“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.
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