A Time to Keep (11 page)

* * *

A gangling man with a drooping white mustache stepped in front of the podium and a minute later silence descended over the ballroom. He cleared his throat before leaning closer to the microphone.

“For those who don't recognize me, I'm Rene Vacherie, sheriff of Lafayette Parish. As president of the Bayou Policemen's Benevolent Association for Needy Families, I would like to welcome everyone to what has become a yearly event wherein we all give a little more of ourselves to help the less fortunate.

“I've been threatened with bodily harm from my brethren sitting behind me that if my speech runs more than ten minutes, they're going to resort to an extreme type of punishment that will change me from a baritone to a soprano in zero to twenty seconds.”

Everyone laughed while the seven officers hung their heads in what could be interpreted as a gesture of shame and remorse. A female officer, waiting for the laughter to subside, held up her hand.

“I keep telling the guys that I don't want to be the only woman sitting up here.” Her statement elicited another round of laughter.

Rene placed a hand on his hip, and rolled his eyes. “Do they make pumps in a size fourteen?”

“I've got a pair in my closet,” a very masculine voice called out from the back of the ballroom.

Yvette Vacherie, who sat across the table from Gwen, shook her fist at her husband. “If I find you wearing women's shoes, then you can kiss thirty-two years of marriage
adieu,
Rene Valjean Vacherie.”

Gwen laughed so hard she had to put her hand over her mouth. And she wasn't the only one who found herself with tears in her eyes.

Rene sobered long enough to introduce the members of his board, each of whom came to the podium to say a few words. Gwen's heart turned over when it was Shiloh's turn to speak. A secret smile stole across her face when she heard gasps from a table behind her.

“I'm willing to bet I could gobble him up in six bites or less,” came a muffled feminine voice.

“I'm not selfish, Mindy. Mama only wants a little piece,” another voice whispered.

He's hot and mine for the night.
The thought had popped into Gwen's head, unbidden.

Shiloh adjusted the microphone. “I'm Shiloh Harper, sheriff of St. Martin, and I'm proud to announce that our parish's fund-raising efforts have far exceeded this year's goal. Several of our families have been hit particularly hard because of hurricanes Katrina and Rita and many of our military reservists have been deployed to the Middle East. Last night we received a check from an anonymous donor who earmarked the funds to cover four years of college for Xavier Jefferson, Jr. who'd recently lost his father, Captain Jefferson, in Afghanistan.”

Shiloh's penetrating gaze swept over the room as everyone rose to their feet, applauding. He stared at Augustine, who was gazing longingly at Moriah. He froze, realization dawning. His mother, who was Xavier's godmother, had gotten Augustine Leblanc to write a check for the premed student's college tuition.

Augustine turned from Moriah and stared at Shiloh. Raising his right hand, he touched his forehead in a mock salute, smiling when Shiloh returned the barely perceptible gesture. The two men had called a truce—at least temporarily.

Shiloh relinquished the podium to Rene who asked Father Raymond to offer the benediction as the wait staff stood ready to serve the two hundred gathered at the damask-covered tables.

He left the dais as soon as the speeches ended, taking his seat beside Gwen. Reaching for her hand under the tablecloth he gently squeezed her fingers. Her hand was freezing. The mansion was cool, but not so cool that she would require a wrap.

“Are you cold?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Then why are your hands so chilled?”

Gwen leaned against his shoulder. “Cold hands, warm heart.”

Shiloh let go of her hand, removed a stud on his dress shirt, then reached for her left hand. He didn't give her time to react as the heat of his body warmed her icy fingers.

“How's that, darling?”

“Shiloh, no!” she gasped, as he tightened his grip on her delicate wrist. Shifting slightly on her chair, she met his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat as she slumped against the tufted back, her eyelids fluttering. What she saw in the gold-green eyes spoke volumes. He didn't have to breathe a word because the deep-set luminous orbs communicated what she was feeling, had felt since the first night he'd come to
Bon Temps
to check on her.

His lids came down, hiding his innermost feelings as a sly smile parted his lips. “Better, darling?”

“Yes, Dr. Feelgood,” she whispered after an interminable pause.

Chuckling under his breath, Shiloh let go of her hand and replaced the shirt stud as waiters set out plates of broiled and fried fish fritters with accompanying sauces, carafes of wine and crystal pitchers filled with iced tea, water and soft drinks.

Gwen leaned closer to Shiloh, her bare shoulder pressing against his muscled one. “You're going to have to identify a few of the items on my plate.”

Picking up a fork at his place setting, Shiloh identified the corresponding varieties of shellfish on his plate. “Scallops, fried clams, shrimp tempura, soft-shell crabs, oysters, conch, and frogs' legs.”

She wrinkled her nose, grimacing. “Frog legs.”

“They're delicious with
beurre noisette.
”

“Lemon butter sauce or not, I'm not eating them.”

“I didn't know you understood French.”

“Actually, I don't,” she admitted. Gwen told him about her trip to Paris. “Yours truly loves to eat, so the first thing I learn when traveling to a foreign country is how to order food.”

Angling his head, Shiloh stared at Gwen's enchanting profile. Even with the mask concealing most of her face he was still enthralled with her. She was the complete opposite of the women he'd found himself drawn to in the past. The women he'd dated before were very tall and thin, though he had no preference as to their complexion.

However, Gwen Taylor wasn't tall and she wasn't thin. And she wasn't a type. She was an enigma, a mystery woman who lived by her own rules. He viewed her as an independent career woman in her mid-thirties, unmarried, childless, who did not appear to be remotely interested in hooking up with a man. And if he had to sum up her motto, it would be:
I can do it myself.

“Careful with that,” he said softly when he saw her dip a broiled shrimp into a spicy hot sauce.

Gwen cut her eyes at him. “I can handle this.” Her burgundy-colored lips parted in a smile when Shiloh reached for a water goblet. “Are you thirsty, darling?”

He shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I'm just standing by
in case you're going to need to put out the fire that's about to start in your mouth.”

She grunted softly. “Keep waiting.” Their gazes met and fused as she popped the shrimp into her mouth. It took her more than a minute to chew and swallow the flavorful morsel. She was hard pressed not to laugh at Shiloh's stunned expression. “What's the matter, darling?”

He blinked once. “I…I just thought you couldn't…well wouldn't be able to eat something that spicy.”

“Why not?”

He took a deep swallow from his water goblet, then set it down on the table. “Because you're from Massachusetts I assumed your taste in food would lean more toward bland dishes.”

“Oh, really? You've got Bay State jokes. And just what is it you think I eat?”

“Corn pudding, chowders and kidney pie.”

Gwen wrinkled her nose in revulsion. “Why kidney pie?”

“I tried it once at a Boston restaurant. I took a trip up to Massachusetts a week before Ian and Natalee's wedding to see the city and take in some of the sights. After the third night I'm ashamed to admit that I went to every fast food place I could find for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

She affected a moue. “I'm sorry about that, but if I'd known you then I would've either taken you to several wonderful restaurants or invited you to my place for a home-cooked dinner.”

He leaned closer. “Can you really cook?”

Tilting her chin, Gwen said haughtily. “All I'm going to say is that this sister's got mad game in the kitchen.” As teenagers she and Lauren spent their summers with their paternal grandmother, who'd taught them to how to prepare everything from soups and salads to desserts.

“When are you going to cook for me?” he whispered close to her ear.

“It's your call,” she countered.

“I'm off next Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Make it Wednesday. Is there anything you can't eat?”

He gave her a lingering stare. “Nope.”

“Then I'll expect you Wednesday.”

“What time should I come?”

“Seven.”

Shiloh nodded, then turned his attention to the woman on his right who'd placed a hand on his jacket just as the first course was removed. The next of the seven-course dinner appeared as if out of nowhere. Most of the fish entrées were as exquisitely pleasing to the eye as they were to the palate.

* * *

“Aren't you going to have dessert?” Shiloh asked Gwen three hours later when coffee and platters of miniature cakes, pastries and seasonal fruits were set out on the table.

“No. I'm too full.”

His eyes widened. “But you hardly ate anything.” She'd left food on her plate with each course.

“I ate more than I would usually consume in one sitting.”

Shiloh wanted to ask her if she was dieting, but realized it might be inappropriate. This was only his first date with Gwen, and he didn't want to do anything to jeopardize their fragile friendship.

When he'd asked her to accompany him to the fund-raiser and she'd accepted he'd thought himself lucky. But luck was as fickle as the turn of a card or a roll of the dice—it was there one second, then gone the next.

The lights dimmed twice. “Dancing will begin in fifteen minutes,” Shiloh said to Gwen.

“I'm going to the powder room to freshen up.” Shiloh
stood up and pulled back her chair. “Don't run away, Prince Charming,” she teased, referring to what he'd said to her before he was called to the dais.

He laughed, the rumbling sound coming from deep within his broad chest. Those familiar with Shiloh turned and stared at the sheriff with incredulous expressions. It was obvious to many of them that the woman in the revealing dark-red dress was special, special enough to remind them how much their homegrown son had changed once his fairy-tale marriage ended.

* * *

At the stroke of midnight Gwen reached up and removed her mask. Shiloh's impassive expression did not change, his gaze fixed on her mouth. He took a step, lowered his head, and brushed his mouth over hers. She gasped in surprise, her lips parting and permitting him to deepen the kiss as desire arced through her like a jolt of electricity.

“Why did you do that?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

Shiloh winked at her. “It's a tradition.” He waved a hand. “Look around you.”

Shifting, she saw couples sans masks embracing and kissing. “You could've warned me, Shiloh.”

Anchoring a finger under her chin, he kissed her again. “Don't you know how be spontaneous?”

“Not here and not now.”

Wrapping his arms around her waist, Shiloh pulled Gwen against his chest. “Did I embarrass you?”

She rested her hands on his lapels. “No. You just caught me off guard.”

He chuckled. “I'm sorry if I don't come with a warning label.”

Gwen wanted to tell Shiloh that he needed to come with warning and rating labels. Her hands moved up over his shoulders until her arms circled his neck. Rising on tiptoes, her mouth only inches from his, she winked at him.

“Let's dance.”

Shiloh complied, pulling her closer. A jazz band had replaced the orchestra, playing a popular love song that had everyone up and dancing. She danced every number with Shiloh until Ian broke in. Without his mask, his resemblance to his brother was uncanny. Even though they looked alike, their personalities were completely opposite. She found him witty and easygoing.

An elderly man poked Ian's back. “May I cut in?”

Ian lifted his eyebrows, and stared down at a diminutive man with an ill-fitting toupee.

Gwen stared at Ian, silently imploring him to refuse the request after she saw the man gawking at her chest. He was practically salivating. Her silent plea went unanswered as Ian released her. She suffered through the slow number with the scratchy hairpiece grazing her bosom.

The selection ended and she wended her way through the crowd, left the ballroom, and stepped out onto a gallery with old-fashioned lampposts that cast soft yellow light over a formal garden. The humid night air wrapped around Gwen like a diaphanous veil as the tangy smell of the Gulf wafted in her nostrils. The sounds of voices and muted laughter came from the garden.

“Miss Taylor?”

Turning around, she stared at a formally dressed, middle-aged man with neatly brushed silver hair and a deeply tanned face. It wasn't until he moved closer that she was able to discern his delicate features. His eyes, a brilliant bluish-gray, were mesmerizing.

“Who's asking?”

He inclined his head politely. “Nash McGraw, ma'am. I'm publisher and editor-in-chief of the
Teche Tribune.
Sheriff Harper told me that you were interested in a part-time position with the newspaper.”

“I am, but—”

“You don't have to give me an answer now, Miss Taylor,” Nash interrupted in a quiet drawling cadence. He reached into the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and handed her a business card. “Give me a call and we'll talk about when you can start.”

Vertical lines appeared between her eyes. “Won't you need references?”

He gave her a boyish smile that transformed his face, making him appear years younger. “No. I've checked out your column on the Web.” He inclined his head again. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.”