A Time to Keep (17 page)

Shiloh held her gaze with his. “What's that?”

“Make love to me.” The words tumbled over each other.

“Don't you remember me telling you that if and when we make love to each other it will be at the right time and for the right reason? Even though I want you, I know it's not the right time—at least not for you.”

“It may never be the right time because of my position with the
Tribune.
”

Anchoring his hands under her arms, Shiloh lifted Gwen to straddle his thighs. “What are you talking about?”

“Nash assigned me to cover the Blotter.”

“You think because we're seeing each other that becoming the crime reporter would compromise your ethics?”

Gwen nodded. “Yes.”

“That won't happen if your SMPD contact is Deputy Sheriff James Jameson. I'll let Jimmie know you'll be in touch with him, and that he's to cooperate fully with you.”

Looping an arm around his neck, Gwen pressed a kiss to the side of his strong neck. “Thank you, darling.”

Cradling her head between his hands, he gently massaged her scalp. “You're welcome,” he crooned, as he dropped tiny kisses at the corners of her mouth.

Gwen lowered her head to his shoulder and smiled at the puppy curled up on the opposite shoulder. There was no doubt
the Taylor women were quite taken with the sheriff of St. Martin Parish.

A rumble of thunder joined the intermittent flashes of lightning, disturbing the tranquility of the mood and the night. Cocoa woke up, whining and cowering. Shiloh grabbed her before she tumbled off the recliner.

Gwen took the puppy from him. “I'd better take her inside before she's traumatized.”

Raising his arm, Shiloh glanced at his watch. It was after eleven. “And it's time I head home.” He waited until Gwen swung her legs over the side of the recliner before he stood up. The top of her head came to his shoulder. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he led her into the house, closing and locking the door behind them.

Rising on tiptoe, Gwen kissed his cheek. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me. I'd like to do this again.”

“When?” she asked.

“Saturday night.”

A flash of humor crossed Gwen's face. “Are you going to cook for me?”

“No. You know I can't cook. I want to take you to Breaux Bridge for a crawfish festival.”

“Aren't they tiny lobster-looking shellfish that you bite off the heads and suck the meat from their tails?”

Shiloh's expressive eyebrows lifted in surprise. He hadn't expected Gwen to know about the caviar of Louisiana Cajun cuisine. “You've eaten them?”

“No,” Gwen admitted, “but I've always wanted to try them.”

He pulled her closer. “And you will, princess. I'll pick you up around six.”

She smiled up at him. “I'll be ready.”

Lowering his head, Shiloh brushed a kiss over her lips. “I'll see you Saturday.”

Gwen stood on the front porch with Cocoa, staring through a curtain of softly falling rain, long after the taillights from Shiloh's car disappeared from view. She'd verbalized to him that she wanted him to make love to her although the timing wasn't right.

She'd lied.

The time was right.

It was right the first time she'd permitted him to cross her threshold.

It was right because Shiloh Harper reminded her that she was a woman—a normal woman who had known of the strong passion within her; a woman who had begun to recognize her own needs; a woman who had found herself wanting a man she did not want to want; a man she had found herself falling in love with against her better judgment; and she knew what she'd shared and felt for Shiloh would have to be resolved.

Gwen closed and locked the front door and then mounted the staircase to her bedroom. She placed Cocoa in her wicker bed in a corner of the bathroom. Twenty minutes later she slipped into her own bed, and her last waking thought before she drifted into sleep was her body's reaction to Shiloh's arousal.

A
fter the furniture earmarked for refurbishing was removed from
Bon Temps,
Gwen retreated to her study, sat down on a rocker and picked up a letter from the stack on a side table.

She'd read more than sixty letters from the New Orleans-based musician to her late aunt, and discovered their relationship wasn't a relationship but one of adoring fan to an artist. That was what she believed until she read one dated June 14, 1972:

My Dearest Angel,

You could not imagine my surprise when the house lights came up last night and I saw you sitting in the audience. At that moment I wanted to leap off the stage and kiss you until I stopped breathing. I know how difficult it was for you to come see me. I love you even more for risking everything you have to make the trip.

I heard from Buddy Deblieux about your party at
Bon Temps. I also read about it in The Times-Picayune. The next time you have a party I could come as one of the horn players.

My undying love,

AC

Gwen placed the letter in the corresponding envelope. She pushed off the rocker and picked up the telephone on her desk. Punching in the number for the
Tribune,
she identified herself and asked to speak to Nash.

“Please don't tell me that you're quitting even before you begin.”

“Not at all,” she said, hoping to put the newspaperman at ease. “I want to know if you have any available back issues of the
Tribune.
”

“How far back, Gwendolyn?”

“Fifty years.” It was the first number that came to mind because her aunt had lived at
Bon Temps
for half a century.

“I know I have bound copies that go back at least forty years.”

“May I come in and take a look at them?”

Nash cleared his throat. “You don't have to make the trip. I'm leaving the office within the next hour. I'll drop them by on my way home.”

Gwen smiled. “Thanks, Nash.”

“Don't mention it, Gwendolyn.”

She'd told her boss to call her Gwen, but Nash admitted he was old-fashioned and never shortened anyone's name. She ended the call, replacing the telephone on its cradle. She went back to the rocker, sat down and removed another letter from its envelope.

Eyes wide, she felt like a voyeur when she read the words written by a man who had fallen inexorably in love with a woman unable to return his affection.

* * *

I've been stood up!
The enormity of what had occurred had Gwen's moods vacillating between rage and humiliation.

Since she'd begun dating at seventeen, she'd had some exceptional, and not-so-good, and downright horrible dates, but she'd never been stood up!

“Why can't I trust a man, Cocoa?” The puppy sat on its haunches staring up at Gwen as she paced back and forth. “I can't believe I fell for his smack about making me feel good. ‘Oh, darling, I need to know what I have to do to make you happy,'” she drawled, sneering. “Well, Mister Five-O, the only thing that will make me happy right about now is if I never see you again!”

Shiloh called around three to tell her he would pick her up at six, but six had come and gone and it was now after ten and still no Shiloh Harper. If he'd called her once, then he could've called her a second time to let her know he'd be late or even to cancel. He could've also sent one of his deputies as he'd done before. After all, she considered herself a reasonable individual. While she was no stranger to rejection, what she couldn't abide was poor home training, she continued in her silent rant.

Gwen stopped pacing, going completely still as a feeling of dread swept over her. But…but what if he couldn't send word to her because he wasn't able to.

What if…what if something had happened to him?

What if he'd been injured or…

Her thoughts trailed off as her eyes filled with tears. She was so busy berating Shiloh that she hadn't thought maybe something had gone wrong.

Her knees were shaking when she walked through her bedroom and into the sitting room. She sat down on the cushioned window seat and clasped her hands together to stop their trembling.

How had she become so self-absorbed that she only thought of herself? Just because she existed in a cocoon of relative safety she'd dismissed the reality that each time Shiloh went on duty to uphold the oath he had sworn to protect the citizens of St. Martin Parish he put his life in jeopardy.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer. Even if he had blown off their date, she still wanted him safe because she'd denied what had been so obvious from their first encounter. She liked Shiloh Harper more than she was able to openly acknowledge.

And what she did not want to do was fall in love. It was something she'd done far too often. Excitement, euphoria, an indescribable soaring feeling of love and being loved usually preceded heartbreak, heartache and disappointment. She'd once thought she'd set her standards too high, but that notion lasted all of five seconds. Her demands—trust, openness, honesty, intelligence, respect and passion—were not negotiable.

Gwen willed the tears behind her eyelids not to fall, but they did. They flowed as she cried without making a sound. She did not move to Louisiana to become involved with a man, but she had. And she did not want to fall in love again, but she had.

She lost track of time as she sat, staring into space. Cocoa ambled into the sitting room and sniffed her feet. She leaned over and settled the puppy on her lap. Half an hour later, she placed the dog in its bed, and made her way into the bathroom.

* * *

“Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you?”

Shiloh shook his head as he stared through the windshield of the police cruiser. “I'm sure, Jimmie.”

“Look, man, it's almost three o'clock and either she's asleep or she's not home.”

Shiloh shook his head again. “She's here. That's her car.”
He pointed at the dark sedan parked alongside the north side of
Bon Temps.

“Come home with me, Shiloh. You can bed down in one of the spare rooms in the attic. I've soundproofed it and you won't hear the kids when they start acting up.”

James Jameson had known Shiloh for most of his life, and tonight was the first time he'd witnessed another side of the sensitive, compassionate man. If he hadn't come upon the horrific automobile accident, Jimmie knew he would've been the one to arrest Sheriff Shiloh Harper for murder instead of the former St. Martin High School all-star athlete who'd crashed his car head-on into a van, killing the driver along with three other passengers.

Shiloh had handcuffed the driver to his car's steering wheel to keep him from fleeing the scene. However, as Shiloh struggled to free the four people trapped inside the burning van, the young man, in a rampage fueled by alcohol and methamphetamine, kicked out the windshield, ripped the wheel from the steering column, and crawled over the hood of his Porsche only to face Shiloh, who'd drawn his handgun. Jimmie recalled Shiloh's statement that if he was ever in the position where he had to draw his gun, then he was prepared to use deadly force.

“Thanks for the offer, Jimmie, but I'm going to be all right.” He unfastened the seat belt. “I'm going to take a few days off to get my head together.”

Jimmie stared at his superior's strained expression, then shifted his gaze to the bandages covering Shiloh's left arm. “It's going to be more than a few days, Shiloh. You know you can't come back until you get medical clearance. Meanwhile, I'll handle everything.”

A tired smile twisted Shiloh's mouth. “I know you will. Thanks, Jimmie.”

“Don't worry about the Suburban. Frank said he'll drive it back to your place.”

Shiloh nodded, opened the door, stepped out of the car, and made his way up the porch steps. Waiting until the taillights from the cruiser disappeared into the night, he rang the bell to Gwen Taylor's house. He rang it again a minute later, listening for movement behind the door.

He walked off the porch and around to the back of the house. Bending down, he picked up pebbles around a flower bed and pitched them at the French doors to her bedroom. There were times when he'd shimmied up porch columns or climbed tree limbs to see a girl he liked, but that time had passed. He was no longer daring, reckless or agile enough to risk falling and injuring himself. Besides, his arm hurt like hell.

He pitched another pebble, then another. A smile eased the lines of tension around his mouth when a light came on.

* * *

Gwen opened her eyes when she heard the tapping sound against the glass. Silvered light from a near-full moon came through the delicate fabric spanning the length and width of the French doors. The sound wasn't rain.

She glanced at the clock on a small round table with a vase of fragrant white peonies and sunny-yellow freesia. The glowing green numbers read 2:50 a.m.

Switching on a bedside lamp, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the French doors. Pulling back a panel of ivory-white silk drapes, she peered through the glass. A large figure moved from the shadows and into light from a motion detector. A wave of relief rippled through her body as she unlocked the floor-to-ceiling doors and stepped out onto the veranda.

Now that she saw for herself that Shiloh was in one piece,
her anger returned like a volcanic eruption. “What the hell are you doing here?” she shouted at him.

Shiloh motioned to her. “Come down and open the door and I'll tell you.”

“No!”

He knew Gwen had every reason in the world to be angry with him, but he had to tell her why he hadn't been able to contact her.

“Please open the door and let me explain, darling.”

Her temper flared. “Don't you dare darling me, Shiloh Harper. You stand me up, then show up in the middle of the night and expect me to open the door. I don't think so, playa.”