A Time to Keep (24 page)

“Consider yourself threatened, Sheriff Harper.” That said, she ended the call, fuming.

A sixth sense had told her not to let Shiloh take Cocoa home with him. The puppy had become Shiloh's shadow, she following him everywhere, he picking her up whenever she whined. Now, she was forced to undo the damage.

* * *

Gwen lay in the oversize hammock, her body curving into Shiloh's as dusk settled over St. Martin Parish. The lighted candles under glass chimneys flickered in the encroaching darkness like fireflies.

Shiloh had tempered her annoyance when he opened the front door and she was met with a trail of flower petals that led across the living room floor, up the winding staircase, down the hallway leading into the bedroom, and out to the veranda. Half a dozen lighted pillars, a bottle of chilled champagne and softly playing music beckoned her to come and stay awhile. And she'd stayed, sipping champagne and dancing with him. After her second glass of the dry, bubbly wine she sought out the hammock, content to listen to the music from a satellite radio station coming through a small but powerful speaker.

Cocoa whined softly before settling down to a more comfortable position on Shiloh's shoulder. “Just because you conspired to get me drunk so that you can seduce me, don't think I've forgiven you about spoiling my pet.”

Shiloh pressed his mouth to Gwen's slightly damp hair. “It's too late for that,” he murmured.

“And it's not too late to send her to obedience school.”

“You're not going to take my dog anywhere.”

Pulling out of his loose embrace, Gwen sat up. “Who said Cocoa is yours?”

A hint of a smile curved the corners of Shiloh's mouth upward. “You did.”

“No, I didn't!”

“Sure you did. When you agreed to marry me I interpreted that to mean that whatever we have we would share and share alike.”

“You're interpreting all of this without thinking that perhaps I didn't want to share my pet with you.”

Shiloh wrapped an arm around her shoulders, easing her down beside him. “We shouldn't be arguing about a dog.”

“I'm not arguing, Shiloh. I'm just stating a fact. And the fact remains that Cocoa is
my
dog.”

“Is it going to be your children, my children or our children?”

“Don't you dare try and equate a dog with—”

Shiloh stopped her tirade with a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. Shifting on the hammock, he covered her body with his, and permitted her to feel the surge of passion straining for escape.

“You've just been overruled, Miss Taylor.”

Breathing heavily, Gwen sought to evade his marauding mouth. “Stop, Shiloh,” she pleaded.

“Stop what?” he asked as his hand slipped between her thighs. A pair of cotton shorts and a tank top did little to conceal her lush curves. “Stop loving you? Or stop wanting to make love to you?”

Gwen gasped when his hand covered her mound. “O-o-o-h,” she moaned in protest, as her body betrayed her.

Shiloh hardened quickly, and he knew he had to take Gwen to bed before they wound up copulating in the hammock. He scooped up Cocoa, opened the screen door to the bedroom, and placed the puppy on the floor. Reaching for Gwen, he carried her into the room, closing the door behind them.

One moment his body was pressing hers down to the hammock, and moments later Gwen found herself in the
bedroom, on the bed, Shiloh straddling her, and stripping her naked within minutes.

He hadn't turned on a light, and the flickering flames from the candles on the veranda provided enough illumination for her to make out the outline of his large body as he stripped off his shirt, jeans, and underwear.

She was on fire. Shiloh Harper had ignited a flame that only he could assuage. She gasped, her nerve endings screaming when his fingertips began a sensual trail that began at the hollow of her neck and ended along the soles of her feet.

His mouth replaced his fingers, kissing the rapidly beating pulse in her throat, his tongue tracing the areolae of her breasts; he teased and tasted her fragrant flesh until she screamed and pleaded for him to stop his sexual assault on her body, heart and mind.

“Please don't!” she sobbed as he inhaled the heady scent between her thighs. Her protests were ignored when he buried his face between her legs. Shiloh was doing to her what she'd never permitted
any
man to do, but she was helpless to stop him. It was as if he'd brainwashed her, controlled her. She was as helpless as a newborn. She cried, pounded his head and shoulders, but to no avail.

Shiloh was relentless as he luxuriated in the sexual bouquet that made him want to gorge on Gwen's curvy, scented body. Everything about her face and body turned him on until he couldn't think straight, couldn't get a restful night's sleep.

His tongue searched her moist folds, plunging deeper, deep enough for him to register the strong pulsing that indicated the woman between whose legs he lay, the woman with whom he'd fallen in love and given his heart to, was poised to climax.

He loathed withdrawing, but wanted to experience that oneness with her again. Reaching for the condom on the bedside table, he slipped it on, entered her slowly, reviving their passions.

Gwen knew what she shared with Shiloh filled a physical need she'd denied for far too long; but what he also offered her was much more. His lovemaking stripped away her defenses, forced her to see herself as someone who could love him without rules, restrictions, game plan or timetable. Not only had she welcomed him into her body but also her life.

Waves of ecstasy throbbed through her body like a runaway freight train. Skin to skin, heart to heart, she became one with Shiloh, and she couldn't control the outcry of delight when she arched as convulsions shook her from head to toe.

Rising to meet Shiloh's strong thrusts, her fingernails scoring his back, Gwen threw back her head and screamed as she soared freely to a place where she'd never been. A flood tide of uncontrollable joy made it impossible for her to breathe, speak or move.

Shiloh couldn't believe the pleasure Gwen offered him. The tremors and heat wrapped around his engorged flesh, the passion radiating from the soft core of her body was akin to an ache, a sensual, excoriating ache that only she could relieve. Electricity arced through his lower body, and within seconds he surrendered all he had and who he was to the woman to whom he'd pledged his life and future.

He waited until his respiration slowed, then he moved off Gwen and lay facedown on the bed. What they'd just shared wasn't lovemaking but a raw act of possession, a mating.

After what seemed an interminable amount of time, he reached down and pulled a sheet up over their moist bodies. He'd slept alone for years, but it had only taken twenty-four hours for that to change. Even if he and Gwen didn't make love he still wanted her in his bed.

Seconds before he succumbed to the comforting embrace of Morpheus, Shiloh knew inexorably that Gwendolyn Paulette Taylor was to become the last woman in his life.

G
wen placed an embroidered linen napkin over her knees before picking up a cup of mint tea as she settled down to interact with the ladies of the Genteel Magnolia Society. Holly Turner, who was serving the second year of her two-year term as president, was responsible for hosting the Sunday-afternoon soirees. The current members had gathered in the screened-in back porch of a meticulously restored antebellum mansion.

Without looking for the stamp under the saucer Gwen recognized the Sèvres pattern. She'd inherited a set of the incredibly beautiful porcelain from her aunt.

“Would you like a tart, Gwendolyn?” Holly asked, extending a matching plate filled with an assortment of miniature cookies and cakes.

Smiling, Gwen shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“I hope you're not dieting because you have a wonderful figure,” said an elderly woman with snow-white hair as she
peered at Gwen over her half glasses. The size of the double strand of pearls circling her neck was as large as jawbreakers. “I can't believe the lengths you young women go through to look as if you're starving. All that dieting and liposuction business is simply preposterous, if you ask me.”

Gwen smiled as she sipped her tea. She wasn't going to comment on dieting because there were occasions when she'd embarked on several weight-loss regimens. In the end she'd come to the realization that as an adult she would never be a size six, and had come to accept her full hips and her intelligence as her best assets. She'd been told more than once by men that they liked the “junk in her trunk.”

She'd come to the Genteel Magnolia Society get-together only to discover she was the youngest of the twelve and the only woman of color. The members ranged in age from late thirties to eighties and claimed names associated with the earth, flora and fauna: Beryl, Rose, Hyacinth, Lily, Violet, Fern, Dahlia, Iris, Olive, Laurel and Holly. They were educated, wore classic clothes, conservative hairstyles, vintage jewelry, and were the descendants of the Revolutionary War and Civil War families.

She'd decided to forego her favored capris in favor of a skyblue linen sheath dress. Her accessories were a pair of pale blue-and-white high-heel leather pumps, a single strand of perfectly matched pearls, a gift from her mother for her sixteenth birthday, and pearl studs. She'd secured her hair in a twist on the nape of her neck.

Shiloh had teased her relentlessly as she dressed for the occasion, declaring she was a perfect candidate to integrate the centuries-old snobby group. Unknowingly, she'd become a Genteel Magnolia Society lady who just happened to be a darker hue.

“I just adore your accent, Gwendolyn,” said Fern, a natural redhead with sparkling green eyes and a friendly smile.

Picking up her napkin and dabbing the corners of her mouth, Gwen lifted her eyebrows. She'd hoped the woman meant regional inflection instead of an accent. She stared at Fern until the woman lowered her gaze.

“I know I don't sound like
you all,
but no one has ever accused me of having an accent,” she said defensively.

Olive placed a wrinkled hand over her pearls. “You sound like those Kennedys. I think the way they speak is simply charming.”

The tension left Gwen's body. Unconsciously she was ready to go to the mat to defend her home state. And what she intended to say wouldn't have been very genteel.

“Why, thank you, Miss Olive,” she drawled in her best southern imitation. Everyone laughed, and so did Gwen. The tense moment had passed.

“I read your article in the
Tribune,
Gwendolyn,” Holly said as she sat down at the head of the table. “I must congratulate you on your wonderful talent. How you managed to write what you did without pointing a finger is amazing.”

“It's a skill I learned in journalism school.”

Gwen was bombarded with questions as to her background and education, and she was candid and forthcoming in telling them she'd gone to college with the intent of becoming an English teacher. She'd taught high school English for two years before opting for a career in journalism.

“Do you think you'd ever go back to teaching?” Dahlia Townsend asked.

Gwen smiled at the tall, slender woman with ash-blond hair who bore a striking resemblance to Grace Kelly, the late princess of Monaco.

“I've thought about it.”

“If you're serious, then please send me your résumé. I'm
the principal at the high school. Several teachers are retiring and we need to fill their positions before the new school year.”

Not willing to commit, Gwen said, “I'll have to update my résumé.”

“You can drop it off or mail it to the high school.” Dahlia's cool looks were a deceptive foil for a dynamic personality that made her a highly respected and effective administrator.

Holly dropped a cube of sugar into her teacup. “Have you adjusted to living at
Bon Temps
?”

Gwen was hard pressed not to smile. Holly had just presented her with an opportunity to talk about her aunt. “Yes, I have.”

Olive crossed her arms. “I met my Gilbert, God rest his soul, at
Bon Temps.
”

Leaning forward, her pulse quickening, Gwen flashed a smile. She'd finally met someone, she hoped, who could possibly clear up some of the mystery surrounding Gwendolyn Pickering. “How well did you know my aunt?”

“Not too well. Gwendolyn never let people get too close to her. She kept to herself except when she hosted her balls at
Bon Temps.
”

Teacups were refilled and pastries passed around as Olive Peyton revealed the details about a liaison that crossed color lines and spanned decades. Gwendolyn Pickering had become a “kept woman.” She'd caught the eye of Robert LeRoque, a married bank president who set her up at
Bon Temps
while showering her with expensive gifts.

Olivia paused for effect. It wasn't often she was able to garner the rapt attention of the women, and she intended to savor the moment. “Robert was generous
and
controlling. He bought
Bon Temps
for her, but poor Gwendolyn had to get his permission to do anything, even visit her family. She was a
beautiful caged bird whose wings were clipped so she wouldn't be able to fly away.”

Gwen slumped back on her chair.
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.
The words written by the New Orleans musician came rushing back in vivid clarity. Gwendolyn Pickering loved A.C., not Robert LeRoque, yet she wasn't willing to risk forfeiting a glamorous lifestyle for love.

“Where is Robert LeRoque now?” Gwen asked Olivia.

“He died about twenty years ago. And it seemed as if Gwendolyn died with him. She stopped giving balls, and whenever she left
Bon Temps
she was dressed in black with a veil concealing her face. We all but forgot about her until she passed away earlier in the year.”