LITMIR.BIZ

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picked up the carafe and refilled his coffee mug. He needed coffee to keep him alert—lots of it because he’d spent the night tossing and turning in the hammock until he was forced to abandon it in favor of his bed. He’d come to detest sleeping in the bed because it reminded him of how solitary his life had become. He had two days off—forty-eight hours in which he’d planned to read, watch a few movies, and do several loads of laundry.

      He closed his eyes as he took a sip of the steaming black coffee liberally laced with chicory. Shiloh smiled. His younger brother Ian was known for brewing the best coffee in southern Louisiana.

      A sudden and pregnant hush fell over the restaurant, and Shiloh opened his eyes to find Gwendolyn Taylor strolling into the Outlaw as if it was something she did every day. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug, burning his fingers, before he realized his hand was shaking. Setting down the cup, he shook his hand, then blotted up the liquid with a paper napkin.

      Rising slowly to his feet, he watched her come closer, his penetrating gaze sweeping from her head to her feet within seconds. The flyway curly hairdo was missing, and in its place a chignon secured on the nape of her long, slender neck. She’d managed to tame the sensual curls with a style that was casual and chic at the same time.

      She wore a silky, lace-trimmed, bright pink top over a pair of faded jeans that hugged her tight, compact body like a second skin. His gaze lingered on her feet. Today she wore a pair of high-heeled sandals in a rose-pink-and-navy print. Very pretty, but definitely not practical for a stroll.

      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?”

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