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