A Time to Keep Read online

  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 f
ollow 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 t
ried 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?”