ON DEAN'S WATCH

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "Of course I am," Tewanda said as she and Edna headed for the kitchen. "I already told Cooper he could spend the night. Charles is making pizza for the boys, and we'll rent a few videos."

  "That's not necessary," Reva said as she followed her employees to the kitchen.

  "Of course it's necessary. This will be your first date in … well, in as long as I've known you, and that's going on three years. You do not need Cooper there to chaperon."

  "It's not a date," Reva insisted. "I'm just cooking dinner for a friend." Maybe grilled cheese sandwiches without the soup.

  "So now he's a friend," Tewanda said suggestively. "What are you going to wear for your date?"

  "It's not a date!"

  Edna and Tewanda ignored Reva and started discussing the plans for today's lunch menu. Reva turned around and stalked away, muttering as she headed for the peace and quiet of her office, "It is not a date!"

  Her office was quiet, but there was no peace to be found. She paced and chewed on one fingernail. When she was finally able to quit pacing and sit, she fingered the papers on her desk without being truly aware of what she saw.

  Eventually her heart rate slowed and she took a deep breath. She had a date. Like it or not, she had a date with Dean Sinclair. If she'd found herself cornered and sharing a meal with the sheriff or anyone else, she wouldn't be so tied in knots. With anyone but Dean, she could be assured that the date would be safe. Meaningless. Uneventful.

  Dean offered none of those things. Time with him was definitely not meaningless. Why did that scare her so? He was a good man, she didn't have any doubt of that. That was not her problem. The problem was, she liked him to much. She liked him and she wanted more, even though she knew she could never have more.

  Movement outside caught her attention. It was Dean, walking across the street, dressed for work. Everything about him—the way he moved, the shape of his body in jeans and snug T-shirt, the curve of his shoulder and his neck, the face she could not see clearly from this distance—wakened something inside her that had been sleeping for to long. He wakened the woman within, the part of herself she had denied for Cooper's sake and for her own sake. For the sake of her battered heart.

  She wanted to touch Dean again, kiss him again, and like it or not, she wanted the more she could not, should not, have.

  * * *

  Dean cursed as he never had before, borrowing a few of Boone's favorite words. Fortunately Reva's employees were gone for the day. He definitely wasn't fit company for blue-haired old ladies, not as he struggled with this afternoon's chore.

  Wallpaper. To the untrained eye the task appeared simple enough. He had followed the directions, but the damn paper stuck where it wasn't supposed to and didn't stick where it was supposed to.

  At the moment the wet, uncooperative paper stuck to him and to itself, folding in where it shouldn't, falling in the most bothersome way.

  Dean was transforming the bedchamber where he'd had an abbreviated lunch with Reva into a sitting parlor. That was the plan at least. The old dresser would have to be moved to another room, but the fainting couch, that faded burgundy contraption with the serpentine back and the carved legs, would probably stay.

  Working in Reva's yard was hard work, but he could actually see something happening as the days passed. He'd never be a true handyman, he knew that, but the lush grounds surrounding Miss Reva's were starting to look good. This morning, as he'd hauled away more dead limbs, it had actually crossed Dean's mind that he should think about buying a house of his own.

  How much of the allure of his bogus job was Reva herself? There was something about turning around in the middle of a chore to find her standing on the porch or under a tree or in a window, watching him. Those too-brief moments were stimulating and heartwarming. Dean snorted at his own foolishness. He didn't do heartwarming. It was too damn much trouble.

  Maybe he would give up apartment life and buy a house one day, though, as long as he never had to mess with wallpaper.

  He stopped cursing when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Quick and light—he recognized that step.

  "Dean?" Reva called as she reached the top of the stairs.

  "In here," he called as he removed a length of the wallpaper's sticky side from his shirt.

  "What's wrong?" Reva stopped in the doorway of the room that would soon be an upstairs parlor—if he ever got the damned wallpaper on the wall where it belonged. "I heard you…" She stopped speaking and smiled as she leaned against the doorjamb and looked him up and down.

  She always had an old-fashioned look about her, as if she'd just stepped out of another time. A gentler time. It was the clothes, he imagined. Today's dress was calf-length, pale lavender dotted with small flowers, and it was fastened along the front from top to bottom with tiny, pearl-like buttons that begged to be undone. No, it wasn't the dress. It was the fresh curve of her cheek and the wave in her honey-blond hair that made her look as if she belonged in the 1940s.

  Her smile was gentle.

  "It isn't funny," Dean said in a low voice.

  "Yes, it is," she responded.

  Dean's frustration faded. Reva should smile this way more often. There wasn't any fear on her face at the moment, no worry, no icy resolve. She was just Reva, content and amused.

  "You could get in here and help me out," he suggested gruffly.

  Reva stepped into the room and was soon bathed in the sunlight that poured through the window. The material of her lavender dress was thin, and for a moment he caught sight of the outline of her fabulous legs.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  That was a loaded question. Dean tried to dismiss the turn his thoughts took. "Hold the paper straight at the bottom while I get the top section where it's supposed to be. With any luck maybe I can get it in place before the glue dries."

  She had to kneel beside him to do as he asked. Dean didn't look down at her hair or take a moment to enjoy the way the scooped neckline of her dress fell slightly away from her body. He kept his eyes on the wallpaper, lining up the damned stuff so that it matched the strip he'd already managed to get into place.

  No, he couldn't see Reva, but he could certainly feel her. She was right there, brushing against his leg in that soft, feathery way only a woman can. At one point she apparently decided she wasn't holding the paper correctly, because she moved her body to the side so that she was actually between Dean and the wall. When she shifted her body, her breath landed warm and arousing on his leg, penetrating the thick denim and making him shudder.

  Dean concentrated on the task of lining up the wallpaper so Reva could move aside. Asking for her help hadn't been such a bright idea, after all.

  No matter how anxious he was to finish, this wasn't a chore that could be rushed. He moved one way, Reva turned another. Soon she wasn't kneeling at all, but sitting on the floor between his legs, both hands on the wallpaper, her gauzy skirt pooled around her legs. Every time he moved so that one of his legs brushed against her, sparks shot through his body. By the time he had the top half of the wallpaper where it should be, he had an erection that strained against his jeans, and no matter how diligently he tried, he could not concentrate on the simple task that had had him cussing a blue streak a few minutes earlier.

  He worked his hands down the wall, smoothing the wallpaper as he went. Eventually Reva scooted aside and rose to her feet, allowing him to finish on his own. He brushed out a couple of rough spots and trimmed a strip off the bottom. Reva had plenty of time to step away, leave the room, make a safe and smart escape. She didn't.

  When Dean finished with the strip of wallpaper and turned his attention to Reva again, there was no longer an easy smile on her face. Pale cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, lips taunting and tantalizing. The ultrafeminine dress she wore was slightly twisted from moving about on the floor. Her hair, usually so sleek and controlled, looked as if he'd already run his fingers through the strands. A lock fell across one cheek.

  "You should go now," he said,
turning his head to search for nonexistent flaws in the wallpaper.

  "You're probably right," she said in a soft, stirring voice. But she didn't make a move for the door.

  Dean cursed again as he reached out, took Reva's arm and gently pulled her to him. She wasn't surprised, and she didn't hold back or mutter a demur protest. She fell into him, lifted her face to look him in the eye and placed her hand on his waist.

  When her lips parted, he expected a belated We shouldn't do this or a horrified What was I thinking?

  And still, he wasn't surprised when she whispered, "Maybe you'd better kiss me now."

  * * *

  Reva didn't allow herself to be swept away. It was a dangerous thing to loose control, to let reason go and simply feel, to crave and ache and yearn.

  When Dean's mouth touched hers, she quit torturing herself with questions she couldn't possibility answer. Why him? Why now? She had been content to live without a man for the past seven years, hadn't she? Yes, she had, until Dean Sinclair had come storming into her life.

  No, Dean hadn't stormed. He'd crept into her life, crawling under her skin an inch at a time until there was no shaking him loose. He was relentless, gently demanding and ever present. And every time he looked at her, she wanted him more.

  He wouldn't stay here in Somerset, and that was a good thing. That was, in fact, the only reason she could allow herself to fulfill this fantasy. She didn't have forever to offer anyone. But she did have today.

  She loved the way Dean kissed her, as if he wanted to devour her mouth, as if he could never get enough. His lips were firm and yet soft, demanding but not hurtful. There was no doubt in her mind that he wanted her. She had worked very hard to hide her attraction to him; he didn't have that luxury. At one point when she'd been holding wallpaper, she'd shifted and turned her head and found herself staring at the proof.

  Dean caught her body against his and deepened the kiss for a long moment before pulling his mouth away. "Is anyone else here?" he whispered.

  "No," Reva answered, her voice as soft as his. "Just us."

  "Cooper?"

  "T-ball practice."

  Dean captured her mouth again and parted her lips with his tongue for a soul-searing kiss she felt to her bones. His hands were steady and warm as they held her against his solid body. Together they moved across the floor as they kissed, until Reva's back met the wall.

  Sandwiched between the wall and this tall, solidly built man, Reva felt not trapped, but caught up in something powerful and beautiful. Her body and Dean's … they had been dancing toward this moment since the night they'd met. She'd fought every step of the way, but she was tired of fighting.

  Reva touched Dean's neck with curious fingers, brushed her thumb against the beat of his pulse. He was warm and hard, soft and rough, all at the same time. Touching him was addictive, she was certain. The kiss went on, and she soon wanted more. She wanted everything. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight, telling Dean with her kiss what she wanted.

  He unfastened the tiny buttons down the front of her dress, and all the while he continued to kiss her. Lips, tongue, a gentle nip of her lower lip. His hands and his mouth were more skilled at undressing and arousing her than they were with a hammer. Each move was smooth, easy, practically mindless.

  Reva closed her eyes and wallowed in sensation. Dean's mouth, his tongue; his hands. Nothing else mattered at this moment. Nothing. When her dress was unfastened to the waist, he very gently pushed the garment off her shoulders. A quick twist of his fingers, and her bra came undone and was tossed aside. One hand gently cupped a breast, and the sensation was so intense she moaned and deepened the kiss, inviting more, demanding more.

  When Dean bent down to take a sensitive nipple into his mouth, she arched against him. Pleasure, tangible and extreme, shot through her at the touch of his mouth, grew as he continued to lavish attentions on her. Her heart thundered. She grew damp, she clenched and unclenched in anticipation. With a gentle undulation and a telling quiver, her body responded. She held Dean's head to her breast while he suckled and laved and drove her beyond desire and into burning need.

  A new thought shook her, gently roused unwelcomed reason. "Do you have a—"

  "Yes," he answered before she finished the question.

  Reva relaxed, smiled, leaned her head back as Dean moved his attention to her other breast.

  One of Dean's capable hands slipped up her leg and under her skirt to snag her panties. He drew them down; she kicked them away.

  "I love your legs," he said, running his hands over her thighs. "Smooth, strong, long. I dream about them wrapped around me."

  His mouth returned to hers, and he kissed her so deeply she felt that meeting of their mouths everywhere. When he touched her intimately, adding an arousing caress to the kiss, her knees almost buckled.

  Dean lifted her, took her more securely in his arms and carried her away from the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist so that his arousal pressed against her, where she wanted him. Where she needed him. She didn't know where he was taking her, and she didn't care.

  He laid her down on the fainting couch, which had been pushed against one wall. The bed was narrow but soft. Before he could pull away, she tugged on his T-shirt. She was more exposed than not; it was only fair that she be able to see him, touch him, hold his bare body close to hers. She wanted it all, flesh to flesh and heart to heart.

  Dean helped her tug the shirt off and toss it aside, and then she reached for the buckle and zipper of his jeans.

  Her mouth went dry, her heart caught in her throat as she freed his erection. Hot and hard, silky as night, he filled her hand. She stroked him, learning his length, making him moan as he had made her moan.

  Dean reached into his back pocket for his wallet, withdrew it, threw it open and snagged a single foil-wrapped condom before dropping the wallet to the floor. He sheathed himself; she helped him.

  With his gentle hands on her inner thighs, he spread her legs wider. Her dress was bunched around her waist, the top pushed down, the skirt pushed up. She was bare, exposed.

  But she didn't feel at all vulnerable. She wanted this moment with every fiber of her being. Reva looked boldly into Dean's face. He stared down at her with passion and fire and an unexpected fierceness in his eyes. Dean Sinclair was usually so much in control, so steady, that the ferocity of that stare surprised her, and a new shudder worked through her body.

  She raked her fingers through his hair, brushed the fingers of one hand across his cheek. How could a man be fierce and tender at the same time? Dean was an extraordinary man, and at the moment, at this very moment, he was hers.

  After all these years, after all the fears she'd faced and denied and conquered, she was not afraid of this. Not anymore.

  He guided himself to her, and gently, slowly entered her anxious body. Reva closed her eyes and savored the sensation. She wrapped her legs around his and urged him deeper, snaked her arms around his neck and held him tightly. Her bare breasts pressed against his chest, her legs and his were entwined. When their mouths fused together once again, they were joined tightly from mouth to thigh.

  Dean's tongue danced with hers as his hips rocked. He made love to her. And there was love, not just sex. There was a gentleness and a beauty here that made this coming together intimate in a way that went beyond the physical. At this moment, in this time, in this room, he loved her. And she loved him.

  Each thrust was quicker than the last, deeper, more intense, until Reva was breathless and her body soared toward completion. She climaxed with a cry, the pleasure so intense it took her by surprise. Wave after wave of release rippled through her. Her body shuddered around Dean's, and he drove deeply once, then again. He shuddered just as she did. Their bodies shook together, breathless and sated and sweating.

  Dean lifted himself slowly, but did not leave her. He was so beautiful he made her heart lurch. The man above and inside her was hard and muscled, sweating and heavy-lidded. He
was everything a man was supposed to be, inside and out.

  "I didn't plan for it to be this way," he said.

  She flicked her fingers through his hair and smiled. "Neither did I."

  "Tell me you're not sorry."

  "I'm not sorry."

  He kissed her gently. "I never lose control, Reva. Never. But I swear, one kiss from you and I stop thinking straight."

  Reva kissed Dean's sweaty neck and laid an easy hand on his side. With that hand she could feel his heartbeat, hard and fast, monitor his breathing, also hard and fast. If she thought she was the only one swept away by this attraction between them, she might be afraid.

  But she was not the only one.

  "Tell me you're not sorry," she whispered.

  Dean laid a hand on her bare breast, twisted his head so he could look her in the eye. He gave her one of those half smiles that drove her wild. "Honey, I am definitely not sorry."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Dean sat in a dark room watching the quiet street below.

  His stomach knotted, his head pounded. He should be at Reva's right now, shouldn't he? It wouldn't be like this afternoon. Cooper would be around to make sure they were on their best behavior. But he should be there, anyway. Dean knew it in his twisted gut.

  He had screwed up before, but not like this. This was likely the biggest screwup of his life. Unfixable. Unforgivable. He should've told Reva why he was here before he'd slept with her. Before, not after. But one thing had led to another, and before he knew what was happening, he wanted to be inside her more than he wanted to tell the truth, more than he wanted anything. He hadn't even thought of the lies between them when she'd asked him to kiss her. Now, she'd said. Kiss me now. He had. And a few minutes later she'd been lying beneath him with her hands exploring and her body opened to him and her breath catching in her throat as she waited for him to fill her. Like a man starving for a woman, he'd made love to her.

  What was he going to do now? Walk in like nothing had happened and say, "Oh, by the way…"