ON DEAN'S WATCH

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She should've hit Dean with the limb she'd plucked from the ground that first night, maybe whacked him across the knees. He'd leave her alone then. He'd think she was a crazy woman, and he'd steer clear. He wouldn't look at her the way he sometimes did, as if he saw something in her that no one else saw.

  Reva shook her head and took a sip of the coffee. No, there was no as if. Not with Dean. Not with anyone. She'd been an idiot to think otherwise, even for a moment.

  * * *

  "Busted," Dean said as he walked into the apartment he shared with Alan.

  "What happened?"

  "Damned if I know." He tossed his bag of tools aside and plopped himself down on a fat, soft chaise. "I guess I moved too fast. I asked too many questions and made Reva antsy. One minute we're having lunch and I'm trying to find out what she knows about Eddie, and the next she's bolting from the room."

  "Busted, indeed," Alan said softly. "Just as well."

  Dean glared at his partner. "How's that?"

  "You were getting too close, she's to pretty, and you really should have made that trip to Nashville." Alan sat back in his chair and thrust his legs out. "Now you know."

  "Now I know what?" Dean snapped.

  Alan shook his head slowly. "Man, she wouldn't have run if she didn't have something to hide."

  It was true enough. The innocent didn't run. They stood there with wide eyes and got caught in the crossfire on occasion, but they didn't run. What was Reva afraid of?

  And yeah, she had most definitely been afraid.

  He liked her and had all along. Dammit, he didn't like people on sight. He got to know them, weighed their good and bad points, took his time. But from the moment he'd caught sight of Reva's legs, he'd been insanely attracted to her. Maybe Alan was right, and all he really needed was to get laid.

  Not on the job. And not with a woman who might very well be up to her pretty neck in the mess that had brought Dean to Somerset, Tennessee.

  The last thing Dean needed in his life was a woman to take care of. Make that a woman with a child, and he would be in double trouble. All his life, he'd taken care of his family. They were well past grown, now, making babies and homes and living their own lives.

  So why did he have the urge to run to Reva and make her tell him the truth? She should trust him enough, even though they had just met, even though he couldn't guarantee that she was not still involved with Eddie Pinchon in some way.

  His life was black and white and always had been. Reva … Reva was caught up in shades of gray.

  A faint knock on the door interrupted his sour musing. Alan jumped up and ripped the old picture of Reva from the wall, then expertly covered the telescope with an afghan he grabbed from nearby. That wasn't enough to properly disguise the telescope, so he placed himself between the mechanism and the door, and posed casually. Dean opened the door on a spry Miss Evelyn, who carried a silver tray bearing lemonade and cookies.

  "Good afternoon, boys," the elderly woman said as she walked into the room. "I thought you might like a little refreshment on this warm afternoon. Cold lemonade and my own special sugar cookies."

  Dean remembered Cooper's whispered warning. "Thank you," he said, taking the tray from her and setting it on the walnut side table. "That's very thoughtful of you."

  Alan nodded and said his thanks, but he didn't move. If he did, the old woman would see the afghan-covered telescope. And no matter what they said to their landlady to ensure her silence, the word would be out. As Reva had said, there were no secrets in Somerset.

  "Well," Miss Evelyn said with a pursed-lipped smile, "it's the least I could do."

  Dean tried to gently direct the old woman to the door. "I'll bring the tray and glasses down to the kitchen when we're finished. I hate for you to climb these stairs any more than you have to."

  She resisted his assistance, remaining glued to the spot. "Oh, it's no bother. Climbing the stairs is good exercise. And I love to cook! It's such a joy to feed a couple of healthy, hungry men. Why, Mr. Fister used to adore my sugar cookies."

  "I'm sure we will, too," Dean said as he tried to steer his landlady to the door. At least he had her on the move. She was a wiry one, though, and slipped right past him. "You know," she said as if a thought had just occurred to her, "I have a fence out back that is in urgent need of repair. The gate is off the hinges, and several slats have fallen. It needs to be painted in the worst way."

  At least now he knew why she had climbed to the third floor bearing refreshments. "If we decide to locate our business here, we'll be sure to look the job over and give you a quote."

  Mrs. Fister pursed her lips. "Well, since you were working at Miss Reva's this morning, I assumed you were open for business." She cast a glance at Alan. "And goodness gracious, young man, you never leave the house! It isn't right for a grown man to be so shy."

  "It's a curse," Alan said with a straight face.

  "I'm sure it is." Finally the old woman headed for the door. "You need something to keep you busy. You can start work on the fence this afternoon," she said as she stepped into the hallway.

  Dean closed the door and turned to find Alan already making his way to the silver platter.

  "Maybe we're in the wrong business," Alan said as he reached for a cookie.

  "Wait," Dean said, "Cooper said…"

  Alan raised a cookie to his mouth and took a big bite before Dean could say more. Immediately he made a face, though he did choose to continue to chew rather than spit the bite out.

  "…not to eat the sugar cookies," Dean finished.

  Alan swallowed and reached for the lemonade. "I think I know what killed her old man." He took a long drink. "Isn't there supposed to be sugar in sugar cookies?" He took another long drink. "Cookies aren't supposed to have a bitter aftertaste, are they? You could have warned me a little sooner," he said accusingly. "Or thrown your body between me and the cookies. What kind of partner are you?"

  Dean found himself smiling. "What are we going to do with them? We can't eat them, and if we send them back downstairs, the old woman's feelings will be hurt."

  Alan stared at the silver platter for a moment, and then he grinned. "Mail them to one of your brothers."

  "I like my brothers."

  Alan's grin turned evil. "Mail them to Patsy."

  "No!"

  "Well, for God's sake, we've got to mail them to somebody! They can't stay here!"

  "Myron Troy," Dean said, naming the deputy in the Atlanta office who'd screwed up a case Alan had been on before he'd been partnered with Dean. Alan was always talking about getting even with Troy; this could be his chance.

  "You're a genius, Sinclair," Alan said reverently. "An absolute genius. I am suitably impressed."

  Movement beyond the window caught his eye, and Dean walked past Alan to look out. Curtains parted, telescope moved aside so no one would see it in the light of day, he stood there and watched as Reva Macklin walked down the sidewalk toward her restaurant. Most of the guests had departed by now. Only a few loitered, walking in the gardens, sitting on the porch.

  Whatever had sent her running from him, she'd recovered. She was calm, in control, as elegant and beautiful as ever. Her hair was down, and it danced over her shoulders as she walked. The great legs were hidden beneath the long skirt of her dress. To bad. He wanted to see those legs again, and he had the feeling he might never get the chance.

  Reva should turn her head this way at least once. She should look up to see if he was here, if he watched her as she walked home.

  She didn't.

  Busted.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  She'd managed to remain single and content for seven years; she could certainly ignore the annoying flutter that danced in her stomach when Dean Sinclair came too near. Especially if she made sure he never came to near.

  It was simple enough, Reva decided. She'd considered firing him, but that wouldn't work. He'd still be close by. He'd probably be more
persistent than ever! So she gave him odd jobs and then made sure she was busy elsewhere. When Dean worked in the big house, she found something to keep her busy in the cottage she called home. When she needed to be in the restaurant for one reason or another, she assigned him a chore in the cottage or in the garden. The yard was filled with ancient, majestic trees, and there were several large limbs that needed to be trimmed. George, her usual yard man, was too old to handle anything bigger than the three-foot limb she'd almost attacked Dean with on his first night in town. Dean was certainly capable of handling the larger limbs that needed to be trimmed. Then there was the garden fence and the drainage problem around back. The constant drip in the cottage's kitchen sink. And the third floor of the big house.

  In this way, she could control Dean's whereabouts during the daylight hours at least. As long as she didn't have to look at him all the time or worry about turning around and finding him right there under her nose, she was fine.

  For five days, she'd managed to keep Dean busy and out of her hair. Oh, he did try to corner her now and then, but she always had other places to be. It was all part of her well-laid plans. She made sure all she had was a minute to reject whatever offer he presented. Lunch, dinner, a walk to town. She found a reason to refuse his overtures. Eventually he quit asking.

  Reva loved Sundays in Somerset, and had since her first weekend in the small town. There were three downtown churches, which seemed like a lot for a sparsely populated place like Somerset. But the pews were always full on Sunday. People came from the surrounding area, from farms and isolated homes outside Somerset's city limits, to attend services. After the sermons, which varied in tone depending on the denomination of one's choice, there was often a picnic or a potluck supper. There was a real sense of community on Sunday in Somerset. A real sense of peace.

  Reva had known little peace growing up. She hadn't exactly had a Norman Rockwell life. After her stepfather had died and her mother took off for parts unknown, she'd met Eddie. He'd swept her off her feet, offered the stability and love and sense of family she craved. And she had fallen for him hook, line and sinker.

  On the night they'd met, she'd been working in a bar serving drinks. Not exactly her dream job, but it was the best-paying job she had been able to find at the time. Eddie had come storming into town with his big smile and his blue eyes. He'd talked to her for a while, buying drinks and leaving huge tips, calling her over to his table when there was a lull. On that one night, in a matter of hours, he'd managed to reach inside her and understand what she wanted. What she needed. Over a period of a couple of weeks, he'd wooed her with the promise, spoken and unspoken, of everything she wanted from life.

  He'd sucked her in, and she'd been so gullible she'd fallen for every line. Once he had her where he wanted her, he'd insisted that she quit her job. She had. He'd insisted on knowing where she was every hour of every day. She thought that meant he loved her. Eddie had often talked about how they'd be married one day. With sweet words and a winning smile, he'd painted a picture of the life she'd craved for as long as she could remember, of a picket fence, a husband who adored her, the children he said he wanted.

  But reality was very different from the picture Eddie painted. He had hidden much of his life from her for almost two years, telling lies, keeping her isolated and ignorant. Looking back, she realized that she should have known things were not as they should be. She should have asked questions and then insisted on answers that made sense. But she'd been so afraid. Afraid of losing the only stability she'd ever known, afraid of throwing away that picture-postcard life Eddie promised. By the time she'd realized who Eddie Pinchon really was, it was too late. He'd sworn he would never let her go.

  That was Eddie's idea of love. He hadn't ever loved her; he'd owned her.

  Older and wiser, Reva was determined that no one would ever own her again. When she was tempted to spend time with Dean, get to know him, give him a chance, she remembered that.

  Cooper skipped ahead of Reva along the shaded sidewalk that led toward home. The air smelled of spring, of gardens in full bloom and last night's rain. For a moment she forgot her past and the muddled present, and focused on the future.

  Cooper was the future. He would grow up here in this lovely town where no one would ever know who his father was. He'd have friends and neighbors who adored and respected him. His mother would love him the way she had never been loved, and he could grow up to be a tax man or a baseball player or a telemarketer—whatever he wanted to be.

  A chill crept up her spine. She'd told Dean that there were no secrets in a small town, and yet here she was keeping one of her own. A big, scandalous secret. No matter what, no one could ever know that Eddie Pinchon was Cooper's father.

  * * *

  "She's guilty as hell, you know that," Alan said.

  Dean turned to glare at his partner. He'd been watching Reva walk along the sidewalk, trying to decide if she'd run from him if he walked down to the street and pretended to accidentally be in the same place she happened to be. He hadn't moved, because he was pretty sure she would run

  "Reva doesn't like me. That doesn't make her guilty of anything."

  "She liked you fine until you started asking too many questions." Alan shook his finger in Dean's direction. Dean had a deep, primal urge to break that censuring finger. He didn't. "She knows something and she's not telling."

  Dean wasn't so sure that Reva was as guilty as Alan believed her to be, but he did know that something strange was going on. One minute Reva had been smiling at him, and the next she'd run from the room. Since then she'd gone to great lengths to make sure they were never in the same room for more than a minute or two.

  "Maybe she just doesn't like me."

  "How is that possible?" Alan deadpanned. "Women take one look at you and their pants fly off. I've seen it happen a hundred times. Okay, I haven't actually seen it happen, but you know what I mean. They get this hungry look in their eyes, and sometimes they salivate and—"

  "Alan, shut up." Dean turned his back on his partner and watched the street again. Reva was cutting through the grass, heading for her little cottage. Cooper skipped energetically ahead. "You haven't even spoken to her."

  "I prefer to study my subjects from a safe distance. It's less messy that way."

  Dean tried not to squirm. He usually preferred "less messy" himself.

  "I'll bet Eddie called her," Alan said softly. "That's why she did a U-turn where you're concerned. He's coming to town and she knows it. At the very least, she knows where he is."

  "I don't think so."

  "If you'd planted a bug in her house, we'd know for sure one way or another," Alan said sharply. "God knows you've had the chance, especially since you've apparently taken on the job of handyman full-time."

  Dean didn't respond. They would never agree on this subject. He wasn't about to plant an illegal bug in Reva's home just to satisfy Alan's, and his own, curiosity.

  "I spooked her," he said. "It has nothing to do with Pinchon."

  "I still say a quick trip to Nashville will cure all your ills."

  Dean wished for a moment that he could agree with Alan. He wished his dilemma was that simple. Unfortunately the problem was more complicated than Alan knew.

  It wasn't that he didn't want to sleep with Reva. He did. Badly. But even more persistent was the urge to watch over her, to make sure Eddie Pinchon never got near her or her son. It was the Boy Scout complex Alan accused him of having, Dean imagined, though he had never before felt quite this way.

  Reva Macklin was trouble. Big trouble. The best thing he could do, for himself and for her, would be to call in another team to take over this stakeout. Twelve hours, maybe less, and he could have someone else in place.

  But he wasn't going to call anyone else in, not now, not tomorrow—not until Eddie Pinchon was in prison where he belonged and Dean knew that Reva and Cooper were safe.

  This was definitely getting messy, and that meant trouble.

&nb
sp; Big trouble.

  * * *

  Finally a chore he could handle. Cutting the limbs he'd trimmed from Reva's trees into three-foot pieces so they could be taken to the street to be hauled away was mindless, easy work. He didn't have to know about plumbing, electricity or paint for this chore.

  It was hot, sweaty work, though.

  In a way, it was a shame to cut any growth from these old trees, but some of the limbs had begun to split on their own and were a safety hazard. A few had been damaged by a spring storm that had come through a few weeks back; others were simply victims of time.

  This week was progressing much like the last one. Reva told him what needed to be done and then disappeared. She rarely looked directly at his face, never looked him in the eye. He still benefited from being employed by the owner of the best restaurant in this part of the state, perhaps in the entire state, but it was always one of Reva's employees who brought him lunch a little after one and ice water or iced tea several times during the day. The little old ladies seemed delighted to feed him. Reva's friend Tewanda just shook her head in obvious despair and muttered something unintelligible that did not sound complimentary as she walked away.

  He'd gotten a lot of the work done this morning, before the Miss Reva's crowd began to arrive, and then he'd taken a long break. One of the older ladies had told him that the chain saw was not a comforting sound for the guests, so he'd found quieter work in the garden for a while and then had eaten his lunch.

  It was now after three in the afternoon, and he was working on the limbs again.

  May could offer cool days, even in southern Tennessee, but today was not one of those days. Sweat dripped down Dean's face, tickled his back and soaked his John Deere T-shirt.

  Physical activity wasn't his thing, unless you counted the occasional workout in an air-conditioned gym to stay in shape. His brother Clint was the one who was never still, and Boone had been known to go for a run for no good reason, though not on a regular basis.