open the café door, she couldn’t help the wistful tone in her voice as she stepped inside. “I wonder who that belongs to.”
“It’s mine.”
At the sound of a man’s low rumbling voice, a feeling of electricity raced over her nerve endings. Her head whipped around, and Shelby found herself staring at the zipper of a black leather jacket decorated with the same silver studs as the saddlebags.
Looking higher, she met the owner’s dark hooded gaze and recognition hit her like a kick to the stomach.
Patrick Rivers was back in Loomis.
It took Patrick a few seconds to place the petite woman with a cascade of thick red hair swirling about her shoulders. Her light-brown eyes widened and color flooded her cheeks in two perfect circles of berry-bright skin.
Only one woman he remembered in Loomis could blush so sweetly. Chunky, shy Shelby Mason had bloomed into a true Southern rose.
A wry smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The word chunky no longer applied. Her soft lilac dress with tiny white polka dots accented her feminine curves to perfection.
Her quick indrawn breath and the backward step she took confirmed what he already suspected. She recognized him, too.
“Miss Mason, isn’t it?” he asked.
Irritation swept over him at how easily the Louisiana drawl returned to his voice. He’d worked hard to remove any reminders of Loomis from his life, including his accent.
Her hand went to her throat. A flutter of nervousness that she couldn’t hide made her fingers tremble. She regarded him with suspicion. Like everyone else in the gloomy city. Anger rose like bitter bile in his mouth.
There was no place like home—home sweet home.
To her credit, Shelby quickly regained her composure. “Mr. Rivers. I heard that your stepfather had passed away. Please accept my condolences.”
The pure charm of her lilting voice took him straight back in time. Back ten years to the days when the local college girls had flirted outrageously with a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks because he could throw a football better than anyone in St. Tammany Parish.
Back to the night one spoiled, vain debutante ruined his life.
It didn’t matter that he had been innocent of the crime, that the charges had been dropped. Coral Travis had accused him of rape. The stigma stuck to him like the odor of rotting vegetation permeated the black mud of the bayou.
He had tried to face down the rumors, the looks, the mistrust, but in the end leaving had been his only option.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of those memories, he gave Shelby a brief nod. “Thanks, but Dan and I weren’t that close.”
Did he imagine sympathy filled her eyes before she looked down? He wanted to reach out and lift her chin to be sure. Kindness from anyone in Loomis was a rare thing.
Her long lashes fluttered up as she met his gaze again. The morning sunlight brought out flecks of green in her eyes that he’d never noticed before. Beneath the overpowering aromas of coffee and pastry he caught a subtle hint of her fresh flowery fragrance.
When had the self-effacing little librarian grown to be such a beauty?
Realizing he was blocking the doorway, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter. To his surprise, she didn’t rush past him the way her companion did, but paused at his side.
A half smile trembled on her lips. She looked adorably uncertain of the correct way to address an accused rapist. Finally, she managed to ask, “Will you be staying in Loomis long?”
A sharp gasp made him look beyond Shelby to see the architect of his disgrace staring at him in wide-eyed shock.
Coldness settled in his chest and spread through his body. This was exactly the scene he’d dreaded from the minute he knew he was coming back to Loomis.
Of course, it had to happen in front of dozens of witnesses.
Only years of practice at keeping his emotions hidden prevented him from bolting out the door. His indifference might be a veneer, but time and pain had made it thick. He didn’t move so much as a muscle.
Coral Travis hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. She was still a beautiful woman. Her hair, a lighter shade of blond now, was styled loose about her shoulders. Dressed in a white ensemble, she clung to the arm of a tall handsome blond man in a tailored gray suit. They made a striking couple. Behind them stood five more men in business attire.
Staring at Coral, Patrick saw the shock in her eyes quickly change to fury, then a hard look of calculation develop in their depths. Her gaze shifted to Shelby without softening.
He glanced around the café with its rich dark paneling. High-backed booths edged the room and a dozen tables covered with snowy white cloths filled the rest of the space. Every table was occupied. The hum of conversations stilled. People began staring and whispering to each other.
He recognized some of the faces, all older, all judgmental.
Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you care.
Deliberately raising his voice, he focused on Shelby. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Mason. Let’s get together and talk about old times. Remember the football championship?” Bitterness burned like acid on his tongue as he glared at Coral. “More than one game was played that night.” He nodded to Shelby. “I’ll be in town a week or two unless the sheriff runs me out sooner. Is Bradford Reed still sheriff around here?”
“Yes, he is.” Shelby’s eyes darted to Coral and back to him. He read her confusion and discomfort. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t used her to take a jab at Coral.
“Things haven’t changed much here, have they?” he stated bitterly and loud enough to be overheard by everyone.
Before she could answer, Patrick walked out the door and let it slam shut behind him.
Shelby stood aside as Coral, pausing only to shoot a look of malice at Shelby, left the building followed by her fiancé, Wendell Bixby, and the other members of Wendell’s election committee. As the door closed behind them, Shelby stepped to the window and watched them quickly cross the street.
Patrick strolled to his bike, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Shelby wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened. Somehow, she’d found herself in the cross fire between Patrick and Coral. Talk about uncomfortable.
But then, nothing between Shelby and Coral had been comfortable since the night of Coral’s alleged rape. Shelby didn’t know the whole story, but she knew enough to wonder if Coral had lied. Only—why would she?
Shelby watched Patrick settle astride his motorcycle and pull it upright. She wanted to believe he had been innocent of the charges Coral leveled against him, but only the two of them knew for certain what happened that night.
Studying Patrick, Shelby decided that he had changed a good deal since college. His hair was still a thick sable brown, but he wore it shorter now and there was a touch of gray at his temples. Fine crow’s-feet fanned out from the corners of his dark-as-molasses eyes giving him a world-weary look.
Tilting her head slightly, she decided it was more of a world-wary look.
Drawing a pair of aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket, he slipped them on. Shelby’s heart skipped a beat—or two. His magnetic, bad-boy aura hadn’t dimmed a bit over the years. If anything, he was more attractive than ever.
Dressed in a leather jacket, tight faded jeans and black boots, he looked like he had ridden straight off a movie set. He looked like trouble waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting town.
She jumped a fraction when the bike roared to life. After revving the engine, he backed out of the parking space and rode away. Only then