloh’s body against hers.

“I’m following you.” She didn’t recognize her own voice because it had come out in a breathless whisper.

Shiloh eased his grip on her arms, but didn’t release her. A frown marred his smooth forehead. “No, you’re not.”

She bristled visibly. How dare he tell her what she could do in her own home? “And why not?”

“Because I’m the one with the big gun,” he drawled. He hadn’t bothered to hide his arrogance.

Gwen tried unsuccessfully to bite back a smile. “Oh, really, Mr. Lawman, sir.”

Shiloh’s hands fell away once he realized what he’d said. There was no doubt she’d misconstrued his statement as a sexual taunt. Resting long, slender fingers on his waist, he smiled. “Would you like me to show it to you?” He got the reaction he sought when Gwen gasped and her eyes widened. “I personally prefer the Glock to the standard police-issue .38 revolver.”

Gwen’s gaze shifted from his Cheshire cat grin to the deadly looking firearm strapped to his waist. “I don’t need to see it, Shiloh. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay here.”

Recovering quickly, her eyes narrowed. “This is the second time you’ve told me to stay as if I were a dog.”

It was Shiloh’s turn to give a questioning look. One eyebrow lifted higher than the other and that was when Gwen knew who he reminded her of.

“Do you know that you look like The Rock?”

“The Rock?”

“Dwayne Johnson. The wrestler-turned-actor,” she explained. “His complexion is lighter than yours, and your eyes aren’t dark like his, but the two of you could pass for brothers.”

Shiloh had lost count of the number of times people mentioned his resemblance to the wrestler, yet always claimed he’d never heard of the man.

“I suppose it’s true about everyone having a double,” he said glibly. “How about you, Gwen? Do you have someone who looks like you?”

“Yes, in fact I do. My first cousin Lauren and I look enough alike to be sisters. The only difference is that I’m about an inch taller and rounder than she is in certain places despite the fact that she’s had three babies.”

“Have many children do you have?” Shiloh asked, as his penetrating gaze moved slowly over her body.

“None.”

“So, it’s just going to be you and Mr. Taylor living here?”

She shook her head. “There is no Mr. Taylor, aside from my father and Uncle Roy. Will my marital status also go into your police report?”

Shiloh went completely still. Miss Gwendolyn Taylor was anything but shy, timid or submissive. “No, it won’t.”

Crossing her arms under her breasts, she took a step and looked directly into a pair of the most mesmerizing eyes she’d ever seen on a man. The gold was the perfect match for the undertones in his smooth-shaven jaw, the green dramatic and hypnotic.

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“I always like to maintain a modicum of anonymity.”

“That’s not going to be an easy feat down here.”

“Why not?” Gwen asked.

“We’re in the bayou. That means everyone gets to know everyone else. The fact that you live out here may make it a little easier for you, but I wouldn’t count on complete anonymity.”

Shiloh wanted to tell Gwen that only Gwendolyn Pickering was able to keep her private life private. Those she’d invited to Bon Temps swore an oath never to reveal what went on behind the door once they crossed the threshold.

“What about yourself, Sheriff Harper? Does everyone know your business?”

“I’m a public servant and that means my life is an open book,” he admitted.

“You don’t have a private life?”

He hesitated, then said, “Right now I don’t.”

The journalist in Gwen wanted to know more about the sheriff, but she hadn’t moved more than fifteen hundred miles to get involved, even if it was on a superficial level, with a man. Besides, she didn’t know whether Shiloh was married, engaged or involved with a woman.

“I’ll wait here for you to complete your search,” she said, deftly dropping the topic and letting Shiloh know she wanted him gone.

Shiloh averted his gaze from the softly curved luscious mouth. “I’ll try to be quick about it.” He switched on a flashlight and headed for the staircase.

His footsteps were muffled by the pile of the well-worn carpet lining the winding staircase. He hadn’t lied to Gwen about his private life. He hadn’t had one in three years, not since his divorce, and not since he’d left the district attorney’s office to serve out his father’s term as sheriff after Virgil Harper was gunned down during a botched bank robbery.

Flipping on a light switch on the wall at the top of the stairs, he saw firsthand the fading beauty of Bon Temps concealed under dust and cobwebs. The last two years of Gwendolyn Pickering’s life had been shrouded in mystery. She’d stopped receiving visitors and rarely ventured off the property.

Shiloh entered and exited bedrooms attached by adjoining sitting rooms and baths. He checked the locks on the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling French doors in the bedrooms overlooking the rear.

It appeared as if no one, other than whoever had covered the furniture with dustcovers, had returned to the house since Gwendolyn Pickering passed away. One thing he knew was that the house was not fit for human habitation—at least not until it was aired out.

He returned to the first floor by a back stairway and found himself outside an expansive state-of-the-art, eat-in kitchen. A pantry and laundry room were set up in an alcove behind the kitchen. His booted feet left distinctive footprints on the tiled floor.

Turning the faucet on in one of the stainless steel twin sinks, Shiloh waited for the water to run clear. There were two things Gwen did not have to concern herself with: water and electricity. Both were in working order.

Returning to the front of the house, he found Gwen where he’d left her, in the living room. She stood next to the massive crystal chandelier resting on a drop cloth in a corner.

“You can’t stay here tonight,” he announced in a voice layered with an authoritative undertone.

Gwen turned, an expression of indecision freezing her delicate features. “What?”

Shiloh closed the distance between them. “The house is safe, but you can’t stay,” he repeated. “The air quality is unhealthy. This place has been closed up for months and should be dusted and aired out before you sleep here.”

She groaned audibly. “It’s that bad?”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s that bad.”

Gwen worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Is there a hotel or motel around here that I can check into?”

“The nearest motel is right off the interstate. But on the other hand, Jessup’s boardinghouse is just up the road.”

There was no need for her to agonize over where she would spend the night. After driving more than twelve hours Gwen loathed getting behind the wheel of her car again. Her eyelids fluttered. “I’ll stay at the boardinghouse. How do I get there?”

“I’ll show you.” Shiloh extended his hand. “Give me your key and I’ll lock up.”

Delving her hand into the pocket of her slacks, Gwen handed him the key, then turned on her heels and walked out of the house, feeling the heat of Shiloh’s gaze on her retreating back.

She got into her car and waited for Shiloh Harper to turn off the lights and lock up Bon Temps. And for the second time that night she found herself following his vehicle.

* * *

Gwen’s eyelids drooped as she waited for the proprietor of Jessup’s boardinghouse to swipe her credit card. She was past being tired; she was exhausted and hungry. She’d left Chattanooga, Tennessee earlier that morning, stopping only to refuel her car.

Forcing herself to stand upright, she gave Shiloh a half smile. He’d brought in her luggage and offered to wait until she had gotten a room in the family-owned establishment. “How can I thank you for all you’ve done for me?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Shiloh angled his head. “You can buy a ticket to an upcoming fund-raising dinner-dance to benefit the bayou’s needy families.”

“How much are they?”

“Fifty.”

“Put me down for two.”

Shiloh lowered his arms. Gwen admitted to not being married, but she hadn’t said anything about a boyfriend. Women who looked like Gwendolyn Taylor usually did not spend their weekends watching rented videos or reading novels that promised a happily-ever-after ending because it was missing in her life. He knew very little about the current owner of Bon Temps, but what he saw he definitely liked.

Willie Jessup placed a key and her card on the solid oak counter. “You’re in room two-one-four. It’s at the top of the stairs.” He nodded to Shiloh. “I’ll take her bags up,” he said in French.

“It’s all right, Willie. I’ll do it,” he replied in the same language. “Keep an eye on her, because she’s not from around here,” Shiloh said quietly.

“No problem,” Willie replied.

Gwen’s fatigue vanished quickly. She’d taken an accelerated course in French before her European vacation and had come away with only a rudimentary fluency in the language. During the two weeks she’d spent in France she was able to order food, ask street directions and negotiate with shopkeepers. The French were impressed because she’d at least tried to communicate with them in their language.

Shiloh picked up her bags and headed for the staircase, Gwen following. She was intrigued by the man named for a horrific Civil War battle; a man who as sheriff of St. Martin Parish had gone beyond the call of duty to make certain she was safe; a man who understood and spoke French fluently. The reporter in her wanted answers—a lot of answers, but they would have to wait until after she’d gotten some sleep.

Soft light coming from two table lamps revealed a room that was spacious and clean. A mahogany four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting, a matching highboy and rocker beckoned her to come and spend the night.

Shiloh placed her three bags on the floor next to a small, adjoining bathroom before he walked over to the French doors overlooking a balcony enclosed with decorative wrought-iron grillwork. He checked the lock, then flipped a wall switch and the blades of a ceiling fan stirred the air.

Turning around, he stared at Gwen who lay across the bed, eyes closed. Moving closer, he saw the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. She’d fallen asleep. Bending over, he removed her sandals. A knowing smile softened his firm mouth. He was right about her shoes costing more than some folks earned in a week. Gwen Taylor’s size seven sandals were Jimmy Choos.

He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her face and he noticed things that weren’t apparent at first glance: the length of her lashes resting on a pair of high cheekbones, the narrowness of the bridge of her short nose, the incredibly smooth color of her sable-brown face, and the lush softness of her mouth.

An unbidden thought popped into and out of his head quickly. Spinning on his heels he walked out of the room, closing the door softly. He checked the knob to make certain it was locked, then made his way down the staircase to the lobby.

“Bon soir,” he said to Willie as he strolled across the lobby and out of the boardinghouse.

“A tout a l’heure, Shiloh,” Willie called out at the same time the telephone rang.

Shiloh climbed behind the wheel of the black unmarked SUV and turned on the engine. The clock on the dashboard read 9:55. It wasn’t often he worked overtime, but he didn’t consider helping Gwendolyn Taylor work. It was one parish resident helping out another.

He drove away from Jessup’s thinking about the woman asleep on the bed in a second-floor bedroom. She intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to get to know her better. And like her namesake who’d occupied Bon Temps for half a century, he was certain this Gwendolyn would also get her share of male admirers.

What she didn’t know was that she’d acquired her first one: Shiloh Harper.

* * *

Shiloh lay in the oversized hammock, his head resting on a down-filled pillow, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over an equally bared chest, listening to the nocturnal sounds of the bayou: the low growl of an alligator, the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, and the occasional splash of a muskrat, opossum and other wildlife. The sounds had become a serenade, easing his frustration. And like those he’d tried and sent to prison he now counted the days, weeks, months, and it was now less than a year when he would eventually return to the D.A.’s office.

Four years of college, three in law school and countless hours studying to pass the Louisiana bar hadn’t prepared him to become a sheriff. He loved preparing a case for trial, going to trial, and delivering opening and closing arguments. His mother called him a frustrated actor because there were times when his presentation was likened to a Hollywood A-list actor’s performance.

Now, however, he wasn’t a district attorney but Sheriff Shiloh Harper, and serving out his father’s term had delayed his goal of becoming a judge by his fortieth birthday.

Shifting slightly in the hammock, he closed his eyes as the blades of one of the ceiling fans on the veranda moved the sultry air, caressing his scantily clad body. He was beginning to feel the effects of the two beers he’d drunk in lieu of eating his mother’s jambalaya. After thirty-seven years of marriage his widowed mother still had not adjusted to cooking for one person. Any time he left the house where he’d grown up, it was with several containers of Moriah Harper’s exquisitely prepared food.

The cell phone resting near his right hand rang a distinctive ring. Without glancing at the display he knew who’d dialed his number. He counted six rings before the voice-mail feature activated. Then he picked up the telephone, deleted the message, and settled back to spend the night on the hammock.

There had been a time when he couldn’t wait to talk to Deandrea Tate. But that was before he’d courted and married her. But everything changed eighteen months into their marriage when he came home and found another man in bed with his wife. They stopped talking and rage and acrimony surfaced as he filed for divorce. Now, there was nothing his ex-wife had to say that he wanted or needed to hear. He’d given Deandrea the monstrosity of a house she’d hounded him to buy and everything in it as a settlement—a house and furnishings she sold less than six months after their divorce. She’d called because she probably needed money. Well, he’d given her all that he had, and then some.

Shiloh Harper wasn’t the same man Deandrea married. She was now his past, and he had made it a practice not to dwell on what was, but prepare for what was to come.

* * *

Gwen opened her eyes, totally disoriented, her clothes pasted to her moist body. She stared up through the gauzy netting at the whirling blades of a ceiling fan. Within seconds she realized where she was, and recalled what had happened since she’d crossed the boundary into Bayou Teche.

She’d gotten stuck in a mud bank, was rescued by the police, surveyed the hot, musty, dusty interior of the house that was now her home, and instead of sleeping at Bon Temps was forced to spend the night at a local boardinghouse.

Sitting up and getting off the bed, Gwen made her way barefoot over to the smallest of her three pieces of luggage. Shiloh had carried all three bags in one trip while it had taken her two trips from her top floor apartment to bring them down to her car. Opening the bag, she withdrew a case with her cosmetics, and walked into the bathroom.

Half an hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, refreshed by a lukewarm shower. Turning off the table lamps, she parted the sheer netting, slipped under a crisp floral sheet, and within minutes went back to sleep.

CHAPTER 3

Gwen woke up ravenous. Rolling over, she reached for her watch on the bedside table. It was 11:20, and she did not want to do anything or make any decision until she’d eaten. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood up and headed for the bathroom.

Despite the growling sounds coming from her belly, Gwen lingered under the spray of the shower to wash and condition her hair. It was half past twelve when she descended the staircase and walked into the boardinghouse lobby. The expansive area was filled with wicker love seats and chairs cradling colorful floral cushions. An elderly woman with long, graying red hair stood behind the counter sorting mail.

Her head came up and she smiled at Gwen. “Bonjour, Miss Taylor. I’m Angelique Jessup. My nephew told me that Shiloh brought you in last night.”

Clutching her purse to her middle, Gwen hoped to muffle the sound of her growling belly. She wondered what else Shiloh had told Willie Jessup about her. Had he disclosed that she was now the new owner of Bon Temps? She also noticed that the older woman hadn’t referred to Shiloh as Sheriff Harper.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Jessup. Perhaps you can tell me where I can get something to eat?”

“You missed breakfast, and we don’t serve supper until six, so the only place open for lunch is the Outlaw.”

Gwen groaned inwardly. “How far is it from here?”

Gesturing with a clawlike fingernail, Angelique said, “When you go out the door, turn to your right and walk toward the water. There you’ll meet someone who’ll take you across to the Outlaw.”

She went completely still before her eyes widened. A boat? Gwen blinked once. “I have to take a boat across?”

Angelique nodded slowly. “You can’t drive because after years of wrangling, the state finally gave us the money to repair the road on the east side of the parish. It will be closed for at least three months, so the only way to get to the Outlaw is by boat.”

“How long will that take?”

“About ten minutes. As soon as you clear a sandbar you’ll see the restaurant.”

Gwen closed her eyes briefly as a spasm tightened her stomach muscles, leaving her light-headed. “Thank you.”

“Bon appetit,” the older woman called out as Gwen headed toward the door.

“Merci,” she said, deciding it was time to begin practicing her limited French. She’d moved to southern Louisiana, the geographical heart of Acadiana, a region where she would hear the authentic dialect of the Acadian people.

The boardinghouse was situated along a block of attached two-story structures with decorative grillwork balconies representative of the region. The facades were shaded by rows of giant oak trees rising more than a hundred feet and trailing a yard of moss below their sweeping branches.

Everything about the bayou was so different from Boston: the architecture, topography, wildlife, flora, climate and people. Gwen felt as if she were being seduced, pulled into an atmosphere from which she did not want to escape. The cloying fragrance of flowering magnolia, honeysuckle and roses mingled with the distinctive smell of the water as she walked in the direction Angelique Jessup had indicated. The heat of the semitropical sun and humidity caressed her exposed skin under the lace-trimmed camisole she’d pulled on over a pair of worn jeans that she should’ve discarded when she emptied her closets.

What once had been a very active social life dwindled to an occasional encounter, most not going beyond the two-date limit. This suited her just fine because she preferred spending time alone, reading, seeing movies, and trying out new recipes to wasting her time with boorish, egotistical men who believed if they were treating her to dinner, then she should become their dessert at the end of the night.

She refused to become any man’s dessert, possession, and definitely not his trophy. If they did not see or treat her as an equal, then she was prepared to spend the rest of her life—alone.

If she hadn’t been so famished, she would’ve enjoyed her stroll. The fragrant odor of flowers growing wild faded as she approached the water. Her steps slowed as she saw La Boule, a boat painted a brilliant red and black, moored at the pier. She moved closer, the spongy earth giving way under the soles of her high-heel sandals.

“You want to cross the water with Etienne, missy?”

Gwen turned to find a wizened old man with a long beard that looked as if he’d glued a profusion of Spanish moss to his chin. He sat on a folding chair under a piece of tarpaulin supported by a quartet of rusting poles. Four late-model cars and six pickup trucks were parked nearby under a large tin shed open on two sides.

She assumed he was asking her whether she wanted him to take her across the bayou. “Yes, I do. How much is the fare to the Outlaw?”

“No pay if you go to the Outlaw,” he mumbled. Etienne pushed off the wooden chair, adjusted the bib of his overalls, and shuffled down to the pier to the ferryboat. Gwen followed.

She made her way onto the ferryboat and sat down on a padded bench. As Etienne started up the engine and backed away from the shore, she stared at the passing landscape. Her breath caught in her chest as she entered an ethereal world that appeared primal and hostile. Moving at a speed less than three knots, La Boule provided her with a panoramic view of the bayou with its lush vegetation and ancient tree limbs before coming to a final rest in the muddy-water stream that meandered and twisted for a hundred and twenty-five miles.

Moving closer to the railing, she peered through a haze of muted gray and greens as a flock of snowy-white egrets settled down on the sandbar Angelique had mentioned. A loud splash garnered her attention; a large turtle swam just below the surface of the water.

She glimpsed the outline of a Greek Revival mansion through a copse of moss-draped oaks, the pristine white structure an exact replica of her home, but on a larger scale. She did not want to think about her ancestors who labored under the yoke of slavery to maintain the grandeur of the antebellum residences and the land from which the owners derived their wealth. The boat slowed, bumping against the wharf and Gwen leaned over the railing, peering up at a building erected on stilts.

Etienne turned the wheel until La Boule was parallel to the Outlaw’s wharf. He cut the engine, left the wheelhouse and tossed a thick rope over a stanchion. He was waiting for Gwen as she disembarked. Cupping her elbow, he led her off the boat.

He smiled, displaying a mouth filled with worn yellow teeth. “Bon appetit.”

She returned his smile, reaching into her cavernous leather bag. She pulled out several bills and pressed them into the ferryman’s hand. “Merci beaucoup.”

Etienne pocketed the money without glancing at what his passenger had given him. “Merci, missy.”

Gwen climbed the wooden steps to the Outlaw as tantalizing smells wafted through the many screened-in windows. Right about now she was hungry enough to eat a critter: alligator, rattlesnake, squirrel, or possum.

* * *

Shiloh glanced up from the newspaper spread out on his left when the waitress placed his order on the table. “Thanks, Juleen.”

Her dark eyes sparkled as she met Shiloh’s gaze. “Do you want me to freshen up your coffee, Sheriff Harper?”

A frown replaced his forced smile. Most St. Martin Parish residents knew not to call him sheriff whenever he was out of uniform, but Juleen Aucoin persisted. The few times he’d spoken to his brother about it, Ian revealed that Juleen was looking to become the next Mrs. Shiloh Harper.

If Juleen believed she was flirting with him, then she’d just struck out—big time. Since his divorce he’d ignored every woman’s attempt to tease, flirt or get him to either date her or share her bed. He wasn’t exempt from making mistakes, but he was proud to admit that he’d never repeated one. He’d fallen in love and married, believing once he exchanged vows it would be happily ever after but it hadn’t been and he’d sworn never to marry again.

“Please leave the pot, Juleen,” he ordered in a soft voice.

Her pink lips parted at the same time a rush of color darkened her pretty face. “It’s the only pot with coffee, Shiloh.”

Shiloh exhaled audibly. “I’m certain my brother has another coffeepot somewhere in his kitchen.”

“He does.”

Raising his expressive eyebrows, he said, “Then I suggest you brew some more.”

The waitress placed the half-filled carafe on the table and walked away, pouting. Short of stripping naked, she’d tried everything to get Shiloh Harper to notice her. The moment that rumors were confirmed that Shiloh had moved out of the restored mansion he’d shared with his wife and into a smaller house in a gated community, she along with every other eligible woman in the parish, regardless of their age flirted shamelessly with him. But to the women’s consternation, the former district attorney ignored their overtures, leading most to believe that he hadn’t gotten over Deandrea.

Rumors also circulated that if he wasn’t seeing a woman, then he must be involved in a same-sex liaison, rumors Juleen refused to believe. One of her girlfriends who worked in the local Eckerd’s where Shiloh bought his toiletries whispered that he never bought condoms, which led Juleen to believe that he was possibly celibate. And celibacy wasn’t something she attributed to the acting sheriff. Men who looked like Shiloh Harper exuded too much sensuality to be asexual. She decided to give him one more try. The next time she would be subtler in her approach.

* * *

Shiloh picked up the carafe and refilled his coffee mug. He needed coffee to keep him alert—lots of it because he’d spent the night tossing and turning in the hammock until he was forced to abandon it in favor of his bed. He’d come to detest sleeping in the bed because it reminded him of how solitary his life had become. He had two days off—forty-eight hours in which he’d planned to read, watch a few movies, and do several loads of laundry.

He closed his eyes as he took a sip of the steaming black coffee liberally laced with chicory. Shiloh smiled. His younger brother Ian was known for brewing the best coffee in southern Louisiana.

A sudden and pregnant hush fell over the restaurant, and Shiloh opened his eyes to find Gwendolyn Taylor strolling into the Outlaw as if it was something she did every day. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug, burning his fingers, before he realized his hand was shaking. Setting down the cup, he shook his hand, then blotted up the liquid with a paper napkin.

Rising slowly to his feet, he watched her come closer, his penetrating gaze sweeping from her head to her feet within seconds. The flyway curly hairdo was missing, and in its place a chignon secured on the nape of her long, slender neck. She’d managed to tame the sensual curls with a style that was casual and chic at the same time.

She wore a silky, lace-trimmed, bright pink top over a pair of faded jeans that hugged her tight, compact body like a second skin. His gaze lingered on her feet. Today she wore a pair of high-heeled sandals in a rose-pink-and-navy print. Very pretty, but definitely not practical for a stroll.

He watched her looking around the restaurant for an empty table. It was lunchtime and the Outlaw was crowded with local fishermen who’d gone out in their boats before sunrise, returning hours later with their nets and traps filled with shrimp, oysters, crabs and crayfish.

Shiloh pushed back his chair at the same time François Broussard rose to his feet, heading toward Gwen. François, a direct descendant of the Acadian exiles who came from Canada to Louisiana in the mid 18th-century, had become the parish’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelor. His much sought-after photographs and paintings were exhibited in museums and galleries throughout the country. Swarthy, silver-haired, urbane and jaded, he used his charm to seduce women as if it were his inalienable right.

Shiloh and François had grown up as friends, attended the same high school, dated some of the same girls, and François was one of several men Deandrea had slept with after she’d become Mrs. Shiloh Harper. To say there was bad blood between the two men was an understatement.

Shiloh made his way to Gwen seconds before François. Reaching for her hand, he held it firmly within his grasp, kissing the back of it. “I’d almost given up hope that you’d come,” he said in a quiet voice, as she stared up at him. No doubt she was as shocked to see him, as he was she.

Gwen recognized Shiloh’s voice before she realized he was out of uniform. Today he wore a light blue chambray shirt over a pair of jeans. His eyes were a deep moss green, the color contrasting his rich, sun-browned face. Her gaze shifted from the sheriff to the other man staring at her with an expectant expression. He had rakishly long silver hair that framed an unlined slender face with electric blue eyes and delicate features, which were better suited for a woman.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady?” François asked Shiloh in a Creole dialect.

Tightening his hold on Gwen’s fingers, he pulled her hand into the bend of his elbow. A slow smile softened his mouth. “Step off, Broussard, before I kick your ass,” he threatened quietly in the same dialect. Turning his attention to Gwen, he gave her a wide grin. “Are you hungry, darling?”

“Starved,” she answered truthfully, although completely confused by the interaction between Shiloh and the man he’d called Broussard.

The conversations that had stopped when Gwen walked into the Outlaw started up again. Surreptitious stares were directed at François as he retreated to his table in a corner. Most of the men were silently applauding Shiloh’s attempt to thwart another conquest for the arrogant, egotistical artist.

Shiloh led Gwen back to his table, pulled out a chair for her, then sat opposite her. His breathing deepened. The woman sitting only a few feet away was so ardently feminine that he found drawing a normal breath difficult.

Gwen forced herself not to stare at Shiloh’s sandwich. Shredded lettuce, thinly sliced tomatoes, and a pile of golden fried oysters and shrimp were nestled between two slices of toasted French bread. A smaller plate held a cup of tartar sauce and lemon wedges.

Leaning over the small round table, she said, “Why did you call me darling?”

Ignoring her query, Shiloh picked up the plates and placed them in front of her. “You said you were starved, so please eat.”

Her dark eyes widened. “I can’t take your lunch.”

“Yes, you can.” Pushing back from the table, he stood up. “I’ll order another one.”

Gwen watched Shiloh’s broad shoulders under the crisp shirt as he made his way toward the back of the restaurant and disappeared through a pair of swinging louvered doors. He looked equally good in or out of uniform, in dim or bright light, coming or going. Whoever claimed Shiloh Harper as boyfriend, fiancé or husband was one lucky woman. The word darling had rolled off his tongue as smoothly as watered silk. Some of the men she’d known thought calling her baby was the ultimate endearment. She’d permitted only one man to call her baby, and that man was Millard Taylor—her father, because he’d declared emphatically that she would always be his baby girl regardless of her age.

She squeezed a wedge of lemon over the mound of fried seafood, followed with a spoonful of tartar sauce, before topping it off with a small amount of hot pepper sauce. She picked up the sandwich and took a bite. A myriad of flavors tantalized her palate as she chewed slowly. Never had she eaten something so incredibly delectable. The lightly battered oysters and shrimp, the sweetness of the tartar sauce, and the sharp pungent bite of the hot sauce created a bouquet of flavors that literally exploded in her mouth. She’d eaten half of the sandwich before Shiloh returned with another one.

He sat down, smiling. “Do you like it?”

Dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Gwen sighed and closed her eyes. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I took the first bite,” she said when she opened her eyes to meet his amused stare.

“You’ve never eaten a po’boy?”

She went completely still. “A what?”

“Po’boy.”

Gwen blinked once. “Don’t you mean poor boy?”

Shiloh was hard pressed not to laugh. “It is not poor,” he said, enunciating the r. “It’s po’ like in Edgar Allan Poe.”

A hint of a smile crinkled her eyes at the corners. “But wouldn’t it sound better to say poor rather than po’?”

Shiloh lathered tartar sauce over his po’boy, then added a liberal amount of pepper sauce. “It takes too long to say poor. Po’ works for us down here.”

Gwen reached for the coffee mug and took a swallow. It was strong and slightly bitter. She peered at Shiloh over the rim. “You all talk funny down here.”

He eased the mug from her hand, smiling. “It’s not you all, but y’all, Gwen.”

“Hey, you’re drinking my coffee,” she said in protest.

Shiloh took a long swallow before refilling the mug. His eyes narrowed. “I offered you my po’boy, not my coffee.”

Leaning back on her chair, she regarded him for a long moment. “Silly me for not remembering you’re a cop.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring his defensive tone, Gwen reached over and patted the back of his hand. “Isn’t drinking coffee and eating doughnuts a prerequisite for becoming a police officer?”

Shiloh’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “So, Miss Beantown, you’ve got cop jokes. For your information we don’t eat doughnuts down here.”

“What do you eat?”

“Beignets.”

It was Gwen’s turned to lift her eyebrows. “I’ve never eaten one.”

“You po’ deprived little thang,” he teased. “There’s nothing better for breakfast than café au lait and beignets.”

Gwen wanted to laugh at his tortured expression. She hadn’t known Shiloh Harper twenty-four hours, yet there was something about him that made her feel comfortable enough to verbally spar with him. There was something about him that said he was so very sure of himself and his rightful place in the universe.

“I’ll make certain to sample one.”

Shiloh rested his chin on a fisted hand. “I bet you won’t be able to eat just one.”

She assumed the same gesture, smiling. “That’s one bet you’re going to lose.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m very, very disciplined.”

“Don’t you mean anal?”

Her dark eyes widened. “No!”

The beginnings of a smile touched Shiloh’s mouth. “I think you protest too much.”

“I’m not as anal as I am focused.”

He lowered his hand without taking his gaze off the face of the woman sharing his table. He liked Gwen—her face, softly curving body, quick mind and witty repartee.

“What are you focused on now?”

“Fixing up my new home.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he repeated. “What about a job?”

Gwen’s body stiffened in shock that caused the words to wedge in her throat. “Are you interrogating me, Sheriff Harper?” she asked, recovering her voice.

“Of course not, Miss Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor.”

A wave of heat swept up from her chest to her cheeks. “There’s no need to call me by my government name,” she said, frowning.

Shiloh threw back his head, laughing loudly, as everyone in the restaurant turned in his direction. Most couldn’t remember the last time they’d heard Shiloh Harper laugh aloud. It was before his divorce and before Sheriff Virgil Harper died in the line of duty. Suddenly aware that he’d attracted attention, he glared at those staring at him and Gwen. One by one they turned away and went back to whatever it was they were discussing.

Gwen took another bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. Even if she didn’t tell Shiloh of her plans, there was no doubt he would soon find out.

“I’m a journalist.”

His sober expression did not change. “Radio, television, or print?”

“Print.”

“Perhaps Nash McGraw could use you. He’s the editor-in-chief of the Teche Tribune, and lately he’s been putting out the paper using a skeleton staff.”

“Is it a weekly?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“If you run into him, please let him know that I’m interested in something part-time.”

A hint of a smile crinkled the skin around Shiloh’s eyes. “What else are you interested in?”

A shiver of annoyance raced up her spine and she had to admit that the man sitting across from her was good. He’d befriended her the night before and now had offered her his lunch while subtly interrogating her. She was a new resident, and he was probably intrigued that a single woman from Boston would relocate and take possession of a house sight unseen.

He’d retrieved all of her vital data when he entered her driver’s license in a national DMV database, so if he wanted to check further into her background he could. Did he suspect she’d come to the Louisiana bayou to hide out, or establish a cover for a criminal operation? What the delicious-looking law enforcement officer didn’t know was that she’d come to St. Martin Parish to start over. She wanted to restore Bon Temps to its original magnificence, work for a local newspaper, and if the latter did not materialize, then she would execute her Plan B. She would then apply for a teaching position at a local high school or college.

Shrugging a bare shoulder, she smiled at Shiloh through her lashes. “Not much else.” She opened her handbag, took out a twenty and placed it on the table. “That should cover my lunch.”

Shiloh’s hand moved in a blur as he scooped up the bill and thrust it at her. “Keep your money. Lunch is on me.”

Gwen glared at him glaring at her. “I’m sorry, Sheriff Harper, but I can’t accept.”

“Why not, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor?”

A frown appeared between her eyes. “Stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she whispered loudly. “But there’s no need to tell everyone who I am. I’m certain you’re aware of identity theft nowadays. All someone needs is my social security number and I’m screwed.”

Shiloh angled his head, and the sunlight coming in from a clerestory window slanted over his face, bathing him in a circle of light. The effect was so startling that Gwen didn’t blink, swallow or breathe. The mesmerizing gold-green eyes were the colors of the swamp with slivers of sunlight piercing the towering cypress trees rising above the murky brown water.

“What are you running from?”

She blinked once. “Is that what you believe?”

He nodded. “Either you are running or hiding.”

“Wrong, Shiloh. I’m doing neither. Four years ago I made a New Year’s resolution to get rid of everything I didn’t want or need. And when my aunt left me Bon Temps I decided it was time for a change of scenery. I’m here because I want to be here, not because I’m hiding or running from someone.”

Standing, Shiloh came around the table, picked up the money and dropped it into her unzipped handbag. “Lunch is on me today. Once you’re settled in you can repay the favor.”

That said, he nodded and walked across the expansive restaurant. He knocked on a door with Office painted in large black letters. He opened it, walked in and closed the door, leaving Gwen staring at the space where he’d been.

She didn’t know his connection with the owner of the Outlaw and didn’t want to know. Gathering her handbag, she stood up and made her way to the entrance. The conversations stopped again as all eyes were trained on her. It was the first time in a very long time that she felt self-conscious. As a teenage girl she was always mindful whether her pants or tops were too tight whenever boys made ribald comments about her body. But as her body matured she’d learned to accept her looks and who she’d become.

Why, she asked herself as she stepped out into the bright sunlight, did she suddenly feel like an awkward teen who wanted to run home and change her clothes? It wasn’t the first time men had stared at her in a pair of body-hugging jeans. However, it was the first time that a group of men had stopped talking to stare at her.

What made the men in southern Louisiana different from those in New England, other than they spoke a French dialect as well as English?

The questions bombarded Gwen’s mind as she waited for the ferryboat. Was it because she was a stranger? Was it because the Outlaw was traditionally a male establishment? Or was it because Shiloh had called her darling in front of other patrons?

Moving over to a wooden bench positioned under a sun-bleached striped canvas awning, she sat and stared out at the slow-moving water. Instead of the uneasiness she’d experienced when seeing the murky swamp for the first time, she felt a wave of calm wash over her. It was as if she’d escaped into a world where the stress and craziness of what she was familiar with no longer existed.

Time moved on in a pace that could not be measured by seconds, minutes or hours. The sound of the approaching ferryboat shattered the stillness of the afternoon. Gwen stood up and walked down to the pier. It was time she returned to the boardinghouse, checked out and went home.

She knew that dust, grime and the musty smell associated with long-shuttered houses awaited her. But she welcomed the challenge. She couldn’t wait to begin Bon Temps’ makeover.

CHAPTER 4

Gwen worked nonstop around the clock, averaging five hours of sleep each night in order to make Bon Temps habitable. She knew she should’ve hired a cleaning company, but considered the housework she’d done therapy. She didn’t have an office to go to, so airing, dusting, mopping floors and cleaning windows gave her a sense of purpose.

It took half a day to air out and clean the bedroom, sitting room and adjoining bath that she’d selected for herself. A search of the pantry yielded a large tin filled with exotic teas, and as dusk descended she’d sat on a cushioned love seat on the second-story veranda watching a cluster of fireflies illuminate the velvety darkness while listening to the unfamiliar nocturnal sounds.

The rest of the week was spent cleaning the other bedrooms, the kitchen and shopping in an upscale mall in Morgan City, twenty miles southeast of Franklin. It was the first time she chided herself for not having purchased a sport utility vehicle, considering how her trunk and the inside of her car now over-flowed with grocery bags and other household items.

A moving company delivered cartons filled with her clothes, favorite books, electronic equipment, CDs, DVDs, her computer, photographs and family mementoes. And once a telephone technician installed the data lines she needed for a telephone, computer modem, and fax machine, she finally felt in control of her life. Aside from her cell phone she’d felt cut off from her family and friends.

Sitting at her computer, she opened a new document: Bon Temps Restorations. She wanted to replace the wallpaper throughout the house, reupholster sofas and chairs, repair and hang the magnificent living room and ballroom chandeliers, and repair the plasterwork on the ceilings. All of the wood floors and tables in the rooms on the first story were in need of refinishing. Bedroom closets overflowed with colorful dresses and costumes, suggesting that Gwendolyn Pickering had not led a reclusive lifestyle. The task of emptying the many closets still awaited her, a project she planned to tackle at her leisure.

The telephone rang, shattering her concentration. Peering at the display, she saw the name of her late aunt’s attorney. She’d called his office in New Orleans, as he’d suggested during their last conversation, with her new number. Picking up the receiver, she introduced herself.

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Afternoon, Miss Taylor. Billy Sykes here.”

She smiled. He’d referred to himself as Billy whereas stuffy Boston lawyers would’ve been Mr. Sykes. “Please call me Gwen.”

A chuckle came through the earpiece. “I was hoping you’d allow me that honor. I suppose you’re settlin’ in all right.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good. I’d love to come down and sit a while with you, but right now I’m up to my eyeballs in a case that’s sure to get a lot of media coverage. I just wanted to tell you that your aunt left a package with me about seven months before she passed away, and I’m going to send it to you by a bonded messenger.”

“What’s in it?”

He chuckled softly. “You’ll see when you get it. He should get it to you by Thursday.”

Her curiosity piqued, Gwen wondered how much Billy knew about Gwendolyn Pickering. She hadn’t had much contact with her mother’s favorite aunt. Gwendolyn, as she wanted to be called, traveled from Louisiana every five years to reconnect with relatives in Delaware, Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. She refused to vary her schedule, not even for a funeral. The year she celebrated her sixty-fifth birthday the visits, telephone calls, cards and letters—always without a return address—stopped. Everyone suspected she’d passed away until William Sykes called to inform Gwen that her great-aunt had left all of her worldly possessions to her namesake.

“How well did you know my aunt?”

“I didn’t know her as well as my daddy did. But, he can’t tell you anything because the Lord called him home last year. All I can tell you is that she didn’t want me to contact you until after she’d been cremated.”

“I’m glad she could trust you to follow her wishes, and I look forward to receiving the package.”

“All I can say is Gwendolyn Pickering was quite a woman.”

“Thank you, Billy, for everything, and if you’re ever in the neighborhood, please come by.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Goodbye, Billy.”

“’Bye, Gwen.”

She hung up, wondering what else her aunt wanted her to have. Her gaze shifted back to the blinking cursor on the computer screen. Her fingers touched the letters on the keyboard with lightning speed as the list lengthened. She’d just saved what she’d typed when the melodious chiming of the doorbell echoed throughout the house.

Walking out of the sun-filled room she’d set up as her office, she went to answer the door. It was probably the head of the landscaping crew who’d come earlier that morning to cut and weed the grass, and prune the fruit trees and flower beds. The aroma of freshly turned earth, cut grass and flowering blooms wafted through the many screened-in windows.

Peering through the security eye, she saw the face of a young man in a tan uniform. He wore the same hat she’d seen on Shiloh the night he’d answered her nine-one-one call.

She opened the door. The star on the man’s shirt identified him as a deputy. “Good afternoon. Is there a problem, Deputy Lincoln?” she asked, reading his name badge.

Frank Lincoln removed his hat, cradling it to his chest. The sunlight glinted off his thick orange-red hair. “Good afternoon, Miss Taylor. I just came by to give you something from Sheriff Harper.” He reached into the pocket of his shirt and handed her an envelope. “He said he’ll come by later to talk to you about it.”

Gwen took the envelope. She smiled at the deputy. “Please let Sheriff Harper I know I’ll be expecting him.”

Frank put back on his hat, grinning broadly. He’d recognized Gwendolyn Taylor as the woman who’d sat in the unmarked SUV with his boss. “You have a good day, Miss Taylor.”

She returned his friendly smile. “Same to you, Deputy.”

Gwen waited until he slipped behind the wheel of his cruiser and drove away before tapping the envelope against her palm and ripping off a corner. Opening the envelope she shook out two tickets. PAID, stamped in red, covered the face of the tickets for a fund-raiser given by the Bayou Policemen’s Benevolent Association for Needy Families.

She closed the door to keep out the sultry heat, smiling. She’d been so engrossed with cleaning Bon Temps that she’d forgotten her commitment to purchase two tickets for the fund-raiser.

Sitting on a formal high-back chair in the entryway, Gwen placed the envelope and tickets on a mahogany table. Fatigue washed over her and she closed her eyes. It wasn’t until she sat down that she became aware of how hard she’d worked, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion.

A knowing smile softened her mouth. She’d told Shiloh she was disciplined, focused, but he had countered, saying she was anal. He was right, but that was something she wouldn’t readily admit.

What she did not want to acknowledge was that she was an overachiever. From the first time she won a school-wide spelling bee, made the high school honor roll and finally the college’s dean’s list, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was motivated to come out on top at all costs. And she hadn’t needed a psychologist to tell her she was overcompensating and silently crying out for attention from her parents, who obsessed about their terminally ill son. Langston was gone, yet her drive for acceptance and approval continued until she turned thirty.

With her New Year’s resolution to streamline her life and her decision to relocate to Louisiana, she’d finally accepted that she hadn’t needed anyone’s approval except her own.

* * *

Shiloh slowed down as he maneuvered his sports car under a live oak allée, coming to a stop at the end of a circular driveway. He parked and turned off the engine. He’d called himself king of fools for chasing after Gwen Taylor, but there was something about her that wouldn’t let him stay away.

He’d lost count of the number of times he’d driven past the road leading to her house and hadn’t stopped to find out how she was settling in. What excuse would he use to explain his unannounced visit? He was certain Gwen would’ve recognized his deception if he told her that he was checking on residents in the area.

Shiloh reached for a decorative shopping bag on the passenger seat, opened the door to his Mustang convertible, stepped out, and glanced around him. The smell of grass and flowers hung in the air. It was a smell that had become an aphrodisiac, pulling him back to Teche even when he hadn’t wanted to stay.

Soft gold light spilled from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the first story of the understated house with a full-height columned porch wrapping around the front and sides. He stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, waiting to come face-to-face with Gwen again. Less than a minute later he was met with the image of his ongoing musings bathed in light from an overhead fixture, and the sound of classical music.

His gaze moved over her features with the gentleness of an artist wielding a sable brush over a silk canvas. The unruly curls framed her face in sensual disarray, making her appear utterly wanton. The fitted halter dress displayed the fullness of her breasts and narrowness of her waist before flaring out around her hips and legs. His eyebrows lifted when he saw the color on her toes in a pair of black patent leather sandals was an exact match for her dress: vermilion red.

He smiled at Gwen as he handed her the shopping bag. “Good evening. Here’s a little something to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Gwen stared up at the tall man in her doorway wearing an off-white, raw silk shirt, tailored black slacks, and Italian-made slip-ons, unable to ignore the tingling in the pit of her stomach. Despite her belief that she didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge in a romantic entanglement, she knew she’d been waiting to see Shiloh again, even before his deputy came by to inform her that his boss would be stopping by. He’d come not as Sheriff Harper, but as Shiloh.

“Why, thank you. But you didn’t have to. Besides, you’ve done enough.” Her hand brushed his as she reached for the bag. A shiver raced up her arm with the slight contact. She knew Shiloh felt it, too, because he jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned.

He angled his head and smiled, wanting to tell Gwen that there were other things he’d wanted to do with her that he hadn’t done with a woman in a long time. He wanted to take her to a place where they could eat, dance, and talk about any and everything.

“I don’t know if you drink, but it’s a bottle of French cognac.”

“Thank you.” Gwen grimaced. “I’ve forgotten my home training. Please come in.”

He stepped into the entryway, noticing the obvious changes immediately. The scent of roses came from a burning pillar anchored in pink sand in a large glass chimney on the handkerchief table flanked by two hall chairs.

“Your place looks very nice. How long did it take the cleaning people to finish?”

Gwen left the shopping bag on the table, then felt the heat from Shiloh’s gaze on her back as she led him into the living room. “I decided not to hire a cleaning company.”

Reaching out, he caught her upper arm and turned her around to face him. “You cleaned this place by yourself?”

Tilting her chin, she gave him a direct stare. “Yes, I did. It’s taken me a while, but I pretty much have everything under control. Right now I’m negotiating with the architectural firm that authenticated the furnishings to have them restore the moldings, ceilings, floors and walls.”

Shiloh shook his head, unable to believe she’d taken on the Herculean project by herself. “What were you trying to do, kill yourself?”

Gwen stared at the fingers gripping her bare arm. “Please let me go, Shiloh.” He complied and his hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry, sugah, but I’m not one of your hothouse Southern belles who wouldn’t think of cleaning her own home because she just might chip a nail.”

Her inflection was so unadulterated Deep South that Shiloh laughed. He wanted to tell Gwen that despite the backbreaking housework her nails were perfect. Cupping her elbow, he led her to a silk-covered sofa with a magnolia blossom print. He sat, and eased her gently down beside him.

“Let’s not fight the Civil War again, Gwen.”

She glared at him. “I would like to think that we would’ve been on the same side during that particular war.”

“We would,” he said, deadpan. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were so helpless that you couldn’t take care of yourself.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “You strike me as a strong black woman who would be content to live your life with or without a man.”

There was enough sarcasm in his statement to set Gwen’s teeth on edge. “Men usually say that to me whenever I show them the door,” she countered.

Shiloh turned to look at her. “How many have you shown the door?”

“Too many.”

He lifted his left eyebrow. “It could be that you’ve been attracting the wrong kind of men.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, shuddering. “Like a mega magnet.”

He chuckled softly. “Perhaps your luck will change now that you’ve moved here.”

She shook her head. “I’m really not looking for anyone. Finding a partner is not at the top of my to-do list. In fact, it isn’t even on my to-do list.”

“How about an escort?”

Gwen sat up straighter. “What?”

“I’d like you to be my date for the fund-raiser.”

Feeling strangely flattered by his interest in her, Gwen asked, “Wouldn’t that pose a problem for Mrs. Harper?”

Shiloh shrugged a broad shoulder and flashed a smile. “Not in the least. My mother has her own escort for the affair, and I’m sure it wouldn’t sit too well with my brother if my sister-in-law attended the fund-raiser with another man.”

“Are you saying there are no Mrs. Harpers in St. Martin Parish other than your mother and sister-in-law?”

“They’re the only two Mrs. Harpers,” he confirmed.

Gwen hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. The local hunk of the month had just asked her out, which should’ve flattered her, but she hadn’t made time in her busy schedule for dating. She opened her mouth to decline his offer, then changed her mind. Shiloh had gone above and beyond his role as sheriff to make certain she was safe. What did she have to lose? The fund-raiser was only one date, not a commitment for something more.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” She stood up, Shiloh also rising to his feet, and walked out of the living room. Two minutes later she returned and handed him an envelope.

Vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “What’s this?”

She met his questioning gaze. “It’s a check for the tickets.”

Shiloh’s frown vanished. “I already paid for the tickets.”

“You paid for my ticket believing I would go with you?”

“I paid for your ticket with the hope that you would go with me.”

She’d glimpsed an air of confidence in the man standing only inches away. She didn’t know anything about Shiloh Harper, but liked what he’d shown her: confidence and truthfulness.

“I’ll go with you, but on two conditions.”

“Give it to me straight.”

“I pay for my own ticket.”

A hint of a smile softened his mouth. “Okay.”

“And that you will not treat me as eye candy.”

Lowering his head, Shiloh shook it slowly. “Now, that’s going to pose a problem because—”

“Shiloh!” she chided, interrupting him.

He wagged a finger at her. “Gotcha!”

Gwen grabbed his finger. “I’d never figure you for a tease.”

Shiloh sobered, his gaze betraying his thoughts. He wanted to tell Gwen that she was a tease. Everything about her face, body and intelligence teased and tantalized him.

“Only with you,” he admitted. “Now if this knowledge goes beyond these walls, then my reputation as a tough lawman will be shattered completely.”

“What goes on at Bon Temps stays at Bon Temps.”

Shiloh wondered if Gwen had knowledge of the gatherings that took place when her namesake owned the property. And for a quick moment he wondered if history would repeat itself. After all, the present-day Gwendolyn had admitted she wanted to remain anonymous.

“Promise?” he asked, lowering his head.

There was a beat of silence before Gwen whispered, “I promise.” She wanted to tell Shiloh that he was too close, his virility too potent, and that she’d been without a man for too long, but the words were locked away in the back of her throat.

His head dipped and he breathed a kiss on one cheek, then the other. His free arm circled her waist. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. This year’s event will be a masquerade ball.”

Gwen felt as if she were drowning in his gold-green flecked eyes. “Why a masquerade?”

Shiloh caught and held her entranced stare. “It depends on which organization hosts the event. Last year the chamber of commerce’s theme was Mardi Gras, and the year before, the fishermen association’s theme was a hoedown.” Releasing her waist, he took a backward step, leaving a modicum of space between them. “If you let go of my finger I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing.”

Gwen released his finger as heat stole into her face. “I’m sorry.”

Shiloh winked at her. “I’m not.” He winked at her again. “I’ll see you Friday.”

“Friday,” she repeated.

Shiloh hadn’t kissed her, really kissed, yet the feel of his lips so close to hers made her want more—so much more. He was a tease—a tall, dark, devastatingly handsome man who made her forgo her promise not to date.

He pocketed the envelope with her check. “Your donation will be put to good use.”

“I’m glad I have it to give.”

Shiloh turned on his heel and strode for the door, Gwen watching his retreat. She stood in the same spot long after he’d gotten into his car and driven away. The soft ring of the telephone on a side table shattered her entrancement with a man who made her pulse race a little too quickly whenever she saw him, a man who was as different from the men she’d known in Boston as night was from day.

She reached for the cordless instrument. “Hello.”

“How y’all doing?”

Gwen smiled. “Very funny, Lauren. Did you get my e-mail?”

“Yes. I’m sorry about not getting back to you sooner, but Cal and I just got back from New York. He was scheduled to meet with his publisher, so I went along and did some sightseeing and shopping. We ate at a wonderful restaurant in your favorite neighborhood.”

“How is Harlem?” Gwen asked as she settled down in a large club chair.

“Incredible. The changes are unbelievable with all of the gentrification. Enough talk about me. What’s happening with you?”

Gwen gave her cousin a brief overview of her first week in the town, deliberately leaving out her encounters with Shiloh Harper. “The house is something out of Gone With the Wind, but on a smaller scale.”

“Are you going to renovate it?”

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I plan to restore it. The kitchen is the only room that doesn’t conform to the original plans. It’s the quintessential gourmet kitchen. As soon as I get the floors done I want you, Cal and the kids to come down for a visit.”

“It’ll have to be after the children are finished with summer camp and before school begins.”

Cradling the phone between her chin and shoulder, Gwen ran a hand through her hair. “Good. I hope to have everything completed or near completion by that time, and hopefully will have perfected a few regional dishes by the time you guys get here.”

“Don’t forget to throw in a little social life along with your cooking and cleaning.”

“I’m way ahead of you, cuz. I’m going to a masquerade ball Friday.”

There was a pause on the other end of the wire. “Are you going alone?”

Gwen wanted to say yes, but had never lied to Lauren. “No.”

“Who are you going with?”

“The local sheriff.”

A soft gasp came through the earpiece. “Don’t tell me you met him when he pulled you over for speeding? I shouldn’t have to tell you that Louisiana isn’t Boston where you were on a first-name basis with every traffic and beat cop.”

As a reporter Gwen had what most in the newspaper business called a bloodhound’s nose for a story, and early in her career she cultivated friendships with several high-ranking police officials, attending their fund-raisers and causes while reporting their acts of heroism in her column. She’d started at the Gazette as a crime reporter before she was reassigned to write the lifestyle column.

“No, Lauren.” Gwen told her cousin how she came to meet Shiloh, leaving out the part where she wouldn’t get out of her car and he had to carry her across the road.

“Does he at least look good in his uniform?” Lauren asked, giggling.

“Yes, but I think he looks better out of it.” Shiloh wearing a shirt and jeans had the same impact on her as a man in formal attire; he carried himself with a commanding air of self-confidence that she hadn’t encountered in any of the men she knew.

“You’ve seen him without his clothes?”

Gwen sucked her teeth while rolling her eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mrs. Samuels. I was talking about civilian clothes, not his birthday suit. And if you say anything else I’m going to hang up on you.”

“There’s no need to get hos-tile, Gwendolyn. I don’t need to remind you that each sunrise brings you one day closer to thirty-eight.”

“Hel-lo. Test tube,” she countered in singsong.

“I’m hanging up,” Lauren threatened.

“Good night, cuz,” Gwen drawled, unable to stifle a laugh.

The distinctive sound of a dial tone reverberated in her ear before she pressed a button and placed the receiver in its cradle. She’d teased Lauren about artificial insemination even though she preferred getting pregnant naturally. Gwen doubted whether she would ever choose something so impersonal as going to a sperm bank. Adoption was her first choice, but that was an option that had remained secret.

Thinking of children reminded her of the upcoming fund-raiser to help needy families. Shiloh said the affair was a masquerade ball and she had to find something to wear.

“Aunt Gwendolyn,” she whispered. Her aunt’s closets overflowed with dresses and costumes from her days as an actress. She and her great-aunt were about the same height, and the last time she saw sixty-something Gwendolyn Pickering, the older woman had the figure of someone half her age.

It’d been years since she’d played dress-up; attending the fund-raiser would bring back memories of the Venetian masked balls during Carnival. There was something about the city built on water that reminded her of Bayou Teche. It was as if time stood still, leaving those trapped within in a spell that was far from reality.

She rose from the chair and headed for the staircase. The fund-raiser was only two days away.

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