Reva mentally shook off her unexpected fascination. She'd spent seven years steering clear of men; why did this one stir something long-untouched in her? It was just chemistry, she supposed. That sort of thing did happen, or so she heard. What else could it be? She didn't know Dean Sinclair, not at all. He was handsome, but he certainly wasn't the only good-looking man she'd seen in the past seven years. Their eyes met, and for a moment it seemed that he was just as disconcerted as she was.
"The fudge pie was very good," he said.
"Oh, we're not having pie for dessert tonight," she said. "Do you like strawberries?"
Was it her imagination or did the innocent question catch him off guard? Something in his eyes changed. Sparkled a little, perhaps, as if he was surprised.
"Strawberries," he said softly. "Love 'em."
"I'm making strawberry shortcake tonight."
He nodded.
Reva glanced down at Cooper and his more tranquil friend. "Y'all run on home. Terrance, your mother is going to be worried about you. She made y'all an after-school snack half an hour ago."
"We better go before she starts to get mad," Terrance said, and then he and Cooper both ran for the restaurant, after a quick glance both ways on the quiet street.
"Terrance's mother works for you?" Sinclair asked.
Reva nodded, turning her attention to him as soon as the children entered the house and slammed the door behind them. "Tewanda Hardy. I couldn't run the place without her." She took a deep breath. "Look, about dessert—"
"Don't feel obligated," Sinclair interrupted. "Kids seem to have a way of putting their folks between a rock and a hard place," he added with a half smile.
It was her chance to walk away, to play it safe. To turn her back on the only man who had made her feel this way in years. Just as well. Nothing could come of her attraction to him. She didn't need the complication of Dean Sinclair in her life. All she had to do was smile and walk across the street, and the danger, the awkwardness, would be over.
The chance came and went. "You're welcome to come," she said. "If you'd like."
"Strawberry shortcake," he said. "What red-blooded man could turn down an offer like that?"
"I really would like to talk to you about your plans," Reva said. Why did the way this man said strawberry send a chill up her spine? "Goodness knows I could use a handyman around the house. If you do decide to locate your business here, I can throw a lot of work your way."
"So, it's actually a business meeting you're suggesting."
Sounded good to her. Safe. Distant. "Seven o'clock. You can bring your business partner along if you like."
He shook his head. "He's not very sociable."
She turned on him and headed for home. In the middle of the street, she spun around to face him again. He hadn't made a move toward his own home. He still watched her. "And Mr. Sinclair—"
"Dean," he said quickly. "Call me Dean."
"When you come to my house for dessert, Dean, please don't wear a suit."
* * *
Once again he was without his weapon. As Dean walked past the antebellum home that had been transformed into Miss Reva's, he tried not to worry about the fact that he'd been disarmed. Reva had asked—no she'd ordered—that he not wear a suit tonight. And there was no way he could conceal his pistol while wearing jeans and a John Deere T-shirt that fit snugly across the chest. Even the ankle holster added a too-obvious bulge with every step. That, to, had been left behind.
Still, if Eddie arrived in the middle of strawberry shortcake, he'd be in a heap of trouble.
Somehow Dean didn't believe that Eddie would arrive while he had dessert with Reva and Cooper Macklin and discussed his bogus business plans. Tonight's dangers did not call for a weapon.
But there were dangers all the same.
Alan had laughingly told Dean, as he'd dressed for the evening, that he needed to get laid—but not here and not while he was on the job. That was a recipe for disaster. If Dean really and truly wanted to quit being a deputy marshal and become a handyman, sleeping with Reva Macklin would be a good way to start.
So she was pretty, and sexy in an old-fashioned way, and she smelled great. Just because he was attracted to her, that didn't mean he had to make a move.
Like she would let him make a move. The only reason she'd repeated Cooper's invitation for tonight was that she was in desperate need of a hired man for odd jobs around her old house.
As he knocked on the door of her cottage, he asked himself, How desperate?
Dean shook off the inappropriate thoughts as the door flew open. He steeled his resolve for nothing; it was Cooper who answered the door.
"Come in!" the kid said, throwing the door open wide. Dean stepped inside. The cottage was of the same era as the main house, but was smaller. Cozier. The furnishings were more modern, though Reva had managed to retain some of the old Southern charm. Filmy, white curtains, an old, well-cared-for rug with a pattern of cabbage roses, fat furniture with afghans tossed across the backs, all of which made the place inviting, comfortable.
Reva swept into the room from a short hallway. "Hi," she said, smiling. She'd changed clothes, too, and now wore faded blue jeans and a pink cotton shirt. Her hair was pulled up and back again, so that nothing, not a single curling strand, interfered with the perfect lines of her face.
"We'll eat in the kitchen," she said, motioning for Dean and Cooper to follow her.
Cooper skipped along and Dean followed, pursuing Reva and the kid and the aroma of strawberries and coffee. His landlady made terrible coffee, but if Reva was as talented at brewing coffee as she was at everything else, he was in for a treat.
The kitchen was bright, more modern than the main room of the guest house, and decorated in a fresh-looking white and pale green. The appliances were all fairly new, the tile floor spotless. Overall, the atmosphere was cluttered but clean. It was the kind of room a person could live in, warm and friendly in an indefinable way. It reminded Dean of Shea's kitchen, though goodness knows his sister had never been able to cook.
A small round oak table was situated to one side, an area much cozier than the dining room he glimpsed through the doorway beyond that table. Places were set, along with three huge pieces of strawberry shortcake, two cups of coffee and one glass of milk.
Cooper quickly jumped into his seat—his usual, Dean surmised—leaving Dean and Reva seats that faced each other. Good. Sitting next to her at lunch today had been more than enough strain for one day. Here, with a table between them, he wasn't likely to accidentally brush her leg or her arm, or see much too clearly and closely the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Across the table was good.
Before Dean had a chance to lift his coffee cup, Cooper began, "Mama says you fix things. What kinds of things? I have a remote-control car that's broken. Can you fix it? And last year, when I didn't know any better, I accidentally ripped the head off one of my favorite action figures. Can you fix that, too? Terrance has a dinosaur that used to talk, but now it just makes funny noises. Can you fix that?" He never paused long enough for Dean to answer.
"Cooper," Reva said sternly, but with a touch of a smile that softened her interruption. "Eat." She cast Dean a quick, apologetic glance. "So," she said to him as she forked up a small piece of strawberry shortcake. "What do you think of Somerset so far?"
"It's very nice," Dean said honestly. "And very different from Atlanta."
Reva laughed lightly. "It is that. You should know, before you get yourself in too deep, that there are definite drawbacks to living in a small town."
"Such as?"
"You can't get away with anything here."
Dean wondered just for a second if his ruse had already been discovered. "Like trespassing after dark?"
She didn't respond to his reminder of last night, but she did blush. "It's tough to hide anything in a small town. If you sneeze, three offerings of chicken soup, homemade of course, arrive within the hour. Anything and everything you say w
ill get around town before sunset, if it's at all interesting. There are no secrets here."
"I'm sure there are advantages to living in a small town," Dean said.
Reva smiled. Soft and contented, her face was transformed by that smile. "Of course there are. If you sneeze, three offerings of homemade soup arrive within the hour. By sunset, you know anything of importance that happened that day." Her dark eyes softened. "There are no secrets here."
It struck Dean like a thunderbolt that if Eddie Pinchon was headed here, Reva had no idea he was coming. She wasn't the same woman she'd been seven years ago when Eddie had been sent to a Florida prison and out of her life. She was innocent and good… Dammit, this would never do. Should he tell her everything? Now?
"What's a telecarpenter?" Cooper asked exuberantly.
Dean turned his gaze to the kid. So did Reva. "What?" Dean asked.
"A telecarpenter. That's what my teacher said I should be when I grow up. But I don't know what that is. She said I'm … I'm tenacious. I don't know what that means, either."
"Telemarketer," Reva said with a grin.
"Is it good? Mrs. Berry wouldn't tell me. I don't know if I want to be a telecarpenter. I mean, a telemarketer. I want to be a baseball player. Or a tax man."
Dean almost swallowed his coffee the wrong way. He sputtered slightly before asking, "A tax man?"
"Yeah! I can make everyone pay their taxes. Maybe I would rather be a telemarketer, but since I don't know what that is—"
"Cooper," Reva interrupted. "For now, let's just stick with wanting to be a baseball player. That's a perfectly normal ambition for a six-year-old."
"Okay." Cooper, who had almost finished his strawberry shortcake and milk, began again to ask Dean what he could fix. Bicycles, toys, sports equipment. It seemed this town really was in need of a handyman.
And then the kid, who had a charming streak so wide that it took some of the sting out of his constant chatter, asked to hear all about the niece and the nephews that Dean had mentioned that afternoon. Dean relaxed. Finally, something he could talk about that was not a lie.
* * *
Reva sent Cooper off to get ready for bed, and she and Dean stepped out onto the porch. They each held a cup of hot coffee and headed for the rocking chairs.
It was almost dark, but a trace of the day hung in the sky, and lamplight from the parlor sliced through the thin curtains and onto the porch. May was such a lovely time of year here. Warm, but not yet hot. Cool in the evenings most days.
Dean sat and stared out at the lush expanse of green lawn between the main house and this one.
With Cooper out of the picture, Reva felt a moment of impulsive bravery. "Why are you really here?" she asked.
Dean started a little, but not so much that he splashed coffee on himself.
"I told you—"
"You told me part of the story. I just wonder why a man who's more comfortable in a suit than he is in jeans and a T-shirt would come to a small town to become the local Mr. Fixit." There was definitely more to Dean Sinclair than he was telling. She'd already warned him; there were no secrets in a town like Somerset. She wanted to ask him what, or who, he was running from, but it was much too early for such a deeply personal question. "You bought a hammer at the hardware store this afternoon," she said. "Screwdrivers, a box of nails, glue, work clothes and a hammer. I can explain away everything else if I try hard enough, but what kind of contractor doesn't already own a hammer or two?"
He didn't look at all guilty. "You were right about living in a small town. I buy a hammer, and word is on the streets before the sun goes down."
Reva found herself smiling. "I warned you." She really should send Dean Sinclair packing and wash her hands of him once and for all. The only thing she needed in her life less than a man was a man with secrets. "You don't have to tell me—I'm just curious."
Dean sat a few feet away, swaying gently. The old rocking chair squeaked faintly. His hands were wrapped around his coffee cup. There should not be anything at all stimulating or arousing about this moment. So why did her heart act this way? Why did a sensation she had forgotten flutter in her stomach?
"I wasn't always a handyman," Dean finally said. "I guess I'm just looking for something new. A lifestyle less stressful than my old job."
"And what was that old job?" She had to know. If anything were to come of this—and it wouldn't, she told herself, it couldn't—there could be no secrets about his past. No bombshell waiting to be dropped. Her heart couldn't survive that kind of shock again.
Good heavens! Reva took a sip of coffee and took her eyes off him. Dean Sinclair, a man she barely knew, already had her worrying about her heart?
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 go
od-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 go-go 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."
ON DEAN'S WATCH Page 4