On Dean's Watch

Dean took a deep breath. “Law enforcement,” he said. “I was in law enforcement for years.”

It was not the answer she’d been expecting. The news startled her. Reva held her breath for a moment. Her fingers trembled, very slightly. Not so much that he would see of course. She had gotten pretty good at hiding her feelings. At least on some days and from some people.

A moment passed and she relaxed. She had nothing to fear, not from Dean Sinclair or anyone else. “Really?”

“Really,” Dean answered softly. He stared at her, obviously waiting for a response.

“I understand that can be a very dangerous business,” she said. Of course it was dangerous. Cops carried guns, she knew that. Again, her fingers quivered.

“It was never the danger that bothered me,” he said.

“What was it, then?”

Would he answer? This was getting very personal, considering that they’d met just last night. He’d been skulking; she’d threatened him with a hefty stick. She didn’t know him; he didn’t know her. What were they doing here?

“Sometimes I feel like I’m running around in circles,” he said. “We win a few battles, but we never win the war. It goes on and on, and it can wear a man down. You work hours on end, you give the job everything you’ve got, and in the end…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes you win, but too often the bad guy gets off on a technicality, or serves a few months and then ends up back on the streets.”

“Sounds frustrating.”

“It is. And the divorce rate is brutal,” he added.

“Are you?” she asked, almost immediately regretting her question. Talk about too personal!

“Am I what?”

“Divorced.”

He shook his head. “Never married. I came close a couple of times, but…here I am, thirty-five years old and never married. You?” he asked.

“Me what?” Her heart climbed into her throat.

“Divorced?”

“Never married,” she said softly. Would he walk away now? There were still lots of men out there, even in this day and age, who had a huge problem with an unmarried woman having and raising a child alone. She’d done the best she could for her son, and she wouldn’t change anything, but she didn’t want to see a condemning or disappointed look in Dean’s eyes.

She didn’t get one. Instead, she got one of his half smiles. “Maybe we’re the smart ones.”

She returned his smile. “Maybe.”

Reva took a deep breath and allowed herself to enjoy the moment. The quiet night, the company. She liked Dean; she had a feeling he liked her. Nothing could come of it, but still the feeling was nice. She allowed her mind to wander for a moment, to imagine what might happen if not for everything that came between them.

So much came between them, and no one but she would ever know.

When Dean rose to leave, Reva stood and took his empty coffee cup. Her fingers brushed his; the contact was brief and electric, as it had been that afternoon at lunch when they’d both reached for biscuits at the same time. When he thanked her for the dessert, she told him anytime, but refrained from the invitation to come again tomorrow night. And the next. And the next.

Dean didn’t kiss her, but he thought about it, she could tell. He definitely thought about it. Blue eyes went to her mouth for a split second. His lips parted, his gaze cut to the side, and then he offered her an awkward good-night.

As Dean walked away, Reva called after him. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

He spun in the grass. “Nothing.”

“Come look at my loose banister? I really need to get it fixed.”

He grinned. “I can try out my new hammer.”

The lights in the room at the top of the stairs were out, the upstairs parlor dark so no one would see Alan and his telescope at the window.

“You look ridiculous, you know,” Alan said without turning as Dean entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“No, I didn’t know.”

“John Deere?” Alan scoffed.

Dean glanced down at his T-shirt. There hadn’t been a lot to choose from at the hardware store. Truth be told, he’d forgotten what he was wearing while he’d called on Reva Macklin.

And that was what it had been—a social call. A pleasant evening. The start of something unexpected.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Dean said as he crossed the room. “I think we should tell Reva who we are and why we’re here, and ask if she’s heard from Eddie since he escaped. She could help us.”

Alan turned slowly. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No, but—”

“Well, something fishy is going on here.” Alan ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. “You know better. Tell her? Ask for her help? No way. She could call Eddie and warn him that we’re here, and then he’d go under so deep we’d never find him.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Dean insisted softly. “She doesn’t know where Pinchon is, I’m sure of it.”

Alan leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Hellfire. She’s grabbed you by the nuts, hasn’t she.”

“Of course not.”

“She has, I can see it. Dean Sinclair, I never woulda thought it of you. Be realistic. Think. You believe that because Reva Macklin is pretty and can cook and has long legs and that sexy voice you keep talking about, she can’t possibly be involved with someone like Pinchon. That makes no sense. Has she been making goo-goo eyes at you?”

“Of course not,” Dean said, while he remembered the way she had looked at him once or twice.

“She has,” Alan said confidently. “A pretty woman bats her lashes at you and makes you think she might keep you warm at night, and all of a sudden she’s Little Miss Innocent.”

“Reva’s not the same person she was seven years ago.”

Alan snatched the photograph of Reva from the wall and waved it at Dean. “This is the woman you’re talking about, Dean. Yeah, she cleans up nice. She’s got herself a good gig here in Somerset and she’s not about to blow it by showing the people here what’s she’s really like. But this is her.” He shook the photo at Dean. “She was an eighteen-year-old cocktail waitress when she met Eddie, working in a sleazy bar thanks to a fake ID. She moved in with Pinchon two weeks after they met. She was never charged with a crime, but you know damn well if she was living with Eddie for almost two years, she didn’t stay clean.”

Dean’s heart sank. “She’s changed…”

“People don’t change,” Alan said in a calmer voice. “You know that as well as I do. Reva Macklin was Eddie Pinchon’s woman for a damn long time. She’s the mother of his child. If he comes here, she’ll shelter him and feed him and take him into her bed without a second thought. She’ll fall for his pretty face all over again, if she ever fell out, and she’ll protect him from anything and everyone. She’ll hide him from us. She’ll put herself between us and Pinchon, and I don’t have to tell you which side she’ll be on.”

Dean didn’t want to believe it, but he’d seen the scenario play out that way too many times.

“You’re thinking with your johnson, bud. Don’t feel bad. We’ve all been there.”

Alan didn’t mean to be harsh. He was a friend, and he’d been through a few crises of his own. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to watching Dean Sinclair have second thoughts about his job. Dean didn’t make mistakes; he didn’t follow his gut over logic, or lust after a woman because she smelled like strawberries. All his life, he’d been the one to think things through thoroughly, to compose a mental list of pros and cons before making an important decision. And he always thought with his brain, not his johnson.

“I tell you what,” Alan said in a calmer voice. “I understand how you feel. Patsy left you high and dry, what, three months ago? Drive to Nashville and have yourself a hot time. You can be back here by sunup, and I promise you, everything will look different. Everything. Especially Reva Macklin.”

Dean took the picture from Alan and studied it. Yeah, it was her. Brasher, younger, wilder, but it was Reva. He had seen her smile a couple of times today, but not like this. Not wide and free and…joyous. The girl in the picture was full of unbridled joy.

Maybe Alan was right, and Dean was drawn to Reva because she was beautiful and sexy and he was alone. Did he need a woman in his bed so badly he’d see something that didn’t exist so the truth wouldn’t get in his way? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure. He couldn’t trust himself, not with this.

He gave up on the idea of telling Reva everything.

But he didn’t drive to Nashville.

Chapter 4

Familiar sounds and smells drifted from the kitchen, but this morning a new element had been added to the chaos that was Reva’s everyday life. Sporadic sounds of hammering, creaking wood and occasional mutters that might be curses also found their way to her office.

Reva lifted her head when the door to her office opened. Tewanda stepped into the room, closed the door and leaned back with a wide smile on her face. Tall, dark and regally gorgeous, Tewanda had a tendency to reinvent herself every six months or so. Her hairstyle and clothing changed dramatically with each incarnation. At the moment she was in a brand-new tailored stage. Her black hair was cut close to her head, her slacks and shirt were fashioned in an almost mannish style that only accentuated her curves. Nothing Tewanda could do to herself would ever make her fade into the woodwork.

“There’s a good-looking man on the third floor and he’s playing with your banister.”

“Only you could make that sound wicked,” Reva said, setting aside the checkbook to give her friend and employee her full attention.

“Sweetie, that man definitely has wicked possibilities.”

The last thing Reva needed to think about was Dean Sinclair’s wicked possibilities.

“How’s everything in the kitchen?”

“Miss Edna and Miss Judith are arguing over how much pepper to put in the squash casserole, and Miss Frances keeps slipping out of the kitchen to sneak up the stairs and take a peek at your young man.”

“He’s not my young man!”

“That’s not what I hear,” Tewanda said suggestively.

Reva sighed and leaned back in her chair as her friend walked closer and propped herself on the edge of the desk. “He’s not mine, and he’s not exactly young, either.”

“Young is relative,” Tewanda said wisely.

Tewanda had the perfect life, it seemed. Her husband of more than ten years adored her and took her frequent fashion changes in stride. They had three beautiful, well-behaved sons. Terrance was the youngest of the Hardy boys. Nothing rattled Tewanda, not even Cooper, who spent the night at her house often.

Sometimes Reva felt a twinge of jealousy as she watched Tewanda go about her perfect life. I don’t want an adoring husband, Reva insisted silently, but I would love to be able to provide that kind of home for Cooper. A stable man who’d be a good father figure, a man she could have more children with, a brother for Cooper, maybe a sister or two. Deep inside she knew that would never happen.

“He is cute,” Tewanda said in a lowered voice, “but I swear, Reva, that man of yours is not well acquainted with a hammer. I only watched for a couple of minutes, I promise, but it was kinda like watching Russell struggle with his math homework.”

Russell was Tewanda’s eldest child. A few months ago he had insisted that the fourth grade was just too hard.

“Dean is new at this,” Reva said. “Give him a chance.”

Tewanda pursed her lips and hummed. “Already defending the man, I see. Well, well. Sheriff Andrews is not going to be happy about this new and interesting development.”

Reva sighed. “The sheriff has nothing to say about my life!”

“But he surely would like to.” Tewanda waggled her eyebrows.

Reva looked down at the checkbook again. She’d much rather balance her checkbook than talk to Tewanda about Ben Andrews or Dean Sinclair. “You’d better go check on the squash casserole,” she said. “I have checks to write that need to go out with today’s mail.”

“Fine,” Tewanda said as she stood and headed for the door. “Brush me off. Send me away without a satisfactory report. When you need someone to keep Cooper overnight so you can entertain your handyman wanna-be…” She paused, then turned to grin at Reva. “Shoot, you know you can call on me. Anytime.”

“I’m not—” Reva began.

“Don’t argue,” Tewanda interrupted. “I’d say it’s about time you showed a little interest in seeking out male companionship. It’s just not natural to live for years without a man in your bed.”

Reva lifted her chin. “How do you know I’ve lived for years without a man in my bed? I might have a very exciting love life away from the restaurant.”

Tewanda grinned widely. “First of all, you’re blushing beet-red. You don’t lie well, at least not to me. Secondly, this is Somerset, sweetie.” She raised a hand to her chest. “If a man had been anywhere near you, I would have heard about it. Face it, there’s nothing exciting about your life, and the only love in it is for Cooper. And thirdly, speaking of your adorable son, in all the years I’ve known you, Cooper has never said a word about there being a man in your house. Until this morning when I walked the boys to school, that is. I understand your Mr. Sinclair came over for dessert last night.”

Reva rested her forehead on the desk. What she’d said to Dean last night had been true. There were no secrets in a small town. “Strawberry shortcake, that’s all it was. I swear.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Tewanda said as she walked out the door, closing it softly behind her.

Reva finished writing out the checks. She went over the menus for the next week and glanced at the possible recipes for her new cookbook. Her first cookbook had been selling very well, and people were already asking for more.

Every now and then the sounds from the third floor distracted her. Was Dean really that terrible at being a handyman? Maybe Tewanda had been exaggerating. No man was bad with a hammer.

Was he?

When she couldn’t stand waiting anymore, Reva slipped out of the office, turned left and climbed the stairs as quietly as possible. Her shoes were flat and soft-soled, and the long skirt of her cream-colored dress swished quietly.

Unfortunately it was impossible to be completely quiet when a number of the steps had a tendency to squeal.

She caught sight of Dean staring at her through the railing. He sat on the floor of the third-story hallway, hammer in hand, and watched her approach.

“Who’s skulking now?” he asked with a smile.

“I guess that would be me,” Reva said as she finished the climb without attempting to be quiet.

“Usually when I hear creaking steps, I glance up and see a gray head peering around the corner,” Dean said.

“Miss Frances.” Reva sat on the top step. A couple feet of space and white slats marred by peeling paint separated her from Dean Sinclair. “I just wanted to warn you, customers will start arriving soon, so you’ll have to take a break until this afternoon.”

Dean glanced at his watch. “It’s not even noon. You serve at one, right?”

She nodded. “People come early to walk in the gardens or explore the house or just sit on the porch and rock. Hammering and cursing kind of ruin the atmosphere.”

“I didn’t think anyone would be able to hear me,” he explained. “Sorry.”

“Sounds carry in these old houses. Don’t worry about it.” She glanced beyond Dean. “If I can get the third floor in good shape, make sure the railing is solid and safe and remodel the rooms, we can open this area up for customers, too. I was thinking of making a couple of the old bedchambers into sitting rooms or small parlors. I could even entertain small parties up here once everything is finished.”

Dean carefully laid his hammer down on the floor. He didn’t look the part of handyman, though he did try. His hair was cut too precisely. The jeans and boots were too new. The T-shirt, advertising the downtown hardware store, didn’t sport a single stain or rip.

And his face…he should have a five-o’clock shadow to make him look less respectable.

“Are you hostessing a table today?” he asked.

Reva shook her head.

“Good,” Dean said in a lowered voice that sent chills down her spine. “Have lunch with me.”

It was after one by the time Reva climbed the stairs to the third floor again. The dull roar of conversation, the clink of silverware on plates, the occasional trill of laughter, all were muted here at the top of the house.

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