A Time to Keep (13 page)

He stared at the daily roll call schedule tacked to a corkboard, then pressed a button on an intercom. When Jimmie answered, Shiloh said, “Have Rossier cover the front desk for you.”

He had to inform his highest-ranking deputy that a special undercover agent from the DEA was scheduled to go undercover in their parish before the end of the month.

* * *

Gwen answered the doorbell, a ball of fur nipping at her heels. She smiled at the puppy. “It's not for you, Cocoa.”

Holly, as promised, had dropped off the poodle along with a large sack of food, a collar, a leash, a supply of wee-wee pads, a record of the dog's vaccinations, and a natural wicker bed with a blue-and-white gingham cushion.

She'd named the puppy, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, Cocoa because her coloring reminded her of dark milk chocolate, and within an hour of their meeting, master and dog had bonded.

Natalee Harper stood on the porch dressed all in black—pants, halter top and sandals. Braids from her ponytail cascaded over one shoulder. Cocoa yipped and nipped at her toes seconds before Gwen scooped her up.

“If you're going to live here, then you can't go after company,” she said softly, scolding the puppy. She smiled at Natalee. “I'm sorry about Cocoa. It's going to be a while before I can train her. Please come in.”

“Girl, I love your shoes,” Natalee crooned.

“Thanks.” Gwen's animal print fabric pumps matched the silk camisole she'd pulled on over a pair of cuffed linen capri slacks.

Natalee touched the handkerchief table in the entryway. “My word. How old is this table?”

Gwen glanced over her shoulder. “I think that piece is eighteenth century.”

“Incredible.” There was no mistaking the awe in Natalee's voice as she followed Gwen into the living room. Red tags were attached to tables and chairs. “Are you having a tag sale?”

“No. The tagged pieces have to be refinished. I have a decorator
coming in next week to give me an estimate. Would you like a quick tour before we leave?”

“Why sure, honey,” Natalee drawled in a thick Southern accent.

The two transplanted New Englanders laughed hysterically, as if sharing a secret. Gwen left Cocoa in the laundry room, closing the door behind the whining puppy before leading Natalee in and out of rooms, lingering to give her an overview on a few priceless antiques.

“How long did your aunt live here?” Natalee asked.

“At least fifty years.”

“Did she decorate the house?”

“I don't know,” Gwen answered. “All my family knew was that Gwendolyn Pickering lived in Louisiana, but not once did she ever say, ‘Y'all come on down.' My mother called her the ‘black Greta Garbo.'”

Natalee tossed her braided hair over her shoulder. “I've lived here for two years, and in all of that time I'd never caught a glimpse of Gwendolyn Pickering. There's always been a lot of talk about her, but Ian claims it was just hearsay.”

Gwen's curiosity was piqued. “What kind of talk?”

“She was a kept woman.”

“By whom?”

Natalee paused. “I don't know. But it was said she had a secret lover.”

“That sounds like a soap opera storyline.”

“From what I've heard it was more like ‘Desperate Housewives.'”

Gwen grimaced. “That scandalous?”

“That's the rumor.”

She'd begun reading her aunt's letters, but hadn't come across anything that indicated that she was having an affair with the man who'd signed the letters with the initials—A.C.
He was a musician who lived in New Orleans, and was obviously an obsessed fan. She had tried researching information about her aunt online, but the search yielded little.

“Gossip is always more attention-grabbing than truth,” she told Natalee.

Nodding in agreement, Natalee pressed a hand to her flat middle, affecting a dramatic pose. “I don't know about you, girlfriend, but right about now I have to get my eat on.”

Gwen smiled. “I was trying to be polite and not say anything, but I'm so hungry I could eat an alligator.”

Staring at each other for a split second, Natalee and Gwen shook their heads. “Not!” they chimed in unison.

* * *

Gwen discovered that Natalee drove as fast as she talked. During the ride Natalee told her that she'd been a jewelry appraiser for Sotheby's for five years. She had left the auction house to become a jewelry designer to a select group of clients that included athletes and entertainers. What surprised Gwen was that despite her profession, Natalee wore a narrow, unadorned yellow gold wedding band.

“How did you meet Ian?”

The jewelry designer smiled. “I'd come to New Orleans to see a client who'd commissioned me to design a necklace for his wife's fiftieth birthday. He invited me to attend a Saints pre-season game, and Ian was in an adjoining box with a number of chefs who'd gotten together for a food magazine layout. I'm not ashamed to say I flirted shamelessly with him, and at halftime we exchanged telephone numbers. What saved my pride was that he contacted me first. We dated long-distance for three months, then had a Christmas Eve wedding two years ago.”

Gwen waited for Natalee to talk about Shiloh. She still had another four days before she would see him again, and
whenever she remembered how she felt every time he'd held her in his arms, her heart did a flip-flop.

She'd told herself that she did not want to get involved with a man—especially one as sexy as Shiloh Harper. But the voice in her head screamed LIAR!

Natalee downshifted, maneuvering along the road leading to the ferryboat landing.
La Boule
was filled to capacity, and Gwen managed to find an empty seat at the railing, while Natalee sat near the pilothouse.

Leaning over the railing, she saw the shiny red eyes of the alligators as they glided just below the surface of the brackish water. She knew she never would've moved into
Bon Temps
if it had been built close to the water.

Three blasts of the horn echoed over the countryside as the ferryboat pulled slowly away from the landing. The setting sun turned the landscape into a surreal world that reminded Gwen of a Hollywood version of Armageddon. She sat motionless, stunned by the panorama that held her captive until bright lights, loud music and the sounds of laughter coming from the Outlaw broke the spell.

“The place is really jumping,” she said to Natalee as they disembarked.

“Friday and Saturdays nights are always a little more raucous. It's the end of the week and folks look forward to letting off some steam. The Outlaw is always closed on Sunday, but during June, July, and August it closes on Sunday and Monday.”

They made their way to the entrance, Gwen stopped short as she came face-to-face with Shiloh. He was in uniform.

Touching the brim of his hat, Shiloh stared at Gwen. “Good evening, Gwen, Nattie.”

Gwen's expression matched his impassive one. “Hello, Shiloh.”

Natalee patted his shoulder. “Gwen and I are going to be here a while. We'd love for you to join us after you're off duty.”

“I'm off duty now,” he said, his gaze not straying from the soft cloud of dark hair framing Gwen's face.

Natalee leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Then get out of that do-do brown outfit, brother love, and come hang out with us.”

He touched the brim of his hat again. “I'll see you later.”

“How much later?” Natalee asked as he turned to make his way down to the landing.

“As soon as I can get out of this doo-doo brown get up,” he called out, not turning around.

Natalee looped her arm through Gwen's, smiling. “You know he likes you,” she whispered.

“And I like him.”

“You don't understand, Gwen.”

“What's there not to understand?”

Natalee sobered, her dark eyes serious. She steered Gwen away from the couples going into the restaurant. “Shiloh never hangs out here at night. He'll stop by for lunch, but that's the extent of his socializing.”

“Why are you telling me this, Natalee?”

“You're the first woman Shiloh has been seen with since his divorce.”

Gwen stared at Natalee with a look of complete surprise on her face. She'd questioned Shiloh about being married, unaware there
had
been an ex-Mrs. Shiloh Harper.

“Oh, so you don't know about Deandrea?”

“No.”

She didn't know about Deandrea, and did not care to know anything about the woman, because she had no intention of becoming
that
involved with Shiloh Harper.

“You're dating him, yet he hasn't told you?”

Gwen shook her head. “We're not dating.”

“Come again.”

“Shiloh asked me to accompany him to the fund-raiser and I accepted.”

Natalee's jaw dropped. “I thought you two were…” Her words trailed off.

“Sleeping together?” Gwen said, completing her assumption.

“Yes.”

“We're not,” she confirmed. “Shiloh and I are friends.”

“Is that what you want from him? Friendship?”

It was a loaded question. She could tell Natalee no because it'd been years since she'd slept with a man. And she could truthfully say yes because every woman needs a male friend. She decided on the latter.

“Yes.”

“Good luck with that,” Natalee mumbled under her breath.

An expression of confusion stole across her face. “What did you say?”

She knew she sounded defensive, but didn't much care. She wanted to set the record straight that she and the sheriff were not involved with each other, that because they were seen publicly at a fund-raising event it didn't translate into their sharing a bed.

Natalee knew she'd crossed the line of propriety when she heard Gwen's tone. “Sorry about that.” Her mood changed, brightening. “Let's go in before they run out of food.”

Needing no further prompting, Gwen followed her new friend into the restaurant.

S
hiloh shouldered his way through the crowd, oblivious to the driving rhythms coming from several large speakers set up on a raised stage. The band, made up of local musicians, had most of the crowd up and on their feet dancing to an infectious dance beat.

The Outlaw came alive on Friday and Saturday nights. Fridays catered to the over-forty crowd with a buffet dinner, two-for-one drinks and music that spanned several decades. Saturdays accommodated the twenty to thirtysomething set with live music, and a buffet featuring regional cuisine, along with raw clam and sushi bars.

A Saturday-night visit to his brother's restaurant was a rare outing for Shiloh. He came whenever he was called in an official capacity as sheriff, or when he needed to talk to Ian about something that couldn't wait until the following day. Tonight, however, was the exception. He'd come because of a woman.

He scanned the throng, his gaze sweeping over the dance floor. Tables were positioned for maximum seating. The length of one wall was set up for a hot and cold buffet, and at the end was the bar. His eyes widened. Gwen sat at the bar, a rapt expression on her face as she listened to one of his former colleagues.

Ignoring curious stares from those who rarely saw him in the restaurant out of uniform, he headed toward the bar. As he neared Gwen, he noticed things about her he hadn't before: the play of light on her flawless skin, the wealth of unbound curls that seemingly took on a life of their own whenever she moved her head, and the perfection of her delicate profile.

He stopped, visually drinking in the startling dark beauty of the woman who'd ensnared him in an invisible web of seduction. Shiloh held his breath when she tilted her head, baring her throat, and laughed softly. At that moment he wanted to press his mouth to her pulse at the base of her throat, feeling the soft flutters keeping time with his own runaway heartbeat.

“Gwen.”

Her head came around as she swiveled on the bar stool. He hadn't realized he'd called her name. Her smile vanished as if in slow motion. Her stunned expression lasted seconds, replaced by a sensual smile that indicated she
was
as glad to see him as he her.

* * *

Gwen felt a warm glow flow through her as she stared at Shiloh. His damp spiky hair, loose-fitting blue-gray silk shirt, well-washed jeans and running shoes gave him a rugged, disheveled appearance.

“You came back.” She didn't recognize her own voice, which had lowered an octave as her rapidly beating heart slammed against her ribs.

Shiloh lowered his voice and his gaze. “I told you I would.”

Keith Nichols nodded to the acting sheriff who'd been his boss at the D.A.'s office. He reached into the pocket of his slacks and left a bill on the bar, and waved at the bartender. “Keep the change.”

Keith smiled at Gwen. “It was nice meeting you, Gwendolyn,” he said before offering his hand to Shiloh. “We're counting down the days, boss.”

Shiloh tightened his grip on the blond, preppy-looking A.D.A.'s hand. “Thanks.”

Keith's hazel eyes crinkled behind the lenses of his round, wire-rimmed glasses. “See you around.”

“You bet,” Shiloh said as he took the stool the young lawyer had vacated. He stared at the glass of clear liquid with a wedge of lime in Gwen's glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Club soda.”

Resting an elbow on the mahogany bar, he signaled for the bartender. “Are you designated driver tonight?”

Gwen stared at him through her lashes, a mysterious smile parting her lips. Shiloh Harper looked and smelled good enough to eat. She wrapped both hands around her glass so as not to touch him.

“No. Natalee drove.”

“Where is she?”

“She said she had to take care of some business in Ian's office. Why?”

“Give me three kings on the rocks,” Shiloh said to the bartender who came over to take his beverage order. Rising to his feet, he winked at Gwen. “I'll be right back.”