Rochelle Alers - A Time To Keep

He watched her looking around the restaurant for an empty table. It was lunchtime and the Outlaw was crowded with local fishermen who’d gone out in their boats before sunrise, returning hours later with their nets and traps filled with shrimp, oysters, crabs and crayfish.

Shiloh pushed back his chair at the same time François Broussard rose to his feet, heading toward Gwen. François, a direct descendant of the Acadian exiles who came from Canada to Louisiana in the mid 18th-century, had become the parish’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelor. His much sought-after photographs and paintings were exhibited in museums and galleries throughout the country. Swarthy, silver-haired, urbane and jaded, he used his charm to seduce women as if it were his inalienable right.

Shiloh and François had grown up as friends, attended the same high school, dated some of the same girls, and François was one of several men Deandrea had slept with after she’d become Mrs. Shiloh Harper. To say there was bad blood between the two men was an understatement.

Shiloh made his way to Gwen seconds before François. Reaching for her hand, he held it firmly within his grasp, kissing the back of it. “I’d almost given up hope that you’d come,” he said in a quiet voice, as she stared up at him. No doubt she was as shocked to see him, as he was she.

Gwen recognized Shiloh’s voice before she realized he was out of uniform. Today he wore a light blue chambray shirt over a pair of jeans. His eyes were a deep moss green, the color contrasting his rich, sun-browned face. Her gaze shifted from the sheriff to the other man staring at her with an expectant expression. He had rakishly long silver hair that framed an unlined slender face with electric blue eyes and delicate features, which were better suited for a woman.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady?” François asked Shiloh in a Creole dialect.

Tightening his hold on Gwen’s fingers, he pulled her hand into the bend of his elbow. A slow smile softened his mouth. “Step off, Broussard, before I kick your ass,” he threatened quietly in the same dialect. Turning his attention to Gwen, he gave her a wide grin. “Are you hungry, darling?”

“Starved,” she answered truthfully, although completely confused by the interaction between Shiloh and the man he’d called Broussard.

The conversations that had stopped when Gwen walked into the Outlaw started up again. Surreptitious stares were directed at François as he retreated to his table in a corner. Most of the men were silently applauding Shiloh’s attempt to thwart another conquest for the arrogant, egotistical artist.

Shiloh led Gwen back to his table, pulled out a chair for her, then sat opposite her. His breathing deepened. The woman sitting only a few feet away was so ardently feminine that he found drawing a normal breath difficult.

Gwen forced herself not to stare at Shiloh’s sandwich. Shredded lettuce, thinly sliced tomatoes, and a pile of golden fried oysters and shrimp were nestled between two slices of toasted French bread. A smaller plate held a cup of tartar sauce and lemon wedges.

Leaning over the small round table, she said, “Why did you call me darling?”

Ignoring her query, Shiloh picked up the plates and placed them in front of her. “You said you were starved, so please eat.”

Her dark eyes widened. “I can’t take your lunch.”

“Yes, you can.” Pushing back from the table, he stood up. “I’ll order another one.”

Gwen watched Shiloh’s broad shoulders under the crisp shirt as he made his way toward the back of the restaurant and disappeared through a pair of swinging louvered doors. He looked equally good in or out of uniform, in dim or bright light, coming or going. Whoever claimed Shiloh Harper as boyfriend, fiancé or husband was one lucky woman. The word darling had rolled off his tongue as smoothly as watered silk. Some of the men she’d known thought calling her baby was the ultimate endearment. She’d permitted only one man to call her baby, and that man was Millard Taylor—her father, because he’d declared emphatically that she would always be his baby girl regardless of her age.

She squeezed a wedge of lemon over the mound of fried seafood, followed with a spoonful of tartar sauce, before topping it off with a small amount of hot pepper sauce. She picked up the sandwich and took a bite. A myriad of flavors tantalized her palate as she chewed slowly. Never had she eaten something so incredibly delectable. The lightly battered oysters and shrimp, the sweetness of the tartar sauce, and the sharp pungent bite of the hot sauce created a bouquet of flavors that literally exploded in her mouth. She’d eaten half of the sandwich before Shiloh returned with another one.

He sat down, smiling. “Do you like it?”

Dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Gwen sighed and closed her eyes. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I took the first bite,” she said when she opened her eyes to meet his amused stare.

“You’ve never eaten a po’boy?”

She went completely still. “A what?”

“Po’boy.”

Gwen blinked once. “Don’t you mean poor boy?”

Shiloh was hard pressed not to laugh. “It is not poor,” he said, enunciating the r. “It’s po’ like in Edgar Allan Poe.”

A hint of a smile crinkled her eyes at the corners. “But wouldn’t it sound better to say poor rather than po’?”

Shiloh lathered tartar sauce over his po’boy, then added a liberal amount of pepper sauce. “It takes too long to say poor. Po’ works for us down here.”

Gwen reached for the coffee mug and took a swallow. It was strong and slightly bitter. She peered at Shiloh over the rim. “You all talk funny down here.”

He eased the mug from her hand, smiling. “It’s not you all, but y’all, Gwen.”

“Hey, you’re drinking my coffee,” she said in protest.

Shiloh took a long swallow before refilling the mug. His eyes narrowed. “I offered you my po’boy, not my coffee.”

Leaning back on her chair, she regarded him for a long moment. “Silly me for not remembering you’re a cop.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring his defensive tone, Gwen reached over and patted the back of his hand. “Isn’t drinking coffee and eating doughnuts a prerequisite for becoming a police officer?”

Shiloh’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “So, Miss Beantown, you’ve got cop jokes. For your information we don’t eat doughnuts down here.”

“What do you eat?”

“Beignets.”

It was Gwen’s turned to lift her eyebrows. “I’ve never eaten one.”

“You po’ deprived little thang,” he teased. “There’s nothing better for breakfast than café au lait and beignets.”

Gwen wanted to laugh at his tortured expression. She hadn’t known Shiloh Harper twenty-four hours, yet there was something about him that made her feel comfortable enough to verbally spar with him. There was something about him that said he was so very sure of himself and his rightful place in the universe.

“I’ll make certain to sample one.”

Shiloh rested his chin on a fisted hand. “I bet you won’t be able to eat just one.”

She assumed the same gesture, smiling. “That’s one bet you’re going to lose.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m very, very disciplined.”

“Don’t you mean anal?”

Her dark eyes widened. “No!”

The beginnings of a smile touched Shiloh’s mouth. “I think you protest too much.”

“I’m not as anal as I am focused.”

He lowered his hand without taking his gaze off the face of the woman sharing his table. He liked Gwen—her face, softly curving body, quick mind and witty repartee.