A Time To Keep. Rochelle Alers

      “So I see,” Shiloh confirmed, staring at the swell of flawless brown flesh rising and falling above the incredibly beautiful gown draping the body of the woman who’d occupied his every waking moment. He’d given up trying to identify why he’d found himself drawn to Gwendolyn Taylor and decided to give in to whatever it was that made him want to know her—every way possible.

      Gwen moved behind the door. “Please come in. As soon as I hook myself up and get my shoes I’ll be ready.”

      Stepping into the entryway, he eased the door from her grip and closed it. His gaze never wavered as he stared down at the woman who’d caught him in a web of seduction with her lovely face, curvaceous body and sassy tongue.

      “Let me hook you up.”

      Gwen shook her head. “No. I can do it.”

      “It’ll go faster if I do it.”

      “No, Shiloh.”

      “Hush, darling,” he crooned, ignoring her protest. Moving behind her, he began slipping the many hooks into the corresponding eyes, silently admiring the flawless skin on her back and curbing an urge to press his mouth to the velvety perfumed flesh.

      Gwen suffered his closeness, his fingers brushing her bare skin. “I’m not your darling,” she said in a strained voice she didn’t recognize as her own.

      Shiloh leaned closer, his mouth inches from her ear. “It’s just a figure of speech down these parts, darling.”

      “Up where I come from it has a different connotation.”

      “You’re no longer up North, darling, but in the good ole South. We may not be as liberal or freethinking as the people you’re used to, but what we are is honest and for the most part God-fearing folks who’d go out of their way for a neighbor in need. You hang around here long enough and you’ll see that.”

      She drew in a breath. “Are you chastising me, Shiloh Harper?”

      He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, smiling. “No, darling, I’m not. And I think you have the hang of it already.”

      “Hang of what?”

      “Calling someone by their full name when you’re pissed off.”

      Gwen could not stop the smile curving the corners of her mouth upward. “I believe that is a black thing.”

      “Black and southern.”

      “How did you get the name Shiloh?”

      “I’ll tell you in the car,” he promised, fastening the last hook. “You’re done.”

      Resting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around to face him. A swath of heat raced through him and settled in his groin as he swallowed an expletive. Gwen Taylor wasn’t beautiful. She was magnificent! The swell of breasts rising above the revealing décolletage spelled trouble—trouble for him.

      “What’s the matter?” Gwen asked when she saw his expression.

      “Nothing,” he answered truthfully. But if Gwen asked him the same question after the men attending the fund-raiser at the restored mansion near Shadows-on-the-Teche caught sight of her bosom, the response would have been another matter indeed.

      She smiled at him. “Thanks for hooking me up. Give me five minutes and I’ll be right back.”

      Shiloh watched her retreating figure, then sat down on one of the hall chairs and waited. He crossed one leg over the opposite knee, smiling. He knew attending the fund-raiser with Gwen would shock more than a few people because he hadn’t been seen with a woman since his divorce.

      He’d heard the rumors about his sexual preference, but hadn’t bothered to refute them. He still preferred women, just not the ones who threw themselves at him. When he met Deandrea she’d come on to him like a voracious piranha. Her insatiable sex drive appealed to his ego because she claimed he was the first man who could satisfy her. They’d spent their entire honeymoon in bed, leaving only to eat and bathe.

      However, the honeymoon ended a year later with him filing for divorce. He cited irreconcilable differences rather than adultery. Not outing Deandrea and François salvaged their reputations and his pride; he hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he’d been cuckolded by his best friend.

      Shiloh caught movement out of the corner of his eye and rose slowly to his feet. Gwen came toward him, the toes of a pair of black silk-covered high heels peeking out from under the sweeping skirt of her gown. She handed him a lace mask with dark-red ties, as a small evening pouch suspended from her wrist by a silk cord bumped against her side.

      “Can you help me with this?” Presenting him with her back, Gwen felt the warmth and inhaled the scent of the tall, muscular body.

      Leaning closer, his chest pressed to her back, Shiloh placed the mask over her eyes and nose and tied the ribbons in a neat bow. “I’m going to have to renege on a promise.”

      Gwen shivered from the moist breath whispering over the nape of her neck. “Which one?” Her voice was low, throaty as she found the act of breathing difficult.