Swiveling on his chair, Nash stared out the window. “They couldn’t find any evidence linking anyone to Shelby Carruthers’ murder.”
“I’d like to research the case.”
“Let it go, Miss Taylor.”
Gwen watched her boss. There was no expression on his face. “Are you saying don’t or I shouldn’t?”
Nash turned back to glare at her, meeting her implacable challenging stare. “I have no say in what you do when you’re not working on Tribune business, but I suggest that you let sleeping dogs lie.”
Her nerves tensed immediately. What she hadn’t expected was for Nash to warn her. If she were still the crime reporter at the Gazette the editor would’ve jumped at the opportunity to make headline news by solving a cold case.
Irritated by his critical tone, she said, “I’ll take your warning under advisement.” She glanced at her watch. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to leave now or I’ll be late for my appointment with Keith Nichols.”
“Go,” Nash said, waving a manicured hand in dismissal.
Gwen walked out of the editor’s office and into her own. She shut down her computer, turned off the desk lamp, and closed the door.
She waved to Nash’s niece, Lisa McGraw. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
The high school junior glanced up. She came to the paper’s office after classes to proofread for her uncle’s paper. It was apparent the journalistic bug had bitten another generation of McGraws. Lisa had been elected to take over the position of editor-in-chief of the Bayou Sentinel, the high school newspaper, a position Nash had held forty years ago.
The redhead smiled. “Later, Miss Taylor.”
Gwen returned her friendly smile, when at that moment it was the last thing she felt like doing. Nash had chastised her as if she were an intern, and his warning to let sleeping dogs lie set her teeth on edge. Something unknown told her that the man had issued a veiled warning not to get involved. But why? she wondered. Questions fell over themselves in her head, and she hoped someone at the D.A.’s office would be able to provide her with a few answers.
She left her car in the parking space behind the newspaper’s office and walked the two blocks to the historic square where the parish courthouse was erected in a quadrangle with the police station and a two-story municipal building.
Gwen saw the blue-and-white-striped awning shading the entrance to Turner Treats. She’d promised Holly Turner she would come to her Sunday social. It was apparent the Genteel Magnolia Society ladies wanted to get into her business, and she wanted to get into theirs. And because most of them were direct descendants of the original European inhabitants of the parish there was no doubt they would be able to answer many of her questions with regard to Gwendolyn Pickering and Shelby Carruthers.
She opened the door to the melodious chiming of a bell. Turner Treats was small, but elegantly furnished. Its signature striped wallpaper, a white-and-blue-veined marble floor, and pale blue ceiling fans added to the charm of the patisserie. Holly sat at an antique table, taking an order from an elderly woman. Mouthwatering smells permeated the artificially-cooled air as Gwen stared at showcases filled with delicate confections that looked too pretty to eat.
“May I help you?”
Gwen pulled her gaze away from a tray of petit fours to find a young woman in a blue-and-white shirtwaist dress smiling at her. Her complexion matched the rich color of the chocolate covering the many desserts lining the showcase shelves.
A minute on my lips and forever on my hips. The mantra reminded Gwen that her weakness for chocolate spelled disaster for her full figure. Common sense told her to say no, but she’d found out the hard way that common sense wasn’t that common.
The petit fours were labeled: raspberry brandy, orange almond paste, crystallized ginger, coffee and cognac, nougat and amaretto, black forest and rum.
Without regard to the consequences, she said, “Give me one of each in two boxes.” She would give one box to Shiloh and the other to Keith Nichols.
* * *
“Gwendolyn, how nice of you to drop in,” said Holly Turner. She’d recognized Gwendolyn Taylor as soon as she’d walked in, but wanted to conclude her business with Lucinda Wentworth before approaching her.
Gwen offered Holly a friendly smile. “Actually I came in to see you,” she said candidly, “but I couldn’t resist your petit fours.”
“The coffee and cognac is Shiloh’s favorite.” Holly’s arched eyebrows lifted slightly when Gwen stared at her as if she’d spoken a foreign language. “Aren’t you going out with him?”
“Who told you?”
Holly waved a slender hand. “Nothing is sacred in St. Martin Parish. I heard someone say that they saw you leaving his house last night.”
“I—” Gwen’s explanation died on her lips. She’d gone to Shiloh’s house to interview him. What had begun as business had ended not so businesslike, but as a grown woman she had no intention of explaining her comings and goings to others.
“I came by to tell you that I intend to join you and your friends this Sunday.” She’d managed to direct the conversation away from herself.
“Wonderful,” Holly said pressing her palms together. “You can get to my house by going north on Michel Road. As soon as you reach Benoit Lane, make a right. My house is at the end of Benoit. You can’t pass it because we look out onto the bayou.”
“What time?”
“Six. We usually conclude by eight-thirty, because the ladies want to be home in time for Desperate Housewives.”
Gwen wanted to tell Holly that her genteel ladies were probably more desperate and frustrated than the television characters.
“Should I bring anything?”
“Please no. Just bring yourself.”
“I’d like to place an order for next Saturday.” Gwen had promised Moriah that she would make up their aborted Sunday dinner get-together. She stared at the showcase filled with cakes. “I’d like sweet chestnut and cream squares.”
Holly nodded. “Do you want to pick it up, or have it delivered?”
“I’ll pick it up before you close,” she said quickly. There was enough talk about her and Shiloh, and she didn’t want to grease the gossip mill by having the chocolate patisserie delivered to Moriah Harper’s house.
The salesgirl rang up her purchases, putting the boxes in separate bags with corresponding ribbons. Gwen paid for the petit fours, confirmed her order for the following week, and left Turner Treats for the courthouse.
* * *
A uniformed court officer was stationed in the lobby of the century-old building. Gwen placed her oversize satchel with the bags of petit fours on the magnetometer and walked through a security gate without setting off the sensors. She followed the signs directing her to the district attorney’s office. Her steps slowed, halting when she saw a series of black-and-white photographs behind a wall of glass. Her gaze raced over the pictures of district attorneys dating back to the mid-nineteenth century. A nameplate identified each by name and the date of their terms. Among the dozens of photographs, there wasn’t one woman and only one African-American, Shiloh Harper.
Her pulse quickened when she stared at the enigmatic expression on the face of the man with whom she had fallen in love. The date under Shiloh’s tenure read 2004 with a blank space. He was on official leave, and it was apparent he would return at the beginning of the following year.
Gwen opened a door, stepping into a large room separated by a counter; there was a flurry of activity as employees readied themselves to leave for the day.
An elderly woman with champagne-pink hair squinted at her. “Are you Miss Taylor?”
“Yes, I am,” Gwen confirmed.
She pressed a button under the counter, disengaging the lock on a gate. “Mr. Nichols said to send you in when you got here. He’s in office number two.”
Gwen walked through the gate and made her way down a hallway to Keith’s office. She knocked lightly on the door.
<
br /> “Come in.”
She opened the door as Keith came to his feet. A wine-colored tie hung loosely from his unbuttoned collar. His short blond hair looked as if he’d combed it with his fingers. Smiling broadly, he adjusted his glasses.
“I got caught up with something that took up most of my afternoon, so I hope you don’t mind that I ordered takeout for dinner.” Keith had wanted to take Gwen to a restaurant where they could relax and talk without being interrupted by the telephone or someone walking into his office.
Gwen shook her head. “Of course I don’t mind.”
“I ordered a cold antipasto, Caesar salad with grilled Gulf shrimp and marinated asparagus.”
“It sounds delicious. I brought dessert from Turner Treats.” She knew the prosecutor had set aside time in his extremely busy schedule to meet with her.
Keith flashed a set of straight white teeth. “Now, you’re talking.” He came around the desk and pulled out a chair at a round table in a corner. “We’ll eat, then we’ll talk.”
* * *
Two hours after she’d entered the courthouse, Gwen walked back to pick up her car. The prosecutor’s office had decided to try Willis Raymond Benton in St. Martin Parish. When she asked Keith about the elder Benton’s political influence when it came to selecting an impartial jury, the prosecutor said he was willing to err on the side of public sentiment. Most parish residents were outraged with Willie Ray because he had yet to issue a public apology, expressing remorse for his actions.
After turning off her tape recorder she’d asked Keith about Shelby Carruthers’ unsolved murder, and he promised he would direct a clerk to pull the records of the forty-two-year-old case.
Her pulse quickened when she thought of her sleepover with Shiloh, a sleepover that would extend to more than one night. Retrieving her cell phone, she punched in his number. He answered after the third ring.
“Hello.”
Gwen smiled when his drawling voice came through the tiny earpiece. “Hello back to you.”
“Are you calling to cancel?”
“No. I’m calling to tell you that I’ll see you in a couple of hours. I’m going home to change and pack a bag.”
“Good.”
“How’s Cocoa?”
“Impossible.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s spoiled rotten.”
“I leave my dog with you for less than a day, and now you tell me that she’s spoiled rotten.”
“You can’t expect her to adjust to a new environment that quickly.”
Gwen gritted her teeth. “Don’t tell me you’ve been carrying her around. Shiloh Harper,” she practically shouted when encountering silence.
“I can’t hear you so well. I think we’re breaking up, darling.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my cell phone. The only breaking that’s going to go on is when I break your neck.”
“You can’t threaten a peace officer without reprisals, Miss Taylor.”
“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.
CHAPTER 14
A Time to Keep Page 18