A Time to Keep (9 page)

“Can you help me with this?” Presenting him with her back, Gwen felt the warmth and inhaled the scent of the tall, muscular body.

Leaning closer, his chest pressed to her back, Shiloh placed the mask over her eyes and nose and tied the ribbons in a neat bow. “I'm going to have to renege on a promise.”

Gwen shivered from the moist breath whispering over the nape of her neck. “Which one?” Her voice was low, throaty as she found the act of breathing difficult.

Shiloh smiled when he detected the slight shiver of her body. “Not to see you as eye candy tonight. You are beyond beautiful, Gwen. You look incredible,” he said, unable to conceal his awe.

Gwen closed her eyes, swaying slightly as she felt the sexual magnetism that made Shiloh so attractive, so confident. A secret smile parted her glossy lips. She hadn't given him a hard time, but she also hadn't been that accommodating either.

She'd been forthcoming when she told Shiloh that finding a boyfriend, partner or husband wasn't at the top of her wish list. She wanted to meet someone, fall in love, marry and have a baby or two, but hadn't felt compelled to do so now. When many of her girlfriends were either getting engaged or marrying, she felt as if she were missing out on something—so she had agreed to become Mrs. Craig Hemming.

But it wasn't Craig paying her a compliment, but Shiloh—a man to whom she didn't want to be attracted, a man who reminded her that as a woman she had needs, a man who would introduce her to Louisiana's social scene.

“I'm going to allow you a reprieve, but only for tonight,” she said quietly.

Shiloh's smile widened. “What's that, darling?”

Gwen shifted slightly, grinning at him over her shoulder. “I'll be your eye candy if you'll be my beefcake.”

“Wh-wha-t!”

Staring at Shiloh's shocked expression through the openings in the mask, she cupped a hand behind an ear. “I can't hear you, darling.”

Shiloh sobered up, then threw back his head and howled. “Okay. I accept.” Winding an arm around her waist, he pulled Gwen flush against his length. She was unlike any other woman he'd met. He liked her, liked her a lot.

“How do you like your beef?”

There was a tingling in the pit of Gwen's stomach. He was so disturbing to her in every way that she was ready to throw caution to the wind.

“Well-done.”

Shiloh's penetrating gaze moved from her mouth to her chest. “You like your beef well-done and I'm partial to dark chocolate.” He leaned closer. “Especially when it's soft and extra sweet.”

Gwen went completely still as a throbbing sensation beat wildly in her throat. Three inches of heels put the top of her head at Shiloh's chin, and she tilted her head to meet his mesmerizing gaze. She knew each time she saw him her feelings intensified, and this frightened her. She had to slow it down, take control of her emotions or she would find herself in too deep.

“I'm ready to leave now.” Easing out of his grip, she reached for her keys on the entryway table.

Shiloh opened the door and waited for Gwen to lock up the house. He took her hand and led her to where he'd parked his
car. It had rained earlier that afternoon and the smell of rich damp earth and flowers in bloom lingered. He helped her into the Mustang, removed his jacket, placing it over the rear seats, then slipped behind the wheel. Turning the key in the ignition, he shifted into gear and the sports car shot forward in a powerful burst of speed. The sound of a guitar and a tinny piano playing a soulful Delta blues number came through the speakers, the composition filled with anguish, hopelessness and suffering.

* * *

Gwen relaxed against the leather seat, eyes closed, cooling air from the dashboard's vent feathering over her masked face. This was to become her second masquerade ball. The first time had been ten years before in Venice, Italy for Carnival. Craig had asked her where she wanted to celebrate Valentine's Day, and she'd said Italy. He'd waited until they'd boarded a gondola to attend a ball to propose marriage. Amid a city inundated with tourists desperate to show off their finery, and under a snowy sky with a biting wind she accepted his ring and promise to marry. Four months later she'd returned his ring and refused to accept his telephone calls. The break was swift and without regret—at least for her.

“Were you named for the Civil War battle?” Her soft voice shattered the comfortable silence.

Shiloh, content to drive, listen to music and enjoy the scent and closeness of a woman whose presence made him feel and say things he could've never imagined, gave Gwen a quick glance before returning his gaze to the winding road. He liked everything about her: her curly hair whether pulled off her face as it was now or in a tousled style that made him want to run his fingers through it, her rounded curvy body, her femininity and confidence that let her wear a dress like the one she wore, which ardently displayed her breasts in an
homage to womanhood. What confounded and kept him off-kilter was that he normally did not find himself attracted to women who looked like Gwendolyn Taylor.

“Nope. My folks named me after a church.”

Shifting on her seat, Gwen turned and stared at his distinctive profile. “A church?”

“Weird, isn't it?”

She hesitated, a smile stealing its way across her face. “Not as weird as it is interesting.”

“It's hardly headline news.”

“Let me be the judge of that. I've written stories in my old column at the
Boston Gazette
that garnered more attention than the regular headlines.”

“What type of stories did you write?”

“People stories, home and style features about ordinary people leading extraordinary lives. My home and style articles highlighted living space makeovers, or people who had unusual and sometimes very bizarre collections.”

“Tell me about someone who really impressed you.”

“I featured an elderly, childless widow who'd crocheted more than five thousand sets of baby booties and hats for teenage mothers living in group homes over a twenty-year period. I spent more than five hours with her, and during that time she'd crocheted a complete set, with matching ribbons. She used a portion of her Social Security check to purchase the yarn, but once the article was published a major yarn company pledged to send her whatever supplies she needed. I'd referred to Agnes Mueller as the ‘angel of hope,' and the name stuck.

“Two years ago she was forced to give up needlework because a crippling form of arthritis made it impossible for her to hold the hook. I contacted the directors of the group homes, who in turn got in touch with all of the young
women whose babies were lucky enough to receive Miss Mueller's gifts. All but three attended a special event where she was presented with a quilt stitched with the names of every baby who'd received her handmade hats and booties. The mayor made an appearance, along with a few other local officials, who gave her a proclamation in honor of her selfless work.”

There were only the sounds of the music coming from the satellite radio station and the slip-slap of rubber on the roadway. Gwen turned to stare out the side window. The event honoring Miss Mueller was the highlight of her journalism career, and the man to whom she'd found herself drawn, the man who for some reason she couldn't explain she wanted to care about what she'd accomplished stared straight ahead, silently.

“You did good, Gwendolyn Taylor,” Shiloh whispered in a reverent tone. He turned and smiled at her. “You did real good, darling.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. “Please don't call me that, Shiloh.”

“What? Gwendolyn?”

“No. Darling.”

“And why not, darling?”

“Because where I come from men don't call women darling unless there's something between them. It's a word of endearment. A term of affection.”

Shiloh bit back a smug grin. “I happen to know what an endearment means, Miss Wordsmith Newspaper Lady.”

Gwen rested a hand on her hip. “Do you have something against journalists?”

Downshifting, he slowed as he negotiated a sharp curve. “Are you getting an attitude?”

“No way,” she crooned. There was no way she wanted him
to believe he'd gotten to her. But, he had gotten to her. There was something about the sexy lawman that made her forget her promise not to get involved, because there were too many other things she wanted and needed to accomplish before she considered a relationship.

Shiloh drove another quarter of a mile before he spoke again. “You still want to know how I got my name?”

“Yes.”

“It's a simple tale.”

Gwen stared at him. “I still would like to hear it.”

He gave her a quick glance. “My folks were on their way to New Orleans to visit with my daddy's people when Mama went into labor. She panicked because I was three weeks early. It was Sunday morning and Daddy stopped at a small church, hoping they had a telephone he could use to call a hospital. Before the pastor could make the call I was ready to make my grand entrance.

“The pastor's wife, who was a nurse, delivered me, so once the ambulance arrived there was nothing for the emergency medical personnel to do except take Mama and me to the hospital. Mama and Daddy had already selected names for their first child, but scrapped them in lieu of Shiloh in honor of Bayou Cane's Mount Shiloh Baptist Church.”

Gwen smiled. “That's the kind of story that I would've written for my people column.”

“Did you always write feel-good stories?”

“Yes. It was a breath of fresh air after four years as a crime reporter.”

Shiloh wanted to ask her about some of the cases she'd covered, but they'd run out of time. He turned onto a paved road under an arbor of oak trees. Chauvin Hall stood at the end of the road, rising like a wedding cake sitting on a dark-green tablecloth. Towering ancient cypress framed wing pavilions
, a Greek Revival facade, a Regency-style entrance and an octagonal cupola.

Red-jacketed valets jumped into and out of cars, maneuvering them into a designated parking area. A teenage girl sat on a stool holding a sign printed with large black letters: LAW ENFORCEMENT PERSONNEL PARKING ONLY.

Shiloh slowed, shifted into neutral and applied the emergency brake. “This is as far as we go.”

A valet opened his door, handing him a ticket and a tuberose boutonniere. He smiled, his white teeth a startling contrast to his dark brown face. “Evening, Sheriff Harper.”

Shiloh stepped out of the car, returning the smile, and patted the young man's shoulder. “How are you doing, Xavier?”

“Fine, sir.”

Reaching for his jacket, Shiloh slipped his arms into it as he rounded the Mustang. He opened the passenger-side door, offered a hand to Gwen, and pulled her gently to her feet.

He showed her the boutonniere. “Can you please help me with this?”

Gwen took the fragrant, delicate flower and pinned it on his left lapel, then straightened his tie. “Where's your mask?”

Shiloh stared at his date under lowered lids, wondering if she was aware of the effect she had on him. She was the first woman, since he was introduced to Deandrea, that made him want to bed her without getting to know her first. There was something so wanton in Gwendolyn Taylor that evoked an emotion that bordered on recklessness more frightening than his facing down someone with a loaded gun.

His physical attraction to Gwen was undeniable, however, he wanted more than a quick romp in the bed. That he'd done with Deandrea and the act only served as a precursor to failure.

Reaching for her hand, Shiloh held it firmly. “None of the
hosts wear masks. However, at the strike of midnight all masks come off.”

Gwen flashed an attractive moue. “I neglected to tell you that I have a midnight curfew.”

He released her hand, wrapped an arm around her waist, and led her toward the entrance of the brightly lit mansion. “What happens if you break curfew?”

Leaning against his side, Gwen smiled up at her date. I don't know,” she teased. “I've never broken curfew.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Are you warning me that you're a good girl?”

She nodded. “A very, very good girl.”

His fingers tightened against her ribs. “You don't have to worry about your virtue tonight.”

“Why not?”

Shiloh stopped and winked at her. “If you can't trust your local law enforcement, then who can you trust?”

Gwen gave him a direct stare through the openings in her mask. “That would depend on whether you're Shiloh or Sheriff Harper tonight.”

Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to her temple. “That decision will rest with you.”

“Why me?” she whispered.

“At the strike of midnight you'll have to let me know who you want me to be.”

For the first time in a very long time Gwen had no comeback. Shiloh had absolved himself of all responsibility as to where their relationship would take them. He'd thrown down the gauntlet, and she would accept his challenge—but only if she could set the rules.

G
wen made her way into the entryway of Chauvin Hall on Shiloh's arm, her gaze widening when she saw the expanse of skin.
And I thought my dress was risqué,
she mused.

Period evening gowns from the Italian Renaissance to the nineteenth-century bared backs, arms and ample bosoms, and the precious gems encircling necks, wrists, fingers and dangling from earlobes verified those in attendance were not members of needy families. Some of the men preened like peacocks in their formal and semiformal attire as they gazed adoringly into the eyes of their women. A frown furrowed her forehead when she spotted an elderly man in a Confederate military uniform.

She leaned into Shiloh, her frown in place. “I thought the war ended at Appomattox,” she whispered under her breath.