the car, and scooped her off the seat. The unexpected motion forced her to wrap her arms around his neck to maintain her balance. He shifted her slightly, molding her breasts to his chest.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gwen shouted at him. Her right hand fisted. “Put me down.”
Shiloh tightened his hold under her knees. “In the mud, miss?”
“No. Over there,” she demanded, pointing to where he’d parked his sport utility vehicle.
He shifted her again, smiling. “What do you plan to do with that fist?”
Gwen looked at her hand as if it was something she’d never seen before. Heat suffused her face. There was no doubt she was ready to punch out the tall lawman holding her effortlessly as if she were a child. It was also apparent his diet wasn’t made up of pizza and beer or coffee and greasy doughnuts like some of the cops she’d come to know during her years as a reporter for the Boston Gazette. She relaxed her fingers.
Shiloh smiled. “Good. Now I don’t have to cuff you and haul you in for assaulting an officer. What’s your name, miss?”
“Do you have to know my name?”
Crossing the road, Shiloh ignored her hostile query. “Yes. I’m going to have to file a report.”
“Why?”
He met her questioning gaze in the waning daylight. “I don’t know how you do things up north, but down here whenever someone places a call to our police department we follow up with a written report. Which means I’m going to need your license and registration.”
Gwen frowned. “You think I stole the car?”
Not bothering to answer her question, Shiloh deposited her on the passenger seat of the Suburban. “Stay here until I come back.”
Gwen registered the edge of authority in his slow drawling speech pattern. He’d told her to stay as if she were a dog. Where was she going in the backwoods, and in the dark?
Shiloh returned to her car. Not only did she talk funny, but she also had a quick tongue. What he didn’t want to think about was how nice she smelled and how good she felt in his arms.
Slipping behind the wheel, he adjusted the lever under the front seat to accommodate his longer legs. Not bothering to close the driver-side door, he shifted into Reverse, turned the wheel slightly, then shifted into Drive, maneuvering out of the mud and onto the shoulder. He adjusted the air-conditioning, noting the gas gauge. It registered a half tank. At least she knew enough not to drive around on E, or even close to it.
He picked up her handbag off the passenger seat, recognizing the designer logo with a single glance. His ex-wife’s closet overflowed with designer bags, shoes, sunglasses and clothes. If the item didn’t have someone’s name stitched or stamped on it, then she refused to buy it.
A knowing smile softened his mouth. Miss Beantown drove a six-figure car, wore very nice shoes and carried a very, very nice handbag. There was no doubt the lady from Massachusetts was top shelf. And he wondered, what was she doing driving around back roads at night in Cajun country?
* * *
Gwen could not stop the wave of heat washing over her face and upper body. All it took was a little maneuvering to get her car out of a ditch. How, she thought, was she able to drive through mounds of snow, not spin out on icy streets or highways, yet couldn’t extricate herself from a mud bank?
She stared at the mud-covered boots rather than at the face of the man striding toward her, breathing in quick shallow breaths. Never had she been so embarrassed. She thought about slipping out of the SUV and making a run for her car, but quickly changed her mind. There were enough televised police chases, and she had no intention of adding to the footage.
The driver’s side door opened and she stared, wide-eyed, at the man climbing into the vehicle beside her. Not only was he tall, but also big. Not fat big, but muscled big. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his uniform, and she forced herself not to glance below his chest.
Tilting her chin, lowering her lashes, and affecting a smile that usually left men with their mouths gaping, Gwen sought to replace the scowl on Sheriff Harper’s face with one that was more friendly. After all, he’d taken an oath to protect and serve, not berate and abuse.
Shiloh gave the woman sitting beside him a sidelong glance. “You can stop flirting with me because I’m not going to give you a citation.” He dropped her handbag in her lap.
An audible gasp escaped Gwen’s parted lips. Scorching heat swept over her from head to toe. “I’m not flirting with you. Why would I? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No, you haven’t—not yet anyway.” Shiloh gave her a direct stare. “May I have your license and registration?”
Gwen glanced at his long, well-groomed hands when he opened a leather binder, then removed a pen from a breast pocket. Searching through her handbag, she took out a small leather case and removed the documents he’d requested.
Shiloh took a quick glance at her license. “What’s your name?”
“Gwendolyn Taylor.”
“Address.”
“Which one?”
Shiloh went completely still, his fingers tightening on the pen. “You have more than one?”
She smiled. “Yes. You have the one on my license and registration, but…”
“But what, Miss Taylor?” he asked when she didn’t finish her statement.
“I have a new address.”
He stared directly at her, liking what he saw. Gwendolyn Taylor wasn’t as pretty as she was attractive—sensually attractive. Her round face made her look much younger than her actual age. Her large dark eyes sparkled like polished onyx in a flawless sable-brown face; her nose was short and cute, her mouth full and lush; and her hair was a profusion of dark flyaway curls that fell over her forehead and along the nape of her slender neck. He didn’t want to think of her rounded body. It was a bouquet of lushness. He remembered the tagline about real women having curves. Gwendolyn Taylor had enough curves for two women.
“Where do you live now?”
“Here in St. Martin Parish. I’m moving into Bon Temps. Gwendolyn Pickering was my great-aunt.”
Shiloh stared at Gwen. There had been a lot of talk after the owner of the house passed away earlier in the year. Developers swooped down on Bon Temps like scavengers on rotting carrion. The men had come, checkbooks in hand, to purchase the house and the six acres on which it sat, but Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney refused to meet with them. He’d turned them away because his client had willed her property to a relative—a Massachusetts relative.
“That should please a lot of folks around here,” Shiloh said, after he’d recovered from his shock.
“Why’s that?”
“Because a few fat cats came around asking about buying the property. You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”
“Of
