A Time To Keep. Rochelle Alers
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the envelope she shook out two tickets. PAID, stamped in red, covered the face of the tickets for a fund-raiser given by the Bayou Policemen’s Benevolent Association for Needy Families.
She closed the door to keep out the sultry heat, smiling. She’d been so engrossed with cleaning Bon Temps that she’d forgotten her commitment to purchase two tickets for the fund-raiser.
Sitting on a formal high-back chair in the entryway, Gwen placed the envelope and tickets on a mahogany table. Fatigue washed over her and she closed her eyes. It wasn’t until she sat down that she became aware of how hard she’d worked, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion.
A knowing smile softened her mouth. She’d told Shiloh she was disciplined, focused, but he had countered, saying she was anal. He was right, but that was something she wouldn’t readily admit.
What she did not want to acknowledge was that she was an overachiever. From the first time she won a school-wide spelling bee, made the high school honor roll and finally the college’s dean’s list, Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was motivated to come out on top at all costs. And she hadn’t needed a psychologist to tell her she was overcompensating and silently crying out for attention from her parents, who obsessed about their terminally ill son. Langston was gone, yet her drive for acceptance and approval continued until she turned thirty.
With her New Year’s resolution to streamline her life and her decision to relocate to Louisiana, she’d finally accepted that she hadn’t needed anyone’s approval except her own.
* * *
Shiloh slowed down as he maneuvered his sports car under a live oak allée, coming to a stop at the end of a circular driveway. He parked and turned off the engine. He’d called himself king of fools for chasing after Gwen Taylor, but there was something about her that wouldn’t let him stay away.
He’d lost count of the number of times he’d driven past the road leading to her house and hadn’t stopped to find out how she was settling in. What excuse would he use to explain his unannounced visit? He was certain Gwen would’ve recognized his deception if he told her that he was checking on residents in the area.
Shiloh reached for a decorative shopping bag on the passenger seat, opened the door to his Mustang convertible, stepped out, and glanced around him. The smell of grass and flowers hung in the air. It was a smell that had become an aphrodisiac, pulling him back to Teche even when he hadn’t wanted to stay.
Soft gold light spilled from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the first story of the understated house with a full-height columned porch wrapping around the front and sides. He stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, waiting to come face-to-face with Gwen again. Less than a minute later he was met with the image of his ongoing musings bathed in light from an overhead fixture, and the sound of classical music.
His gaze moved over her features with the gentleness of an artist wielding a sable brush over a silk canvas. The unruly curls framed her face in sensual disarray, making her appear utterly wanton. The fitted halter dress displayed the fullness of her breasts and narrowness of her waist before flaring out around her hips and legs. His eyebrows lifted when he saw the color on her toes in a pair of black patent leather sandals was an exact match for her dress: vermilion red.
He smiled at Gwen as he handed her the shopping bag. “Good evening. Here’s a little something to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
Gwen stared up at the tall man in her doorway wearing an off-white, raw silk shirt, tailored black slacks, and Italian-made slip-ons, unable to ignore the tingling in the pit of her stomach. Despite her belief that she didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge in a romantic entanglement, she knew she’d been waiting to see Shiloh again, even before his deputy came by to inform her that his boss would be stopping by. He’d come not as Sheriff Harper, but as Shiloh.
“Why, thank you. But you didn’t have to. Besides, you’ve done enough.” Her hand brushed his as she reached for the bag. A shiver raced up her arm with the slight contact. She knew Shiloh felt it, too, because he jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned.
He angled his head and smiled, wanting to tell Gwen that there were other things he’d wanted to do with her that he hadn’t done with a woman in a long time. He wanted to take her to a place where they could eat, dance, and talk about any and everything.
“I don’t know if you drink, but it’s a bottle of French cognac.”
“Thank you.” Gwen grimaced. “I’ve forgotten my home training. Please come in.”
He stepped into the entryway, noticing the obvious changes immediately. The scent of roses came from a burning pillar anchored in pink sand in a large glass chimney on the handkerchief table flanked by two hall chairs.
“Your place looks very nice. How long did it take the cleaning people to finish?”
Gwen left the shopping bag on the table, then felt the heat from Shiloh’s gaze on her back as she led him into the living room. “I decided not to hire a cleaning company.”
Reaching out, he caught her upper arm and turned her around to face him. “You cleaned this place by yourself?”
Tilting her chin, she gave him a direct stare. “Yes, I did. It’s taken me a while, but I pretty much have everything under control. Right now I’m negotiating with the architectural firm that authenticated the furnishings to have them restore the moldings, ceilings, floors and walls.”
Shiloh shook his head, unable to believe she’d taken on the Herculean project by herself. “What were you trying to do, kill yourself?”
Gwen stared at the fingers gripping her bare arm. “Please let me go, Shiloh.” He complied and his hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry, sugah, but I’m not one of your hothouse Southern belles who wouldn’t think of cleaning her own home because she just might chip a nail.”
Her inflection was so unadulterated Deep South that Shiloh laughed. He wanted to tell Gwen that despite the backbreaking housework her nails were perfect. Cupping her elbow, he led her to a silk-covered sofa with a magnolia blossom print. He sat, and eased her gently down beside him.
“Let’s not fight the Civil War again, Gwen.”
She glared at him. “I would like to think that we would’ve been on the same side during that particular war.”
“We would,” he said, deadpan. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were so helpless that you couldn’t take care of yourself.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “You strike me as a strong black woman who would be content to live your life with or without a man.”
There was enough sarcasm in his statement to set Gwen’s teeth on edge. “Men usually say that to me whenever I show them the door,” she countered.
Shiloh turned to look at her. “How many have you shown the door?”
“Too many.”
He lifted his left eyebrow. “It could be that you’ve been attracting the wrong kind of men.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, shuddering. “Like a mega magnet.”
He chuckled softly. “Perhaps your luck will change now that you’ve moved here.”
She shook her head. “I’m really not looking for anyone. Finding a partner is not at the top of my to-do list. In fact, it isn’t even on my to-do list.”
“How about an escort?”
Gwen sat up straighter. “What?”
“I’d like you to be my date for the fund-raiser.”
Feeling strangely flattered by his interest in her, Gwen asked, “Wouldn’t that pose a problem for Mrs. Harper?”
Shiloh shrugged a broad shoulder and flashed a smile. “Not in the least. My mother has her own escort for the affair, and I’m sure it wouldn’t sit too well with my brother if my sister-in-law attended the fund-raiser with another