city had honed her survival skills—never leave a door unlocked.
The bell chimed again. Peering through the security peephole, Gwen saw the distorted face of the man whom she’d left less than five minutes before.
“Yes?” she asked through the solid wood door.
“Miss Taylor, it’s Shiloh. Please open the door.”
Her eyebrows inched up. He hadn’t identified himself as Sheriff Harper. She disengaged the lock. The man who’d rescued her from the ditch looked different without his hat. His close-cropped black hair hugged his head like a cap. The soft yellow light from the porch lamps flattered the angles of his dark brown face. He looked like someone she’d seen before.
She affected a smile. “Yes, Sheriff?”
Shiloh’s gold-flecked green eyes lingered on her lush mouth. “Please call me Shiloh.”
Her smile faded. “Why?”
“Because I’m off duty. Your place has been vacant for several months although my men do check at least twice a week to make certain squatters or vandals haven’t broken in. I just came back to make certain you were all right.”
Gwen knew it was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t take her gaze away from Shiloh’s face. Who did he look like? She mentally ran through the faces of people she’d met and interviewed over the years, but came up blank.
She blinked as if coming out of a trance and opened the door wider. “You’re off duty, yet you’re still on the job?”
He angled his head, smiling. “I’m always on the job, Miss Taylor.”
Shiloh liked listening to Gwendolyn Taylor’s voice. It was a welcome change from the slow drawl and distinctive inflection of the Cajun dialect of most people in the parish. Not only did she talk different, but she also looked different from the women in the region. Despite her casual attire, there was something about her that silently screamed big city, and he wondered how long it would take for her to abandon Bon Temps, tire of the slower lifestyle, and return to Massachusetts.
Gwen gave him a warm smile and offered her right hand. “I’d like you to call me Gwen.”
Shiloh took her smaller hand in his, enjoying its softness. It was with reluctance that he released it. He’d returned to Bon Temps to make certain it was safe for Gwendolyn Taylor to enter, and he’d also returned to see her again. He didn’t know what it was about the transplanted Bostonian, but something about her intrigued him. Not knowing whether there was a Mr. Taylor or a few little Taylors, but like a besotted teenager he’d come back for another glimpse of a woman whose voice drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
He nodded, smiling. “Then Gwen it is. Do you mind if I check around?”
She stepped aside. “Not at all.”
Shiloh moved into the entryway, his sharp gaze cataloguing everything. Even to someone who lived his entire life in the South the heat inside the house was oppressive.
He walked into the living room, stopping short, and a soft body plowed into his back. Turning quickly, he reached out to steady Gwen as she swayed and struggled to keep her balance.
“Just where are you going?” he asked, glaring down at her stunned expression.
Gwen felt the unyielding strength in the fingers around her upper arms, inhaled the lingering scent of a provocative men’s cologne, and shivered from the press of Shiloh’s body against hers.
“I’m following you.” She didn’t recognize her own voice because it had come out in a breathless whisper.
Shiloh eased his grip on her arms, but didn’t release her. A frown marred his smooth forehead. “No, you’re not.”
She bristled visibly. How dare he tell her what she could do in her own home? “And why not?”
“Because I’m the one with the big gun,” he drawled. He hadn’t bothered to hide his arrogance.
Gwen tried unsuccessfully to bite back a smile. “Oh, really, Mr. Lawman, sir.”
Shiloh’s hands fell away once he realized what he’d said. There was no doubt she’d misconstrued his statement as a sexual taunt. Resting long, slender fingers on his waist, he smiled. “Would you like me to show it to you?” He got the reaction he sought when Gwen gasped and her eyes widened. “I personally prefer the Glock to the standard police-issue .38 revolver.”
Gwen’s gaze shifted from his Cheshire cat grin to the deadly looking firearm strapped to his waist. “I don’t need to see it, Shiloh. What do you want me to do?”
“Stay here.”
Recovering quickly, her eyes narrowed. “This is the second time you’ve told me to stay as if I were a dog.”
It was Shiloh’s turn to give a questioning look. One eyebrow lifted higher than the other and that was when Gwen knew who he reminded her of.
“Do you know that you look like The Rock?”
“The Rock?”
“Dwayne Johnson. The wrestler-turned-actor,” she explained. “His complexion is lighter than yours, and your eyes aren’t dark like his, but the two of you could pass for brothers.”
Shiloh had lost count of the number of times people mentioned his resemblance to the wrestler, yet always claimed he’d never heard of the man.
“I suppose it’s true about everyone having a double,” he said glibly. “How about you, Gwen? Do you have someone who looks like you?”
“Yes, in fact I do. My first cousin Lauren and I look enough alike to be sisters. The only difference is that I’m about an inch taller and rounder than she is in certain places despite the fact that she’s had three babies.”
“Have many children do you have?” Shiloh asked, as his penetrating gaze moved slowly over her body.
“None.”
“So, it’s just going to be you and Mr. Taylor living here?”
She shook her head. “There is no Mr. Taylor, aside from my father and Uncle Roy. Will my marital status also go into your police report?”
Shiloh went completely still. Miss Gwendolyn Taylor was anything but shy, timid or submissive. “No, it won’t.”
Crossing her arms under her breasts, she took a step and looked directly into a pair of the most mesmerizing eyes she’d ever seen on a man. The gold was the perfect match for the undertones in his smooth-shaven jaw, the green dramatic and hypnotic.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“I always like to maintain a modicum of anonymity.”
“That’s not going to be an easy feat down here.”
“Why not?” Gwen asked.
“We’re
