A Time To Keep. Rochelle Alers
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and clothes. If the item didn’t have someone’s name stitched or stamped on it, then she refused to buy it.
A knowing smile softened his mouth. Miss Beantown drove a six-figure car, wore very nice shoes and carried a very, very nice handbag. There was no doubt the lady from Massachusetts was top shelf. And he wondered, what was she doing driving around back roads at night in Cajun country?
* * *
Gwen could not stop the wave of heat washing over her face and upper body. All it took was a little maneuvering to get her car out of a ditch. How, she thought, was she able to drive through mounds of snow, not spin out on icy streets or highways, yet couldn’t extricate herself from a mud bank?
She stared at the mud-covered boots rather than at the face of the man striding toward her, breathing in quick shallow breaths. Never had she been so embarrassed. She thought about slipping out of the SUV and making a run for her car, but quickly changed her mind. There were enough televised police chases, and she had no intention of adding to the footage.
The driver’s side door opened and she stared, wide-eyed, at the man climbing into the vehicle beside her. Not only was he tall, but also big. Not fat big, but muscled big. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his uniform, and she forced herself not to glance below his chest.
Tilting her chin, lowering her lashes, and affecting a smile that usually left men with their mouths gaping, Gwen sought to replace the scowl on Sheriff Harper’s face with one that was more friendly. After all, he’d taken an oath to protect and serve, not berate and abuse.
Shiloh gave the woman sitting beside him a sidelong glance. “You can stop flirting with me because I’m not going to give you a citation.” He dropped her handbag in her lap.
An audible gasp escaped Gwen’s parted lips. Scorching heat swept over her from head to toe. “I’m not flirting with you. Why would I? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No, you haven’t—not yet anyway.” Shiloh gave her a direct stare. “May I have your license and registration?”
Gwen glanced at his long, well-groomed hands when he opened a leather binder, then removed a pen from a breast pocket. Searching through her handbag, she took out a small leather case and removed the documents he’d requested.
Shiloh took a quick glance at her license. “What’s your name?”
“Gwendolyn Taylor.”
“Address.”
“Which one?”
Shiloh went completely still, his fingers tightening on the pen. “You have more than one?”
She smiled. “Yes. You have the one on my license and registration, but…”
“But what, Miss Taylor?” he asked when she didn’t finish her statement.
“I have a new address.”
He stared directly at her, liking what he saw. Gwendolyn Taylor wasn’t as pretty as she was attractive—sensually attractive. Her round face made her look much younger than her actual age. Her large dark eyes sparkled like polished onyx in a flawless sable-brown face; her nose was short and cute, her mouth full and lush; and her hair was a profusion of dark flyaway curls that fell over her forehead and along the nape of her slender neck. He didn’t want to think of her rounded body. It was a bouquet of lushness. He remembered the tagline about real women having curves. Gwendolyn Taylor had enough curves for two women.
“Where do you live now?”
“Here in St. Martin Parish. I’m moving into Bon Temps. Gwendolyn Pickering was my great-aunt.”
Shiloh stared at Gwen. There had been a lot of talk after the owner of the house passed away earlier in the year. Developers swooped down on Bon Temps like scavengers on rotting carrion. The men had come, checkbooks in hand, to purchase the house and the six acres on which it sat, but Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney refused to meet with them. He’d turned them away because his client had willed her property to a relative—a Massachusetts relative.
“That should please a lot of folks around here,” Shiloh said, after he’d recovered from his shock.
“Why’s that?”
“Because a few fat cats came around asking about buying the property. You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Shiloh nodded and smiled at her. The expression transformed his handsome face and gave him a boyish look. “Good.” Flipping the top to a computer, he entered the information from Gwendolyn Taylor’s license.
She leaned to her left to view the screen. “I have no outstanding warrants or citations.”
Shiloh inhaled the floral scent of the soft curls brushing his cheek. “Just procedure, Miss Taylor.” He stared at the photograph on the screen. Gwendolyn’s hair was much shorter, the style too severe for her face. She would turn thirty-five in November, and he’d just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday the month before.
Gwen watched as he entered the information on her car’s registration. The commonwealth of Massachusetts DMV had listed Gwendolyn P. Taylor as the owner of the car.
“What does the P stand for?”
“Paulette.”
“Pretty,” Shiloh said without any emotion in his voice.
“Can I go now?” she asked after he’d given her back her documents.
He noted the time on his watch and entered it into the computer. It was seven-forty-five. In fifteen minutes he would be officially off duty. “Yes, you can, Miss Taylor. I’ll come around and help you down.” Shiloh stepped out of the Suburban at the same time a police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing.
Frank Lincoln got out, right hand resting on his firearm. “You all right, boss?”
Shiloh stared at the overzealous young deputy. Frank’s father was a special agent with the FBI, and his grandfather a retired Louisiana state trooper. He’d hired the new recruit because he was ambitious, honest and dedicated to his profession.
“I’m good, Frank.”
There was just enough sunlight left to discern the flush creeping up his face, the bright color matching his orange hair. “I saw your flasher, then I noticed the perp sitting in the front seat, so I thought you were in trouble.”
Now Shiloh knew why Frank had stopped. “Miss Taylor is not a perp. I stopped…”
His explanation died on his lips. He didn’t have to explain to a subordinate what he was doing and why Gwendolyn Taylor was in the front seat instead of in the rear behind a heavy mesh partition where perpetrators were handcuffed when they were taken to the station house for questioning or locked up before they were arraigned at the courthouse.
“It’s almost time for your shift, Lincoln.” Whenever he addressed his deputies by their last name it was usually followed by a reprimand.
Frank saluted Shiloh. “Good night, sir.”
He returned the salute. “Good night, Frank. Don’t forget to turn off your lights.”
“Yes, sir.”
Waiting until the cruiser disappeared from view, Shiloh came around the SUV and scooped Gwen off the seat, then set her gently on her feet. Cupping her elbow, he led her back to her car. He released her arm and opened the door to the BMW.
“If you follow me, I’ll show you how to get to Bon Temps.”
Gwen studied his face, feature by feature, with a curious intensity as the gold-green eyes darkened with an unreadable expression. She liked his eyes and strong chin. There was just a hint of a cleft, as if nature hadn’t quite made up its mind whether to give him one.
“Thank you, Sheriff Harper.”
He