A Time to Keep (16 page)

Gwen nodded. If she had to be out of the house while work was being done, then she would stay at Jessup's boardinghouse.

Lina dropped the Blackberry into her bag. “I'm going to need keys for the workmen. All of them are bonded, which means you can leave them here even if you're not.”

Reaching for a set of keys hanging from a hook under a cabinet, Gwen handed them to Lina. She took a quick glance at the clock over the stove. It was almost four-thirty. She had less than three hours before Shiloh's arrival.

“I'll be here when they come tomorrow morning,” she told Lina as she walked her to her car.

Within minutes of the decorator's departure, she returned to the house to prepare for her date.

* * *

Gwen positioned a crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers between a matching pair of five-shell-base Georgian silver candlesticks. Taking a step backwards, she surveyed the table in the kitchen's dining area. It would just be she and Shiloh for dinner, but she'd decided on a formal table setting.

Something soft brushed against her ankle, and she glanced down to find Cocoa. She'd had to lock the dog in the laundry room to keep her from biting Lina's sandal-shod toes.

Bending over, she wagged a finger at the frisky puppy. “I won't lock you up again under one condition,” she crooned softly. Cocoa jumped up at the wagging finger. “Don't bite my boyfriend.” Gwen swallowed a groan. “No, I didn't call him that.” The words were barely off her tongue when the doorbell chimed.

* * *

Gwen opened the door, her breath catching momentarily in her throat when she saw Shiloh smiling down at her. He wore a wheat-colored linen suit, sky-blue shirt, and tan and navy-blue patterned tie.

She smiled at him. “Please come in.”

Wiping his feet on a thick straw mat, Shiloh moved into the entryway, leaned over, brushed a kiss on her cheek, before handing her a blue-and-white checkered bag from Turner Treats. “I brought pralines for dessert.”

Gwen took his hand, leading him across the living room and into the kitchen. “I made dessert.” She'd baked a jellyroll cake.

He sniffed the air, smiling. “I smell it. What do you have there?” he asked when he spied a flurry of brown scooting across the kitchen floor.

Gwen let go of Shiloh's hand and placed the bag on the cooking island. “Cocoa Taylor.”

He clapped his hands, and the dog came over to investigate the sound. He scooped up Cocoa. “Hey, pretty girl. She looks like one of Holly Turner's prize-winning poodles.”

Gwen met his gaze, nodding. “She is.”

“Lucky you.”

Gwen opened the refrigerator and removed plastic covered dishes with marinated vegetables and lamb chops. “She gave me Cocoa and a batch of delicious chocolate chip cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood gift.”

Shiloh rubbed a forefinger over the puppy's head. “Did she invite you to her Sunday afternoon soiree?”

“Yes, she did. How did you know?”

“A couple of years back Mrs. Turner and her genteel Southern ladies were accused of racism after they'd rejected a woman of color who'd showed up at one of their gatherings uninvited. Since that time they've embarked on an ongoing campaign to integrate the parish's Genteel Magnolia Society.”

“How long have they been meeting?”

Shiloh angled his head. “They go back to the late 1890s. Membership is based on family name, and passed down from great-grandmother, grandmother, daughter and granddaughter.”

Gwen turned on the stovetop grill, her thoughts tumbling over themselves. There was no doubt that the Magnolia Society ladies could become an inexhaustible source of information about the comings and goings on in the parish. Yes, she decided. She would join Holly and her friends for their Sunday-afternoon tea party.

“Be careful Cocoa doesn't nip your ankles,” she warned Shiloh as he set the puppy on its feet. The tiny dog turned over on her back, her tiny tail twitching. Gwen clapped her hands. “What do  you think you're doing, Cocoa Taylor? Stop showing your business!”

Shaking his head, Shiloh laughed. “You sound like a mother with a fast daughter.”

“I'd say the same if
she
were male.” She clapped again. Cocoa did not move. “Now, roll over, you shameless little hussy.”

Cocoa lay on the tiled floor, her underside exposed until Shiloh hunkered down and tickled her belly. He picked her up again. “Come to daddy, baby girl. Mama just doesn't want you to have any fun.”

Resting her hands on her hips, Gwen glared at the man who was a constant reminder of what she'd sacrificed for longer than she wanted to acknowledge. If she'd met Shiloh Harper four years ago she knew she would not be the woman she was now.

“I can see what kind of father you're going to be.”

“And that is?”

“A punk.”

Shiloh lifted an eyebrow, struggling not to laugh. “I think not.”

“I think yes,” she argued softly.

He moved closer to Gwen, his gaze lingering on the tempting curve of her full lower lip. “And you think you'd be less of a punk than I?”

She gave him a saucy grin. “I know I would. My cousin's
children know that when Auntie Gwennie says no, then it's no. Now, please stop spoiling my dog.”

A slow smile parted Shiloh's lips as he set Cocoa on her feet. “You're tough until they hug you and tell you that you're the best auntie in the whole wide world.”

Her smile matched his. “No lie,” she agreed.

Shiloh's gaze never strayed from her upturned face. Everything about Gwendolyn Taylor was hypnotic: the hair floating around her flawless face in sensual disarray, the sparkle in her fathomless dark eyes, the scent of her perfume, the delicate fabric of a classic white silk blouse she'd tucked into the waistband of a pair of coffee-colored linen slacks. Her feet were covered with a pair of high-heeled leopard-print pumps. There was no doubt that she was addicted to shoes.

He leaned a hip against the edge of a countertop, arms crossed over his chest. “Do you think you would be a good mother?”

Gwen felt as if her emotions were under attack. Her knees shook, her heart raced a little too quickly, and she chided herself for broaching the subject of parenting. She wondered whether Shiloh was challenging or just teasing her.

“I pray I'd be a good mother. I know I'd love my children, and most importantly establish boundaries.”

His expressive left eyebrow lifted. “Do you want children?”

“How did we get onto this topic?”

“You started it, Gwen.” Leaning closer, Shiloh pressed his mouth to her forehead. “Do you want children?” he asked again.

“Eventually.”

“When?”

“I've given myself until I'm thirty-eight.”

He pulled back, vertical lines appearing between his eyes. “Do you always run your life by a timetable?”

“Yes, because it works for me, Shiloh.”

“What about marriage? At what age would that work for you?”

Gwen forced all expression from her face. Shiloh wanted an answer to a question she wasn't prepared to answer. Changing her marital status was something she hadn't given any consideration since ending her short-lived engagement ten years before.

“Nemo tenetur seipsum accusare.”

Shiloh lowered his arms, his eyes widening, momentarily speechless in his surprise. Gwen Taylor was unlike any woman he'd ever met or interacted with. She wasn't beautiful in the classical sense of the word, but there was something about her that was so ardently feminine, sensual, that whenever they occupied the same space he'd found himself at a loss for words. She was smart, very, very smart, outspoken, and secure enough not to downplay her intelligence in order to impress a man.

Gwen represented a total package—everything he'd looked for
and
wanted in a woman.

“No man is bound to accuse himself,” he translated. “Where did you learn to speak Latin?”

She adjusted the grill's thermostat. “I went to a parochial high school, and took Latin for three years in college.”

“We have something in common. I also had a parochial school education before I attended a Catholic college.”

“Which one?”

“Notre Dame.” Shiloh met her gaze. “Which college did you go to?”

“Mount Holyoke.”

“You stayed in Massachusetts.” Her jaw tightened, and he knew Gwen wasn't going to elaborate about her decision not to attend an out-of-state college.

His gaze moved to the beautifully set table in a spacious alcove. He felt he had to do something—anything but stand and watch the woman to whom he'd found himself drawn when she hadn't given him any indication that she wanted more from him other than friendship.

“Can I help with something?”

Gwen nodded, not meeting his gaze. “You can open a bottle of red wine. It's in the fridge on the lower shelf.”

Shrugging out of his jacket, Shiloh left it on the back of a high stool at the cooking island. Reaching behind his back, he left his holstered handgun on the stool's rush-covered seat, and made his way to the half bath to wash his hands. He returned to the kitchen and was met with the tantalizing aroma of grilling meat and vegetables.

* * *

Shiloh closed his eyes and smiled. The whirring sound of the blades from the back porch ceiling fan joined the cacophony of nocturnal sounds sweeping over the countryside. The air was thick with perfume from blooming night flowers as streaks of lightning crisscrossed the nighttime sky.

He lay on a cushioned recliner, a barefoot Gwen resting between his outstretched legs and Cocoa, who had fallen asleep, on her lap. Light from antique wrought-iron lanterns positioned between tall windows framed by sea-foam-green shutters cast a soft golden light on the worn, uneven porch floor. Her warmth, the curves of her body merged with the peace that made him want to stay where he lay until the dawn of a new day.

Dining had become a comfortable and relaxed three-hour interlude. Gwen had loaded a CD carousel with discs from her aunt's jazz collection, and over an appetizer of crab-stuffed shrimp with a basil sauce, a mixed green salad with a Thai-peanut dressing, grilled asparagus with lemon and garlic,
grilled mint-flavored lamb chops, fluffy white rice and a dessert of jellyroll cake topped with fresh whipped cream they discussed everything from sports to politics.

She talked about growing up in Boston, the summers she'd spent with her grandmother learning to swim and cook, her brother's illness, and the devastating effects of his death on her family. It was after this disclosure that he understood her reason not to attend an out-of-state college. She revealed that her parents hadn't wanted her to move from Massachusetts to Louisiana, but in the end they were forced to accept and respect her decision.

“You were right.” His drawling voice broke the comfortable silence.

Shifting slightly, Gwen glanced over her shoulder at Shiloh. “About what?”

He opened his eyes. “You're wicked in the kitchen.”

“Is that wicked good or bad?”

Twisting several strands of her fragrant hair around his forefinger, Shiloh chuckled, the velvet sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Wicked good.”

She moved again, disturbing Cocoa who whined and yawned before settling back to sleep. “You're spoiling my pet.”

“How so?”

“She usually sleeps in her own bed and not with me.”

Shiloh wanted to tell Gwen that he wanted to sleep with her. He wanted to share her bed
and
make love to her. “I don't think this one time is going to spoil her.”

“If Cocoa becomes a doggie gone bad, then she's going home with you.”

Lines fanned out around his eyes with his smile. “I'll take her, but not without her mama.”

Gwen froze, only the rise and fall of her chest revealing that she was still alive. Her temporary shock was short-lived
as she recovered. Her attempt to move off the recliner was thwarted by the arm under her breasts.

“No,” she whispered.

“Why not?” Shiloh whispered back.

“Because we barely know each other. It hasn't been two weeks since—”

“There you go with your annoying timetable, Gwen,” Shiloh interrupted, his warm breath sweeping over an ear. “Stop living your life by minutes and seconds.”

She wiggled, trying to escape his hold but the motion only served to arouse a part of his body that had remained undisturbed since he'd kissed her on the daybed in the Outlaw's employee break room; however, her impromptu lap dance had his self-control fleeing and a rush of desire taking its place; he was helpless and unable to get his body in sync with his brain.

“Don't move,” he gasped.

“Let me go.”

“Not until you stop wiggling.”

Gwen was too incensed to notice the solid bulge pressing against her hips. “I'm not your prisoner, so don't give me orders.”

“Gwendolyn!” His shouting her name startled her and Cocoa. “Baby, please,” he pleaded, his tone softening. “You're going to make me embarrass myself.”

Within seconds she acknowledged the throbbing hardness, and her own body reacted violently. She ignored Shiloh's directive not to move when he loosened his grip, as she lay halfon and half-off his body. Cocoa scooted to a more comfortable spot on Shiloh's shoulder.

Eyes wide, her heart beating uncontrollably, Gwen felt what Shiloh was feeling and more. The area between her thighs thrummed with long forgotten sensations that melted the resistance she'd erected to protect her heart from disappointment and the anguish of another failed relationship.

Her breasts swelled, the nipples tightening and aching with a need that had been denied for far too long. She lay atop a man, a man she'd aroused, and she was unable to tell him what lay in her heart, what she wanted him to do with her because the words were locked in the back of her throat.

She wanted Shiloh to make love to her yet the fact that she'd just met him, hadn't known him a month, nagged at her conscience. “I think you better leave before I ask you to do something I'm not ready for.”