Gwen woke to the hypnotic sound of rain tapping against the French doors. Rolling over and sitting up, she peered at the clock on the bedside table. She’d overslept—again.
As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and slipped her feet into her fuzzy slippers, reality dawned. She wasn’t in Boston, didn’t have to get out of bed, didn’t have a job, and she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do.
Her life had changed—dramatically. Minutes, hours, meetings, daily calendars and deadlines no longer measured her life.
Within a month of listing her condominium with a Realtor she had a buyer. A husband-and-wife artist team made an offer she would’ve been a fool to refuse.
Upon the recommendation of her financial advisor, Gwen invested the proceeds of the sale and donated the apartment’s furnishings to a local church and her favorite charity.
Rising from the bed she made her way into the bathroom. After an evening of eating, drinking and dancing she looked forward to a more leisurely day. What she did not want to think about were the hours she’d spent with Shiloh. He’d been the perfect date: charming and attentive. She knew many of the parish’s longtime residents were curious about her, and she truly felt like Cinderella when she overheard curious whispers speculating about her identity. But unlike Cinderella, she did not flee the ball at the stroke of midnight. She did find herself in the arms of her prince when Shiloh gave her a kiss that heated her blood and left her wanting more—much more.
After breakfast she planned to call Nash McGraw, the Tribune’s editor. She also wanted to go through at least one of the guest bedroom closets, and read some of her late aunt’s letters before she prepared to go out with Shiloh’s sister-in-law.
Gwen picked up the carafe to refill her coffee cup when the doorbell rang, startling her. She didn’t think she would ever get used to the sound that reminded her of pealing church bells.
“That doorbell has got to go,” she mumbled under her breath as she walked out of the kitchen to answer the door.
Peering through the peephole, she saw a woman with a small child. She opened the door to discover that the rain had stopped and the rays of a watery sun pierced an overcast sky. A top-of-the-line Jaguar was parked in the driveway.
She smiled at a tall, thin woman with raven-black hair, alabaster skin, and cornflower-blue eyes. She reminded Gwen of a Ralph Lauren model in a white linen sheath dress and matching pearl necklace.
“Good afternoon, Miss Taylor. I’m Holly Turner, and this is my son, Kyle. I saw you at the dance last night with Sheriff Harper.” She handed Gwen a pale blue wicker basket wrapped in gold cellophane. Turner Treats was imprinted on a profusion of matching streamers. “I wanted to give you time to settle in before welcoming you to town.”
“My mama makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the whole wide world,” Kyle said proudly.
Gwen smiled at the child, whom she assumed to be about four years old. A spray of freckles over his nose and cheeks was the only color in what would’ve otherwise been a very pale face. Kyle Turner was a small male version of his mother.
Her smile widened. “Yum-yum. My favorite.” She redirected her attention to Holly. “Won’t you come in? And please call me Gwen.”
Holly shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay.” She ruffled her son’s hair. “Kyle has a long overdue appointment with his barber. If you’re free tomorrow evening, I’d like you to join a few of your neighbors for an early Sunday evening get-together.”
Gwen knew she’d become an object of curiosity after she’d attended the fund-raiser with Teche’s sheriff. She hadn’t planned anything for the next day, but wanted to remain an enigma for as long as she could.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it.”
“How about next Sunday?”
She wouldn’t be available the following Sunday because she’d committed to share dinner with Moriah. “If the invitation is still open in two weeks, then I’ll join you.”
Holly gave her a triumphant grin. “Of course it is, Gwen. The other ladies are just dying to meet you.” She’d drawn out the word dying into three syllables.
What they’re dying to know is my business, Gwen mused, returning Holly’s smile. She’d admitted to Shiloh that she wanted to maintain a measure of anonymity, but that would be difficult once she was introduced to Holly’s social circle.
“Do you want a puppy, Miss Taylor?”
Holly gave Kyle a warning look. “Mind your manners, darling.”
“But you said we have to give them away, Mama.”
Gwen smiled at the interchange between mother and son that reminded her of Lauren and her children. “What kind of puppies are you giving away?”
Kyle scrunched up his face. “What kind are they, Mama?”
Holly met Gwen’s amused gaze. “They’re purebred toy poodles. I have AKA papers on them.”
“How old?”
“Three months.”
“Color and sex?” Gwen asked Holly. She’d grown up with cats and dogs as pets.
“I have two. Both female. One is like a sandy-beige and the other a chocolate brown. They’re already paper-trained and a vet has given them their shots.”
Gwen decided having a little dog would be fun. “I’ll take the brown one.”
A flush suffused Holly’s face. “I don’t want you to think I’m here because I want to give away a puppy.”
“Of course not,” Gwen said softly, hoping to put the obviously flustered woman at ease. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a pet and I have more than enough room for a tiny dog to have the run of the place.”
Holly’s blush deepened. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll drop her off later this afternoon.”
Gwen nodded. “I’ll be here.” She waited until Holly and Kyle returned to their car before she closed the door.
She had the house and now a dog. All she needed was a husband and children. As soon as the thought popped into her head, she dismissed it. Lauren’s teasing was getting to her.
She didn’t need a husband or children. Not now, not when her sole mission was restoring her new home.
Shiloh looked up with a knock at the door. He closed the cover on the report compiled by the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. Deputy Jameson’s stocky body filled the doorway.
“Yes, Jimmie?”
“A Marvin Oliver wants to see you.”
Shiloh stared at the man who was certain to become sheriff once his term expired. “What does he want, Jimmie?”
James Jameson shook his shaved head. The Dillard University graduate stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. “I don’t know, Shiloh.”
“Didn’t you ask him?”
Jimmie nodded. “Yeah. But he wouldn’t tell me,” he said in a hushed whisper. “The suit smells like the law.”
Shiloh smiled at his deputy. He was the brightest police officer Shiloh had ever encountered. The FBI had recruited Jimmie within weeks of his graduation because they were actively seeking African-American agents.
Jimmie’s tenure with the bureau was ten years, after which he returned to Louisiana to help his father with his younger siblings after his mother died of a massive stroke.
“Which one, deputy?”
Jimmie flashed a smug grin. “U.S. Marshal or DEA.”
Pushing back his chair, Shiloh came to his feet. “We’ll find out soon enough. Send him in.”
He was still standing when a slender man entered his office. He was the quintessential bureaucrat—short, conservative haircut and dark suit.
Shiloh extended a hand. “Special Agent Oliver, or is it Marshal Oliver?”
Marvin Oliver went completely still as he stared at Sheriff Harper. “Who told you?”
“Which one is it?”
Recovering quickly, he shook the proffered hand. “It’s Special Agent Oliver. DEA. How did you know?”
“Deputy Jameson, the man you just blew off like a gnat, made you the instant you walked in here. Please sit down, Agent Oliver.” He motioned to a leather love seat. He waited for the drug enforcement agent to sit before he took a matching chair. Shiloh turned the chair around to face him.
“You’re here because you either need my assistance, or you are going to tell me something I already know,” he said, not bothering to conceal his irritation.
“Look, Harper—”
“No, Oliver,” Shiloh countered, interrupting him. “I’m more than happy to cooperate with your agency, but I’m going to demand one thing from you.”
There was a moment of tense silence before the agent asked, “What’s that?”
“Respect. You will respect my office and the people who work here. When Deputy Jameson asked you to identify yourself, then you should’ve done so.”
Marvin Oliver’s gaze narrowed; he was smarting from the reprimand. His supervisor had briefed him about Sheriff Shiloh Harper. The arrogant former district attorney had been on a fast track for a judgeship before he was appointed to serve out his father’s term. It was apparent he wasn’t too happy in his present position.
“I didn’t come down to this swamp to mix it up with you, Sheriff Harper. I’d like to believe we’re on the same side.”
Shiloh schooled his facial expression not to react to the remark. Crossing his knee over the opposite leg, he stared at the toe of his polished boot. His head came up slowly as he gave the DEA agent a long look.
“Are you here on an undercover assignment?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I’m willing to bet that you’ll end up as gator bait before the end of the week.”
The agent’s back stiffened as he leaned forward. “Is that a threat, Sheriff?”
Shiloh’s expression was impassive. “As a former officer of the court I know enough not to threaten a federal officer. I’m just cautioning you that if you don’t change your attitude, then you’re going nowhere—fast. Folks around here don’t take kindly to outsiders looking down their noses at them.”
Agent Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t wanted to come to the bayou because of the heat, humidity, mosquitoes, snakes and alligators. Layers of sunscreen and insect repellant provided little or no protection for his fair skin.
“I’m here to brief you on an operation that has been approved by your Police Jury Association.” When Shiloh’s expression did not change, he continued. “Last year we busted up a major meth operation outside Natchitoches. Informants tell us that several meth production sites have moved into southern Louisiana, which makes it more difficult for undercover agents unfamiliar with this part of the state. Once we got your report about the hijacking of a truck carrying anhydrous ammonia, we were certain that they had set up something around here.”
Shiloh lowered his leg, placing his feet firmly on the carpeted floor. “Do you have enough agents to cover the twenty-two parishes that make up southern Louisiana?”
Marvin shook his head. “We don’t have enough agents who are able to blend in in this part of the country.”
“Who do you have?”
“Inez Leroux. She lived in Lake Charles for sixteen years before her family moved to Shreveport. What’s good is that she speaks the Cajun dialect.”
Shiloh listened intently to Agent Oliver as he related the background information on the special agent assigned to his jurisdiction. “My field director believes your brother’s restaurant is the best place for Inez because it’s a hangout during the week, and most of the locals gather there on the weekend. We’re certain she’ll overhear something that just might give us a lead.”
Ninety minutes after the DEA agent walked out of his office, Shiloh read the fax signed by the executive director of the Police Jury Association. The directive confirmed the cooperation of local law enforcement with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration’s fight against the manufacture and sale of methamphetamine. Reaching for his telephone, he dialed his brother’s private number.
“Ian here.”
“How long are you going to be there?”
“Until closing time. What’s up, brother?”
Shiloh stared at the Baton Rogue address on the fax. “I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Is it about Mama and Augustine?”
He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “No, Ian. Mama can see whoever she wants.”
“Is it because of a beautiful young woman in a red dress that you changed your mind?”
“Don’t bring Gwen into this.”
“We’ll talk about her once you get here,” Ian said, chuckling softly.
“No, we won’t. I’ll see you later.” Shiloh replaced the receiver, ending the call. He didn’t want to discuss Gwen Taylor with his brother, because he didn’t want to lie to Ian about what he was beginning to feel for her.
He stared at the daily roll call schedule tacked to a corkboard, then pressed a button on an intercom. When Jimmie answered, Shiloh said, “Have Rossier cover the front desk for you.”
He had to inform his highest-ranking deputy that a special undercover agent from the DEA was scheduled to go undercover in their parish before the end of the month.
* * *
Gwen answered the doorbell, a ball of fur nipping at her heels. She smiled at the puppy. “It’s not for you, Cocoa.”
Holly, as promised, had dropped off the poodle along with a large sack of food, a collar, a leash, a supply of wee-wee pads, a record of the dog’s vaccinations, and a natural wicker bed with a blue-and-white gingham cushion.
She’d named the puppy, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, Cocoa because her coloring reminded her of dark milk chocolate, and within an hour of their meeting, master and dog had bonded.
Natalee Harper stood on the porch dressed all in black—pants, halter top and sandals. Braids from her ponytail cascaded over one shoulder. Cocoa yipped and nipped at her toes seconds before Gwen scooped her up.
“If you’re going to live here, then you can’t go after company,” she said softly, scolding the puppy. She smiled at Natalee. “I’m sorry about Cocoa. It’s going to be a while before I can train her. Please come in.”
“Girl, I love your shoes,” Natalee crooned.
“Thanks.” Gwen’s animal print fabric pumps matched the silk camisole she’d pulled on over a pair of cuffed linen capri slacks.
Natalee touched the handkerchief table in the entryway. “My word. How old is this table?”
Gwen glanced over her shoulder. “I think that piece is eighteenth century.”
“Incredible.” There was no mistaking the awe in Natalee’s voice as she followed Gwen into the living room. Red tags were attached to tables and chairs. “Are you having a tag sale?”
“No. The tagged pieces have to be refinished. I have a decorator coming in next week to give me an estimate. Would you like a quick tour before we leave?”
“Why sure, honey,” Natalee drawled in a thick Southern accent.
The two transplanted New Englanders laughed hysterically, as if sharing a secret. Gwen left Cocoa in the laundry room, closing the door behind the whining puppy before leading Natalee in and out of rooms, lingering to give her an overview on a few priceless antiques.
“How long did your aunt live here?” Natalee asked.
“At least fifty years.”
“Did she decorate the house?”
“I don’t know,” Gwen answered. “All my family knew was that Gwendolyn Pickering lived in Louisiana, but not once did she ever say, ‘Y’all come on down.’ My mother called her the ‘black Greta Garbo.’”
Natalee tossed her braided hair over her shoulder. “I’ve lived here for two years, and in all of that time I’d never caught a glimpse of Gwendolyn Pickering. There’s always been a lot of talk about her, but Ian claims it was just hearsay.”
Gwen’s curiosity was piqued. “What kind of talk?”
“She was a kept woman.”
“By whom?”
Natalee paused. “I don’t know. But it was said she had a secret lover.”
“That sounds like a soap opera storyline.”
“From what I’ve heard it was more like ‘Desperate Housewives.’”
Gwen grimaced. “That scandalous?”
“That’s the rumor.”
She’d begun reading her aunt’s letters, but hadn’t come across anything that indicated that she was having an affair with the man who’d signed the letters with the initials—A.C. He was a musician who lived in New Orleans, and was obviously an obsessed fan. She had tried researching information about her aunt online, but the search yielded little.
“Gossip is always more attention-grabbing than truth,” she told Natalee.
Nodding in agreement, Natalee pressed a hand to her flat middle, affecting a dramatic pose. “I don’t know about you, girlfriend, but right about now I have to get my eat on.”
Gwen smiled. “I was trying to be polite and not say anything, but I’m so hungry I could eat an alligator.”
Staring at each other for a split second, Natalee and Gwen shook their heads. “Not!” they chimed in unison.
* * *
Gwen discovered that Natalee drove as fast as she talked. During the ride Natalee told her that she’d been a jewelry appraiser for Sotheby’s for five years. She had left the auction house to become a jewelry designer to a select group of clients that included athletes and entertainers. What surprised Gwen was that despite her profession, Natalee wore a narrow, unadorned yellow gold wedding band.
“How did you meet Ian?”
The jewelry designer smiled. “I’d come to New Orleans to see a client who’d commissioned me to design a necklace for his wife’s fiftieth birthday. He invited me to attend a Saints pre-season game, and Ian was in an adjoining box with a number of chefs who’d gotten together for a food magazine layout. I’m not ashamed to say I flirted shamelessly with him, and at halftime we exchanged telephone numbers. What saved my pride was that he contacted me first. We dated long-distance for three months, then had a Christmas Eve wedding two years ago.”
Gwen waited for Natalee to talk about Shiloh. She still had another four days before she would see him again, and whenever she remembered how she felt every time he’d held her in his arms, her heart did a flip-flop.
She’d told herself that she did not want to get involved with a man—especially one as sexy as Shiloh Harper. But the voice in her head screamed LIAR!
Natalee downshifted, maneuvering along the road leading to the ferryboat landing. La Boule was filled to capacity, and Gwen managed to find an empty seat at the railing, while Natalee sat near the pilothouse.
Leaning over the railing, she saw the shiny red eyes of the alligators as they glided just below the surface of the brackish water. She knew she never would’ve moved into Bon Temps if it had been built close to the water.
Three blasts of the horn echoed over the countryside as the ferryboat pulled slowly away from the landing. The setting sun turned the landscape into a surreal world that reminded Gwen of a Hollywood version of Armageddon. She sat motionless, stunned by the panorama that held her captive until bright lights, loud music and the sounds of laughter coming from the Outlaw broke the spell.
“The place is really jumping,” she said to Natalee as they disembarked.
“Friday and Saturdays nights are always a little more raucous. It’s the end of the week and folks look forward to letting off some steam. The Outlaw is always closed on Sunday, but during June, July, and August it closes on Sunday and Monday.”
They made their way to the entrance, Gwen stopped short as she came face-to-face with Shiloh. He was in uniform.
Touching the brim of his hat, Shiloh stared at Gwen. “Good evening, Gwen, Nattie.”
Gwen’s expression matched his impassive one. “Hello, Shiloh.”
Natalee patted his shoulder. “Gwen and I are going to be here a while. We’d love for you to join us after you’re off duty.”
“I’m off duty now,” he said, his gaze not straying from the soft cloud of dark hair framing Gwen’s face.
Natalee leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Then get out of that do-do brown outfit, brother love, and come hang out with us.”
He touched the brim of his hat again. “I’ll see you later.”
“How much later?” Natalee asked as he turned to make his way down to the landing.
“As soon as I can get out of this doo-doo brown get up,” he called out, not turning around.
Natalee looped her arm through Gwen’s, smiling. “You know he likes you,” she whispered.
“And I like him.”
“You don’t understand, Gwen.”
“What’s there not to understand?”
Natalee sobered, her dark eyes serious. She steered Gwen away from the couples going into the restaurant. “Shiloh never hangs out here at night. He’ll stop by for lunch, but that’s the extent of his socializing.”
“Why are you telling me this, Natalee?”
“You’re the first woman Shiloh has been seen with since his divorce.”
Gwen stared at Natalee with a look of complete surprise on her face. She’d questioned Shiloh about being married, unaware there had been an ex-Mrs. Shiloh Harper.
“Oh, so you don’t know about Deandrea?”
“No.”
She didn’t know about Deandrea, and did not care to know anything about the woman, because she had no intention of becoming that involved with Shiloh Harper.
“You’re dating him, yet he hasn’t told you?”
Gwen shook her head. “We’re not dating.”
“Shiloh asked me to accompany him to the fund-raiser and I accepted.”
Natalee’s jaw dropped. “I thought you two were…” Her words trailed off.
“Sleeping together?” Gwen said, completing her assumption.
“Yes.”
“We’re not,” she confirmed. “Shiloh and I are friends.”
“Is that what you want from him? Friendship?”
It was a loaded question. She could tell Natalee no because it’d been years since she’d slept with a man. And she could truthfully say yes because every woman needs a male friend. She decided on the latter.
“Yes.”
“Good luck with that,” Natalee mumbled under her breath.
An expression of confusion stole across her face. “What did you say?”
She knew she sounded defensive, but didn’t much care. She wanted to set the record straight that she and the sheriff were not involved with each other, that because they were seen publicly at a fund-raising event it didn’t translate into their sharing a bed.
Natalee knew she’d crossed the line of propriety when she heard Gwen’s tone. “Sorry about that.” Her mood changed, brightening. “Let’s go in before they run out of food.”
Needing no further prompting, Gwen followed her new friend into the restaurant.