“Next time I spend the night,” he said in a low voice, “I won’t sleep on the couch, and we will actually have something to hide come morning.”

Reva shook her head. “You can’t…we can’t…Last night I made a mistake when I suggested…You were right when you said we shouldn’t…”

“I said not tonight,” Dean said calmly. “I didn’t say never. I want you, Reva, but I want you unafraid.” He traced a finger across her neck. “When you ask me to make love to you, it’ll be because you want me, not because you don’t want to be alone.”

“I won’t ask you for anything,” Reva insisted. “Not ever again.”

“Yes, you will.”

Dear Reader,

The days are hot and the reading is hotter here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Linda Turner is back with the next of THOSE MARRYING MCBRIDES! in Always a McBride. Taylor Bishop has only just found out about his familial connection—and he has no idea it’s going to lead him straight to love.

In Shooting Starr, Kathleen Creighton ratchets up both the suspense and the romance in a story of torn loyalties you’ll long remember. Carla Cassidy returns to CHEROKEE CORNERS in Last Seen…, a novel about two people whose circumstances ought to prevent them from falling in love but don’t. On Dean’s Watch is the latest from reader favorite Linda Winstead Jones, and it will keep you turning the pages as her federal marshal hero falls hard for the woman he’s supposed to be keeping an undercover watch over. Roses After Midnight, by Linda Randall Wisdom, is a suspenseful look at the hunt for a serial rapist—and the blossoming of an unexpected romance. Finally, take a look at Debra Cowan’s Burning Love and watch passion flare to life between a female arson investigator and the handsome cop who may be her prime suspect.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

On Dean’s Watch
Linda Winstead Jones

LINDA WINSTEAD JONES

would rather write than do anything else. Since she cannot cook, gave up ironing many years ago and finds cleaning the house a complete waste of time, she has plenty of time to devote to her obsession for writing. Occasionally she’s tried to expand her horizons by taking classes. In the past she’s taken instruction on yoga, French (a dismal failure), Chinese cooking, cake decorating (food-related classes are always a good choice, even for someone who can’t cook), belly dancing (trust me, this was a long time ago) and, of course, creative writing.

She lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with her husband of more years than she’s willing to admit and the youngest of their three sons.

She can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com or her own Web site www.lindawinsteadjones.com.

For my nephew Alan Kimbrel, a true inspiration

and all-around good kid.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

Someone was watching her house. Reva came to a surprised halt, her heart stuttering as she realized what she saw before her.

A man she didn’t recognize stood close to the massive trunk of an old oak tree, motionless, his eyes and his unwavering attention on her little cottage. She’d left the kitchen light burning, so it probably looked to him as if someone was home.

All was quiet up and down Magnolia Street. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but dark had fallen a while ago, shrouding the old houses and thick-limbed trees in quiet night. Sporadically placed street lamps, porch lamps and the light glowing from the windows of homes cast illumination here and there. But Reva had found herself walking in more dark than light. She knew the way well, so the dark was not a problem. But then, she didn’t usually see strangers on her way home.

If not for the moonlight, she wouldn’t be able to see the man at all. He was almost hidden in shadow, there beneath the oak tree.

If he was lost in shadow, so was she.

She’d walked home from Tewanda Hardy’s after dropping off Cooper at his friend Terrance’s, where he was spending the night. It was such a pretty spring evening, much too nice to be driving the mile or so to the Hardy house and then home again. When Cooper had said he was ready to go, Reva had pulled on her Tennessee Titans cap, stepped into her walking shoes and hit the sidewalk.

Good thing she’d decided to walk. She never would have discovered the man spying on her cottage if she hadn’t cut through the yard of the main house. She would have walked into her cottage without knowing someone was watching.

For a moment Reva stood very still and studied the man. Even though he was where he shouldn’t be, she didn’t feel threatened. He was wearing a suit, for goodness’ sake, and definitely didn’t look like any burglar she’d ever seen. He didn’t look around to see if anyone might be watching, didn’t display any signs of nervousness. Instinctively she knew he wasn’t a threat to her. Indecision bubbled inside her, making her stomach clench. Her instincts had failed her before. She really shouldn’t start trusting them now.

While she watched, he backed away from the tree, did a quick about-face and walked off.

And straight toward her.

Reva had a couple of choices, but she needed to make her decision now. Run. Hide. Confront.

The man who’d been watching her house jerked his head around to stare in her direction. Okay, too late for hiding. He had long legs; she couldn’t outrun him. All her neighbors were elderly. Screaming for help would eventually get the sheriff here, but would not do her any good in the coming minutes.

Reva searched the ground quickly, her eyes landing on a three-foot tree limb that had been trimmed from the Bradford pear but not yet taken to the street for pickup. She stepped to the side, dropped down and grabbed the limb, then stood and prepared herself for confrontation, the only choice she had left.

“Hi,” he said, his voice calm and even.

Reva relaxed, but she did not drop the branch. “Hi. What the hell are you doing skulking around the neighborhood?” She didn’t want to point out that she’d caught him watching her house.

“I’m not…” He hesitated. “Was I skulking?” His face was mostly in shadow still, but she could see his reaction. A reluctant half smile transformed his hard face. “I can see how it might’ve looked that way. I’m renting a room across the street. Just got in an hour or so ago, and I wanted to have a look around.” He moved forward and offered a hand. “My name’s Dean Sinclair.”

Reva stepped back. Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe not. She wasn’t about to drop the tree limb and shake his hand, even if he did sound normal and reasonable, and was dressed in a suit, dress shirt and tie. She wasn’t going to give him her name, either.

As she retreated, he came to a halt. His half smile faded. “You’re not going to hit me with that stick, are you?” There was a hint, just a very slight trace, of something dark in that question. The gut instinct she rarely trusted made her glad she hadn’t dropped her makeshift weapon.

Crime in Somerset was practically nonexistent, unless you counted littering and the occasional offense of loitering. And trespassing, Reva thought as she narrowed her eyes. Not exactly a heinous crime, but still, something about this man set her teeth on edge. The fact that she’d caught him spying on her house didn’t help matters any.

“Not if you don’t give me a reason to,” she answered.

Casual as you please, the man crossed his arms. So why was she so sure there was nothing at all casual about this man?

“There are some great old houses in this neighborhood,” he said, his voice soft and deep. “I was just walking around, checking them out. I’m interested in nineteenth-century architecture.”

“You can actually see the details of that architecture better by daylight,” Reva said sharply.

“Like I said, I just arrived in town.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I couldn’t wait to have a look around. Do you live close by?”

“No,” she said. “I’m just walking around in the dark admiring the architecture.”

That response got another half smile out of the stranger. Dean whatever. He definitely didn’t look like a criminal, but he didn’t exactly look harmless, either. Beneath that suit he was physically fit. She could tell by the way he walked, the way he held himself. There was no softness about him, unless you counted the voice that was slightly touched with a Southern accent.

Reva was always wary of the opposite sex, especially men like this one. This Dean fellow was hard, cocky and not where he should be. Architecture my ass.

“I’m leaving,” he said, taking a step back. “I would say it was nice to meet you, but you never did tell me your name.” He paused, but she did not fill in the blanks for him. “And I can’t see your face,” he added, dipping his head to one side as if that might help. “Not with that cap shadowing it. But if I ever see an overly suspicious woman walking down the street carrying a big stick, I’ll be sure to say hello.”

Reva hefted the limb in her hand, making sure her grip was firm. Was he flirting with her? Impossible. She decided not to respond at all.

“Sorry if I gave you a fright,” Dean said.

“You didn’t give me a fright,” Reva insisted.

Dean nodded, apparently not believing her for a moment. Could he hear her heart thudding all the way over there? Or did he detect the tremor in her voice?

“I guess I should save my examination of the town for daytime hours from now on. I didn’t know they rolled up the sidewalks so early here.”

“Now you know,” Reva said sharply.

“Good night, ma’am,” he said with a tip of his head and a quick turnabout. Reva watched as he walked across the yard, across the street and directly to Evelyn Fister’s front door. She glanced down the side driveway of the three-story house where Dean claimed he was staying and caught sight of the rear end of a strange car parked there.

Okay, so maybe he’d been telling the truth. Maybe.

She carried the Bradford pear limb with her as she walked toward home.

Stakeouts were not Dean Sinclair’s favorite part of the job. Sitting for hours, days, sometimes weeks waiting for something to happen was a tedious but necessary part of being a deputy U.S. marshal. Despite a good night’s sleep, this stakeout was already getting on his nerves, and he and his partner, Alan Penner, had only been in Somerset, Tennessee—population 2,352—for thirteen hours.

Alan, who’d been on duty while Dean slept, stood up as Dean exited his bedroom of their rented apartment. He was obviously tired after more than six hours at his post. Once thin and wiry, lately Alan had been sporting a paunch, evidence that his wife was determined to keep him well fed. A couple of years older than Dean, his dark hair showing a few new gray hairs at the temple, Alan was still on the green side of forty. By a few months.

Their new residence wasn’t actually an apartment; they’d rented the entire third floor of a house that had been built about 1820. Everything squeaked, squealed and needed to be painted. Still, the place had a kind of quaint charm.

The main room on the third floor had been referred to by their landlady as “the upstairs parlor.” The furnishings were older than the ancient landlady herself, and a few of the upholstered pieces had a distinctly musty odor. But it was clean and as close to Miss Reva’s, the restaurant across the street, as they were going to get.

There were two bedrooms, one on each side of the parlor, a bathroom down the hallway, and rooms they would not need or use across the way.

Stretching and turning away from the telescope situated on a tripod near the lace-curtain-covered window, Alan twisted his thin lips. “One person has entered the house this morning.”

“Already?” It wasn’t yet 8:00 a.m., and the restaurant situated in the old house across the street didn’t serve lunch until one.

“Yeah. She didn’t look at all like Pinchon, though. She was maybe five feet tall, white-haired, weighed about eighty pounds, and she’s probably ninety-three years old.” Alan yawned and shuffled toward his own room for a few hours’ sleep.

The lens on the telescope Alan had been manning was aimed unerringly at the antebellum house on the other side of the street and one house down. Dean sat in a chair before that telescope, his gaze trained on the large white house. The subject of this stakeout, one Reva Macklin, actually lived in the guest house behind the structure, which had been converted into a popular restaurant. They could only get a partial view of the guest house from this vantage point. The north side porch of the main house and a couple of trees, in full leaf in an overly warm May, got in their way.

Which was why Dean had ventured out last night, only to get caught by a local woman armed with a big stick. He smiled at the memory. All he’d been able to see well were her legs, and she’d had great legs. Shapely, long and smooth.

He’d seen her legs and heard her voice, and those two things alone had been enough to stay with him through the night. Long legs and a slightly husky voice that had crept under his skin from the moment she’d asked him what the hell he was doing skulking around in the dark.

“Think he’ll show up here?” Alan asked with another yawn.

Dean dismissed his dreams of a woman he would probably never see again. He was here on business, and his business was fugitive apprehension.

Eddie Pinchon had been serving a life sentence before escaping from prison in Florida two days ago. A quick glance at Pinchon’s record showed that the man was capable of anything and everything. He was violent, occasionally smart, greedy and a little bit crazy. He could appear to be perfectly normal one moment, then do something no sane man would even think of. Killing a man who’d double-crossed him on a drug deal in the middle of a fast-food restaurant while dozens of people watched was definitely crazy.

Dean glanced at the picture they’d pinned to the wall by the window. The eight-year-old snapshot had been blown up several times, so the texture was grainy. Still, it was more than clear enough. Reva Macklin had been Eddie’s girl for almost two years before his arrest. In the only picture they’d been able to find, she was smiling widely, obviously happy. At nineteen she’d been a bleached blonde, wore too many earrings in one ear, too much makeup and a blouse cut low enough to advertise her natural attributes. She was definitely not Dean’s type; she was one step away from being downright tacky. But in spite of all those things, she was quite pretty. Beautiful, in a rare kind of way that couldn’t be completely hidden by her too-blond hair and her too-red lips. Yeah, Pinchon would come here. Reva Macklin wasn’t the kind of woman a man like Eddie left behind without a second thought.

There were other agents working on this case, keeping an eye on Pinchon’s family and acquaintances. Most of them were in Virginia and North Carolina, where Eddie had spent much of his life. Maybe the escapee would be foolish enough to go see his mother, or his cousin and business partner, or his drinking buddies. Then again, maybe not. He had to know the authorities would be watching and waiting. But could he turn his back on a woman like this one?

“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “He’ll be here.”

Alan didn’t immediately retire to his room, but leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. “Connie hates these things.”

Connie was wife number two for Alan, and it looked as if they were going to make things work. They’d been married six years, had two kids—a boy and a girl—and Connie was all Alan talked about when they were away from home. After a few days Dean got damned tired of hearing about Connie and the kiddies. Alan was so happy these days, so domestic. Every now and then, Alan’s domestic bliss got downright annoying.

“What about what’s-her-name?” Alan asked brightly. “The brunette. Penny, Patty, Pansy—”

“Patsy,” Dean said sharply.

“Patsy,” Alan said, as if he hadn’t remembered the name of Dean’s latest love interest all along. “Is she ticked off? Again?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Dean’s voice remained flat. “I haven’t seen her in three months.” And they hadn’t had much of a relationship for at least three months before the final break.

There was a moment of telling silence. “Thank God,” Alan finally said with a long, expelled breath of relief. “She was such a…well, I hate to use the word bitch, but really, what other word is there? I’m glad you finally got smart and dumped her. All she ever did was complain. You’re never home, you’re home too much, we can’t make any plans—” Alan stopped speaking abruptly. “Wait a minute. Three months. You dumped her three months ago and you didn’t tell me?”

Dean continued to study the house across the street. “Actually she dumped me.” Not that he’d cared by that point. Their relationship, if you could call it that, hadn’t been good for a very long time.

“Ouch,” Alan said softly.

“Don’t you need to get some sleep?” Dean asked, anxious to let this tired subject go.

“In a minute.” Alan moved closer, his steps surprisingly soft on a tightly woven rug. “You know what your problem is?”

Dean sighed. “No, but I imagine you’re going to tell me.”

“You’re all about the job,” Alan said in a kind voice.

“So are you.”

“Not anymore.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Alan shake his head. “I love the job. I don’t want to do anything else, ever. But not knowing how to leave it behind at the end of the day cost me my first marriage. These days, when I go home, I leave the job outside the door. If I didn’t, I would have found myself tossed out of marriage number two years ago.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a saint.”

“No, you’re the saint, buddy-boy,” Alan countered. “You have a real Boy Scout complex. Save the world, save the family, take care of everybody and his brother. And all the while, you do everything by the book. Didn’t you ever ask yourself what about me? What about my needs?”

Dean glanced at his partner. “Have you been watching Oprah again?”

Alan blushed. “Just a little. And that new psychologist she has on every week is a pretty smart guy.”

“Go to bed.” Dean returned his attention to the telescope, listening to Alan’s retreating footsteps. It was going to be a long damn stakeout if his partner insisted on dissecting Dean’s personal life along the way.

A woman rounded the antebellum house across the street, her stride slow and easy, and Dean shifted the telescope in her direction. For a split second her face was hidden by a low-lying limb, the leaves dancing this way and that in a soft morning breeze. All he could see was the swish of a full yellow skirt that hung well below her knees, the gentle swing of an arm. And then, two steps later, Dean saw her clearly.

At first glance, he was certain this woman was not Reva Macklin. Her hair was a soft dark blond and had been pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her dress was loose-fitting and simple. She wore little, if any, makeup. But he focused on the face, on the shape of her nose and the curve of her cheek, and with an unexpected thump of his heart he realized this was her. She’d grown up since the picture on the wall had been taken, and she’d discovered a touch of class along the way. She was not what he’d expected, but the woman walking through the grass with a serene expression on her face was definitely Reva Macklin.

She had changed remarkably, but she remained beautiful. Had she always been graceful, or was that new? It was impossible to tell from a photograph if she had always carried herself this way. A photograph only revealed so much. Reva Macklin was more than beautiful. She carried herself with elegance and possessed a femininity that might make any man’s mouth water.

Yeah, sooner or later Eddie Pinchon would show up in Somerset, Tennessee. Dean and Alan would be waiting.

The kitchen was in chaos as usual, but it was the kind of organized chaos Reva was accustomed to.

Most of her employees were older women. Tewanda Hardy was in her thirties, and Nicole Smith—a kindergarten teacher who only worked summers and Saturdays—wasn’t yet twenty-five, but the others were of another generation. They were gray-haired, spry and between the ages of sixty-one and seventy-two. Some of them helped with the cooking, others served as hostesses. A few worked only one day a week, others worked four or five. They all thrived on doing what they did best: cooking, cleaning and telling old friends and tourists tall tales of life in this small Southern town and of the exciting battle that took place just outside the city limits—in 1863.

“Did you hear?” Miss Frances said as she worked the biscuit dough. “Evelyn has rented her apartment to two men from out of state. They come from Georgia, I believe she said.”

Reva’s ears perked up as she recalled the man she’d met last night.

“Really?” Miss Edna said as she peeled an apple that would become part of a huge pot of stewed apples she’d prepare later this morning. “Are they tourists?”

“Evelyn wasn’t sure,” Frances said in a lowered voice. “The gentlemen wouldn’t say exactly why they’d come to town.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “We have so few tourists who actually stay here in Somerset, especially in the spring. Though there is that nice couple who comes here every fall to watch the leaves turn. Most tourists prefer the hotel out on the highway or one of the isolated cabins, especially the younger folks. It’s very odd, if you ask me. I can’t believe Evelyn would rent rooms in her house to strangers who won’t even tell her why they’re here.”

“Well,” Edna said, leaning in close but not lowering her voice, “she does need the money. And she sleeps with her daddy’s shotgun beside her bed and she knows how to use it, so I feel sure she’s safe.”

Gossip was another pastime Reva’s employees enjoyed. And two strangers in Somerset? This was definitely juicy gossip. Reva decided not to tell them she’d met one of the strangers last night. It would too soon become a part of the gossip, and she preferred to keep a low profile, when possible.

“Perhaps we should have a word with the gentlemen this afternoon,” Frances suggested. “Just to be sure everything’s on the up-and-up.”

Reva smiled as she cleaned and chopped the okra in front of her. No matter who or what Dean and his friend were, she had to feel a little bit sorry for them.

“Maybe one of them will come calling on Reva,” Edna said with a sly smile. “Evelyn said they were handsome young men, though one of them has a bit of a potbelly. Nothing horrible, like that rascal Rafer Johnson,” she added quickly. “Just a healthy sign that he’s been eating.”

“He’s probably married,” Frances observed wisely.

Edna scoffed, “Then why would he move to town in the company of another man?”

The two older women’s eyes met, and they were silent for a long moment. “You don’t think…” Frances said in a soft voice.

“Surely not,” Edna said, and then she pursed her lips.

“Two attractive men, living together, suspiciously silent about why they’re here and who they are…”

“When did they arrive?” Reva asked, knowing the answer. If Dean had been telling the truth, that is.

“Last night,” Frances said.

Reva laughed. “Why don’t we give them a chance to settle in and meet everyone before we make any rash judgments?”

“She’s right, of course,” Edna agreed. “And there is the possibility that the one who doesn’t have a potbelly might come calling on Reva.”

“No, thank you,” Reva said sharply. Men like Dean didn’t come calling, and even if they did, he wasn’t her type. She didn’t have a type!

“Would you prefer the man with the potbelly?” Frances asked. “Is that why you won’t date Sheriff Andrews? I know he’s asked for permission to call on you several times, and you always refuse. I had no idea you were looking for a man with a little more meat on his bones. Sheriff Andrews is not a small man, by any means, but he’s certainly not soft in any way. If you’d like, we can keep taking him food at the station until he grows a nice little round tummy of his own—”

Reva laughed. “No! Please, no. Why can’t you ladies just accept the fact that I don’t want any man to come calling on me?”

“It’s not natural,” Frances said.

“I wish I had a man.” Edna sighed. “I miss having someone to talk to in the evening, since my John passed away.”

“I miss the sex,” Frances confided.

“Well,” Edna said with a wicked smile, “your Billy Joe never was much for conversation.”

The two women laughed, and Reva quietly excused herself from the kitchen.

The women who worked for her had changed all her notions about growing older. They had fun, they enjoyed life. Oh, they battled arthritis and they moved more slowly than they used to, but they embraced life and enjoyed every minute.

But try as they might, they had not changed her mind about men. Pot belly or no, Reva was finished with the opposite sex. She didn’t need a man, didn’t want one, which was why she’d sent every small-town Romeo packing during her three years in Somerset.

She leaned against the wall in the hallway just outside the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron and closed her eyes. Would they ever give up their efforts as matchmakers? Her life was good now. Settled. She was content. She didn’t want to go back, not a single step. Since she had horrible luck with men, she was better off without one. A man would turn everything upside down, and as for love, there was no such thing. She’d believed herself in love once, but it had been as elusive and fragile as a soap bubble. And when that bubble had burst, she’d been terribly lost.

Never again. Absolutely, positively, never.

Edna and Frances continued to share their suppositions about the men who’d rented a space across the street. As their ideas grew more and more outrageous, Reva almost felt sorry for the newcomers.

He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it at all.

The cars had begun arriving before noon. They parked on the street in the shade of ancient trees, as well as in a gravel parking lot on the far side of the house.

Miss Reva’s was more popular than he’d imagined.

People milled about in the yard, studied the flowers, rocked and swung on the wide front porch. They came and they kept coming. He couldn’t see the side parking lot nearly well enough to suit him. Eddie Pinchon could drive up to the side door and Dean wouldn’t see a thing.

At fifteen minutes to one, as the crowd continued to grow, Dean made up his mind. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on. No one else at Miss Reva’s was so formally dressed, which meant he’d stick out like a sore thumb, but he couldn’t conceal his pistol if he left the jacket behind.

He didn’t run, but his trip down two flights of stairs was fast. He was ready to make his escape, but his landlady, Mrs. Evelyn Fister, stepped into his path without so much as batting an eyelash. He had to put on the brakes to keep from mowing her down.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said sweetly, “where are you off to this afternoon?”

“I thought I’d grab a bite to eat,” he said, moving to step around her.

She was quicker than she looked to be and moved with him, so that she remained between him and the front door. “My kitchen is fully stocked. If there’s anything you can’t find there—”

“I thought I’d eat out,” he interrupted.

She blinked, twice. “Out? Where? There’s a bakery downtown, Louella Vine’s place. The sign out front reads Somerset Bakery and Deli, but everyone calls it Louella’s. She’s a good cook, I suppose, but all you can get there are sweets and sandwiches. Why, you have to drive all the way to the interstate to get anything decent.”

“What about the place across the street?” he asked. And why wasn’t Reva Macklin’s restaurant considered decent?

His landlady laughed. “Sonny, you don’t just drop in at Miss Reva’s. You have to have a reservation. Let’s see, you might be able to get a space for next week. That’s not too long to wait. In the summer and the fall, when the tourists swarm all over the place, you need your reservations at least a week in advance.”

Reservations? Somerset was a one-traffic-light town. It was barely a blip on the radar. Everyone knew everyone else, and you had to have reservations to get into Reva Macklin’s restaurant?

“I can see you’re confused,” Mrs. Fister said with a tight smile.

“A little,” Dean confessed.

“Well,” Mrs. Fister said as she took Dean’s arm and led him onto her own front porch, “it’s rather interesting.” From the porch, they could see the crowd that continued to arrive. The patrons were dressed in various ways. Shorts and T-shirts, colorful sundresses, the occasional prim Sunday dress, jeans and neatly pressed button-up shirts. “When Reva came here a few years back, she was determined to make that old place a success. I’m not sure why she chose Somerset, but I suspect it had something to do with the price of the house. We’re a bit off the beaten path, and real-estate values have been dismal the past thirty years or so.”

“I can imagine.”

“In the first year, Reva managed to build a respectable business. Nothing spectacular, not at first, but the woman does know how to cook.” That last was said with pride from a woman who obviously thought this the greatest compliment. “It was the newspaper article that really got things rolling.”

“Newspaper article.”

“Some hotshot from Nashville came through and ate at Reva’s, and he ended up writing an article about the experience. A few months later, there was the magazine article…Better Homes and Gardens. That was almost two years ago, and since then you can’t get a seat at Miss Reva’s unless you have—”

“A reservation,” Dean finished.

Mrs. Fister consoled him by patting his hand. “You can walk on over there and ask to be put on the waiting list. They do occasionally have a no-show.” She cut him a wary glance. “Not often, but now and then. You might get lucky.”

A quick look around would be enough. If Eddie Pinchon was there, Dean would recognize him. All he needed was a moment or two to eye all the patrons.

Dean walked across the street well aware that his landlady watched. This was why he hated stakeouts in small towns; not that he’d ever participated in a stakeout in a place anywhere near as small as Somerset. It was impossible to hide in a town like this one.

Yet at the same time…it was the perfect place to hide. Was that why Reva Macklin had come here? Was she hiding?

An older woman with her hair in a tight bun greeted him at the door as the couple she’d been speaking to walked into the restaurant. She held a small book in her hand. “Good afternoon, young man. May I have your name?”

Sonny from his landlady and now young man. Dean was beginning to feel like a twelve-year-old. “I don’t have a reservation,” he said.

The woman pursed her mouth and glanced down at her list. “Well, that is a problem. Would you like to make a reservation for next week? I believe we have a seat available on—” her eyes rolled up momentarily as she pondered “—Wednesday and Friday.”

Dean started to tell her to forget it. He could mill around, look at the patrons, watch those who arrived at the side parking lot.

And then the smell hit him.

He took a deep breath. “What is that?”

The lady lifted her pert nose and inhaled. A smile broke over her face. “Fried chicken, stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, fried okra, fried squash, stewed apples, broccoli and rice, creamed corn, green beans and fudge pie.” She leaned in close. “I made the pies today. And the stewed apples.”

“Next week will be fine,” Dean said as his stomach growled. “Wednesday.”

She turned a few pages in her book and poised her pencil above a new page. “And your name?”

“Dean Sinclair. I’m staying across the street.”

The old woman’s head lifted slowly, her eyes sparkled, and she did not pencil in his reservation for the following Wednesday. “Well, now, isn’t that interesting.”

Chapter 2

Reva no longer needed to act as hostess at one of the tables in her restaurant. The ladies who worked for her took care of that duty, joining the guests for a meal and telling them all about the history of the house and the town. That was just as well, since Reva had always been more comfortable behind the scenes. People loved her restaurant, and the food she served was always well received. These days she made a tidy profit from her cookbook, as well as the restaurant.

But no one could eat this way every day and not pay a price.

The guests were being seated when Edna burst into Reva’s second-floor office. “There you are. Thank goodness!”

Reva could not understand Edna’s excitement at finding her; she was always in her office at one o’clock.

“I hate to ask it of you,” Miss Edna said graciously, “but could you possibly take my seat this afternoon? I have table two.”

Reva rose, setting aside her menus for the following week. “Are you all right?” Edna rarely missed a meal. She was one of those lucky people who could eat like this every day and show no ill effects. Her health was fabulous, with a cholesterol count the envy of many younger women, and she never gained a pound.

“I have a bit of a headache,” Edna said softly. “Nothing to be concerned about, but an aspirin and a short nap sounds pretty good right about now.”

“Of course.” Reva did not consider herself as entertaining as her employees, who knew so much about this area and its history. Still, there had been a time when she’d performed hostess duties six days a week. She’d always done and would continue to do whatever was needed to make this place a success.

“Lovely.” Edna took Reva’s arm as she left her office. “I did squeeze one extra customer in,” she said absently as they walked down the stairs. “He looked very hungry, and I just couldn’t make myself turn him away.”

“An extra?”

“There was plenty of room,” Edna whispered. “Table two is really the largest of all the tables, you know. Well, except for table four, which can seat as many as thirteen, as you well know. Still, table two is certainly large enough for one more hungry young man.”

But…an extra? Edna was usually such a stickler for the rules. If you have no reservation and there’s no space available, you eat somewhere else, thank you very much.

“Be nice to him,” Edna said as they neared the room where table two was located. “He’s our new neighbor.” With that she released Reva’s arm and very quickly disappeared out the front door.

Well, crap.

Reva stood in the doorway and watched as two young waiters placed heavy platters and bowls laden with food on the large lazy Susan at the center of the oversize round table that usually seated ten. Today it was set for eleven. She quickly sized up the patrons.

Three seated couples were obviously tourists. They ranged in age from about thirty-five to sixty-five. Sandals, shorts, T-shirts and the surprised way they stared at the wealth of food being deposited on the table gave them away. A family of three, regulars who drove up from Alabama at least once a month, smiled in anticipation as the food was placed before them. Sharon Phillips and her husband, Doug, sat on either side of their only child, shy, nineteen-year-old Tracy.

The tenth guest, the man Reva had very nearly accosted with a Bradford pear limb last night, was seated next to the chair that had been left empty for her. He wasn’t ogling the food as the others were.

He was looking at her.

Oh, Edna would pay for this! This was a blatant, annoying and absolutely unnecessary attempt at matchmaking. The extra guest was handsome and hungry, and it was certainly no mistake that he’d been seated next to her. Headache, indeed. Reva resigned herself to enduring the meal without ever taking her revenge. How on earth could she scold a woman old enough to be her grandmother?

She crossed her fingers and prayed that Dean wouldn’t recognize her. It had been dark last night, and her hair had been tucked up under a cap. Even though she shouldn’t feel guilty—the man had been snooping on her property—she would feel better if the subject never came up again.

“Good afternoon,” she said, smiling as she entered the room that had once been a music parlor. A few antique instruments were used as decoration in the room, as well as a few pieces of the original furniture. One of the waiters stood nearby the large round table, in case a platter or bowl was ever in danger of being emptied.

“Reva!” Sharon Phillips smiled widely in welcome. “What a treat. Why, we don’t see you often these days.”

“I’m afraid Miss Edna has a headache. I’m not nearly as entertaining as she is, so I hope you will all bear with me.” Reva lowered herself into her chair. Dean sat to her left; one of the tourists, a woman with bright-red hair, sat at her right.

The patrons filled their plates as the lazy Susan turned slowly, stopped for a moment and then moved on only to stop again. Reva suggested that everyone at the table introduce themselves as the food drifted by. She took a little bit of everything herself, as the dishes spun slowly past, very purposely not looking at the man beside her. She didn’t look even when they reached for the biscuits at the same time and his hand brushed hers. Briefly. Very, very, briefly. And still, there was a spark she could not deny. No! There could be no spark of any kind.

As she’d suspected, the three couples were all on vacation. Two were retired, and the other couple was taking two weeks to drive through Tennessee and Georgia. Her Alabama regulars introduced themselves and raved to the others about the food and Reva’s cookbook.

And then it was his turn.

She had avoided looking directly at the man at her side, but it was impossible to ignore him. He looked out of place in his dark suit and striped tie and spotless white shirt. Reva had a feeling it didn’t matter what he wore; Dean was not a man to be ignored. He had a solid, undeniably strong presence. There were moments when she had to force herself not to look his way.

She told herself he was probably married. Handsome and nicely built, he was not the kind of man who was normally unattached. Women swarmed over men like this one like bees on honey. There was no wedding ring, though, she noticed almost absently, but that didn’t mean anything. Not really.

She had a feeling he was not often truly uncomfortable; he was the sort of man who insisted on being in complete command of his life. But this afternoon he was tense, wound so tight he looked as if he was about to explode. Everyone else was smiling, chatting, enjoying themselves.

If he was so uncomfortable, why was he here?

“Dean Sinclair,” he said. It quickly became clear that he didn’t intend to share anything else about himself. Reva found that rude, since the others had all mentioned where they were from and what they did when they weren’t on vacation, but Dean seemed to think the mere mention of his name sufficient.

Fine with her.

But of course, it wasn’t fine with anyone else.

“Where do you live, Mr. Sinclair?” Sharon asked.

He glanced at the woman who had asked the friendly question. And hesitated. Reva found herself watching him as she awaited his answer. Good Lord, the man was more than a little gorgeous. He had one of those square jaws that looked as though it had been sculpted in stone, a perfectly shaped nose, nice lips…and killer blue eyes, slightly hooded. Last night she had not been able to tell that his eyes were blue—they’d been standing too far apart, and it had been too dark. Thanks to the dark and the distance, apparently he had not recognized her. Thank goodness.

This was a man with secrets, she thought, as he hesitated in his answer. A man who could turn a gullible woman’s world upside down. But Reva was no longer a gullible woman foolish enough to fall for a pretty face and a hard body. Some lessons only needed to be taught once.

“Atlanta,” he said after a pause that lasted a moment too long.

“What are you doing in Somerset?” one of the retired men asked. It was clear to everyone that Dean Sinclair was not on vacation.

Again, he hesitated. “I’m thinking of opening my own business here.”

Reva stared at him. “What kind of business?” Sharply dressed businessmen did not come to Somerset on a regular basis.

He looked at her, really truly looked at her. His eyes met hers and he took a deep breath. Good heavens, he almost smiled. He gave her that same half smile she’d seen last night, as if he were reluctantly amused. “I’m a contractor, a handyman specializing in updating and repairing older houses. I’ve always had an interest in nineteenth-century architecture.”

So much for hoping to go unnoticed. What had given her away? Her fingers twitched slightly, her throat constricted. Maybe she was reading too much into his smile and he didn’t recognize her at all.

Then again, what did it matter? Yes, it had been an embarrassing moment, since she’d threatened him and he’d apparently been innocent of any wrongdoing. But he had been where he should not, well after dark. She had no reason to be embarrassed.

A contractor! Reva forgot all about Dean’s fabulous eyes, his sculpted jaw, his wedding-ring-free hand and her own unnecessary chagrin. Instead, she thought of the rotting banister upstairs, the crumbling brick in the old kitchen fireplace and the sagging back porch. “Really?”

“I’m not sure we’ll locate here,” he said quickly. “We’re just taking a few days to visit the place. Get to know the town and the people.”

“We?” Perhaps there was a wife, after all.

“My business partner made the trip with me.”

Reva gave the man a real smile. “You’ll have to bring him with you for lunch one day. I’d like to meet him.” The partner must be the one with the potbelly. Goodness knows Sinclair didn’t have one. His entire body was likely as hard as that jaw.

An unexpected ripple shimmied up her spine. She pushed the reaction down, forced it from her mind. Edna and Frances were not right. She did not need a man.

Especially not one like Dean Sinclair.

“Do I own what?” Alan was not yet completely awake. He squinted and leaned toward the window, where Dean sat.

“You know, tools,” Dean answered. “A hammer, a screwdriver, maybe a drill.”

Alan shook his head. “Why?”

Dean kept his eye on Miss Reva’s, even though the last of her customers had left a little while ago. “I paid a visit to the restaurant while you were sleeping.” And he was still obscenely stuffed for his trouble. It was like going to your grandmother’s house and being overwhelmed by all the choices laid before you. He’d eaten too much.

Everything had been perfect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten such a fine meal. It didn’t help matters any that neither of his sisters-in-law or his sister, Shea, were what one could call great cooks. Holidays were always interesting, but no one fed him the way Reva had. And Patsy’s idea of eating at home had included a delivery of some kind.

“It was great,” Dean finished.

“Okay,” Alan said, not sounding at all surprised. “What does that have to do with my tools?”

“They put the customers at these big tables,” Dean explained, “and the first thing they did was have everyone tell who they were and where they were from and…what they did.”

“Hi!” Alan said in an overly animated voice. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Dean Sinclair, here to keep an eye on your hostess in case her felon of an ex shows up.”

“Not likely,” Dean grumbled. “She was sitting right next to me.” He remembered Reva Macklin with an unexpectedly sharp intensity. Her hand had brushed against his once, and it had been nice. Much nicer than it should have been. She was soft and warm, fragile and strong in that way some special women were.

And she was lovely, far more beautiful than her old grainy picture or the too-brief sight of her through a telescope. No picture or long-range glimpse could do justice to that flawless skin or the sheen in her hair or the depth of her dark-brown eyes. And the way she smelled—like cinnamon and strawberries and soap—was still so real he could close his eyes and…

“So?” Alan prodded. “What did you tell her?”

“That I’m a handyman.”

Alan guffawed. “You?”

“It’s not that funny.”

“Yeah, it is. You don’t fix your own car when it breaks down. You live in an apartment and have never even had to mow your own yard, much less fix anything. Face it, you are definitely not mechanically inclined. Do you even know what a hammer looks like?”

“Of course I do,” Dean snapped. “It’s not that ridiculous.”

“Yeah, it—”

“I was caught off guard,” Dean interrupted. “Besides, she was the one who caught me snooping around last night.”

“You mean legs is Reva Macklin?”

“Yep. I knew it the minute she opened her mouth. She’s got this husky voice.” The kind of voice a man did not forget. “Since I’d already told her I was checking out the architecture, I had to come up with something that made sense. My brother-in-law’s a contractor and he fixes up old houses. That’s one thing Somerset has in abundance—old, creaking, falling-down houses in desperate need of repair. It was the first logical explanation that came to mind.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “You’re my partner, by the way.”

“Great,” Alan said flatly.

Dean couldn’t get Reva Macklin off his mind. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Eddie Pinchon was crude, a lowlife if ever he’d met one. What on earth had a woman like Reva ever seen in Eddie? He glanced at the old picture of another Reva. Either she’d changed in the eight years since that picture had been taken—in the seven years since Eddie had been sent away—or she was putting on a show. Was she that good an actress?

Dean was adept at reading people. Lies didn’t get past him and he could spot a phony a mile away. The Reva he’d met today was no actress. She’d been friendly without sharing too much of herself, maintaining a professional distance without coming off as a snob. She possessed a quiet gentility that was the hallmark of a real Southern lady.

Again he glanced at the old photograph of another Reva.

“If you can get access to the house as Reva Macklin’s new handyman, you can plant a bug or two,” Alan said thoughtfully.

“We don’t have a court order.”

“Unofficially,” Alan said quickly. “And if you could plant one in the guest house…”

“No,” Dean answered. “Not without authorization.”

Alan shook his head. “We can’t see every entrance to that big house, and we can barely get a glimpse of the guest house from here. There are only two of us on this detail! Pinchon can walk in any time he feels like it, and if we’re not looking in the right place at the right time, we’re screwed.”

Dean knew Alan was right, and still he didn’t like it. His partner gave him a hard time about being such a stickler for the rules, when some other agents broke them without a second thought. He wanted to catch Pinchon, but he didn’t want to compromise his standards to accomplish the task.

“Give it a couple of days. Miss Macklin’s got a good, steady business here. She’s not going anywhere. If Eddie does show up, we’ll get him.”

“I still think a bug is the way to go,” Alan grumbled.

Dean stood. He and Alan would never agree on this point. “I’m going to walk to town,” he said. Since “town” was three blocks of redbrick buildings half a mile down the road and the path was shaded sidewalk the entire way, it wasn’t exactly an arduous expedition.

“Bring me something to eat,” Alan said with a yawn.

It was nice to get out of the house. The streets were quiet now that all of Reva’s customers had left. Dean was rarely subjected to such serenity. It was so quiet he could hear the breeze in the trees. His pace was slower than usual, as if to hurry would be wrong in this place.

Even downtown, with its small shops and quaint old buildings, was slow-paced. The everyday necessities were all right here. A small grocery, a dress shop, a barbershop and a beauty parlor. And a hardware store.

An hour and too much money later, Dean headed back to his temporary home. The bags he carried were heavy, but he figured he now had everything he needed to get started. In his shopping bags were a couple of pairs of heavy denim pants, a few cheap T-shirts, work boots, thick white socks, a baseball cap—and a hammer.

He’d looked at the selections and asked himself, What would brother-in-law Nick buy? That had made the process quick and easy. Everyone he’d talked to had wanted to know who he was and why he was in Somerset, and he’d given them all the same explanation he’d given Reva Macklin.

He was Somerset, Tennessee’s newest handyman, and he’d never in his life so much as driven a nail.

One of the bags he carried contained supper for Alan. He had stopped at the Somerset Bakery and Deli, which was situated just past the beauty parlor and was really not much of a deli at all. They offered lots of baked goods and a few sandwiches. The small place closed at three o’clock, so he’d barely gotten there in time. The somewhat plump woman behind the counter, who had introduced herself as Louella Vine, had been delighted to see him. Maybe business wasn’t so good and every customer was a pleasant surprise. Then again, maybe she was just one of those exceptionally outgoing women who never met a stranger.

The sound of pounding feet alerted Dean to the fact that he was about to be run down. He glanced over his shoulder to see two little boys, one white and blond, the other black and half a foot taller, gaining on him fast. Dean stepped to the side of the walkway, giving them room to pass.

They didn’t.

“Hi!” The little blond boy practically skidded to a stop at Dean’s feet. “Who are you?”

The taller child stayed behind his friend, quiet and watchful.

Dean glared at them both. “Don’t you know better than to talk to strangers?”

“Are you strange?” the blond kid asked, wide-eyed and not at all perturbed by Dean’s tough manner.

“No.”

The little boy grinned, shooting Dean a decidedly disarming smile. “My name’s Cooper. I know everyone who lives on this street, but I don’t know you. This is Terrance,” he said, jerking a thumb back at his friend. “He’s my best friend. We’re in the first grade.” Each sentence ran directly into the next in childlike, breathless fashion. “Last year we were in kindergarten, that’s when we got to be very best friends, but I’ve known him all my life. Almost all my life. As long as I can remember, anyway. But we just got to be best friends last year. Last year we were just little kids, but now that we’re older we’re still best friends.”

The kid talked a mile a minute. When he stopped to take a breath, Dean asked, “Do you live on this street?”

“Yeah!” Cooper answered.

Great. “Well, Cooper, my name is Mr. Sinclair. I’m new. Now run along and don’t talk to strangers.” Dean resumed his walk toward home. Cooper and Terrance did not “run along” as instructed.

“Do you have any kids?” Cooper asked.

“No,” Dean answered curtly.

“That’s too bad. We need some more kids in Somerset. We have a T-ball team, but it’s not very good. We could really use a good first baseman. Why don’t you have kids? Don’t you like kids?”

Dean bit back a brutally honest, Not really. “Kids are fine, I guess.” As long as they’re not mine. “I have a niece and three nephews.”

“Will they come visit you sometime?” Cooper asked.

“Probably not. Besides, they’re too young to play T-ball.”

“Oh,” Cooper said, sounding dejected at the news.

Dean thought about his growing family for a moment. Shea’s Justin was two and a holy terror. All two-year-olds were holy terrors, right? Boone’s little girl, Miranda, was not yet a year old, and she was spoiled rotten. Absolutely rotten! She had Boone wrapped around her little finger and had since the moment she’d come into this world.

Clint’s twin boys were still at that wriggly, wrinkled, useless age. Infants. Why on earth did people insist that they were so cute when, in fact, they resembled big, pale, squalling bugs?

Dean had taken one look at the tiny babies, who had arrived almost a month early, and had told Clint to give him a call when the kids turned into humans. So he wasn’t a warm and fuzzy uncle. The world had plenty of warm and fuzzy without him. Especially now that his siblings were all married and making families.

Somehow the kids had bracketed him, Terrance on one side, Cooper on the other. Terrance was trying, very diligently and not quite secretively, to see what was in Dean’s bags.

Fortunately he was almost home. “What about you?” he asked Terrance.

The kid jumped back from the bags as if he’d been caught snooping. In fact, he had been. “What?”

“Are you anxious for more kids to come to town?”

The boy gave the question a moment of serious thought. “Not really. I have my best friend Cooper and my second-best friend Johnny, and two brothers and my mama and my daddy. That’s enough,” he said, sounding satisfied with his young life.

“Smart boy,” Dean said in a lowered voice.

“But we could use a first baseman,” Terrance added thoughtfully.

Dean came to a halt. “This is where I live,” he said, wisely withholding the Shoo that wanted to leap from his mouth.

“This is Miss Evelyn’s place.” Cooper looked at the old house and nodded his head. “Don’t eat the sugar cookies,” he said in a quiet voice tinged with horror as he delivered the dire warning.

Dean was about to ask why not? when he was distracted.

Reva Macklin had stepped outside. She walked in the shade of the trees that lined the sidewalk. So why did she look as if she carried the light with her? She was sunshine and cinnamon, strawberries and…heaven help him, this was the kind of woman who could work her way under a man’s skin and make him crazy. She walked toward him, and for a moment, just a moment, Dean didn’t see anything else. Dangerous. Very, very dangerous. She didn’t dress provocatively. In fact, she was clothed to suit this town. Quaint. Old-fashioned.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she crossed the street. She walked straight toward him, hair released from the thick ponytail she had worn earlier to fall past her shoulders. It wasn’t curly, but it wasn’t completely straight. It waved. It caught the little slivers of sunlight that found their way through the thick foliage of the trees.

A lesser man would have dropped the bags and drooled, but not Dean.

She gave him a brief, sweet smile, and he wondered what would happen next. Why was she here? Maybe something in her house needed his immediate attention. Faulty plumbing. A rotting board or two. Maybe a loose stair. So he wasn’t any good at repairing anything—he was willing to try.

It crossed his mind briefly that maybe Reva was approaching him for a much more personal reason. He barely knew her; there was nothing personal between them. And yet—

“Cooper Macklin,” she said sharply, turning her attention to the child. “You’re late.”

“I had to stay after school.”

Reva reached their side of the street and crossed her arms as she stared down at Cooper. “What was it this time?”

“I was just trying to help Mrs. Berry,” he explained. “She was reading us a story, but she had it all wrong. I have that book and I know she wasn’t telling it right.”

“Cooper!” Reva said, sounding properly horrified.

“I was trying to help,” he explained passionately. “But she just didn’t want me to help. She wanted to tell the whole story wrong.”

“I stayed, too,” Terrance said in a soft voice that managed to cut through the tension. “So Cooper wouldn’t have to walk home alone.”

Dean was taken aback. That was putting it mildly. His reaction was physical, as well as emotional. His heart pounded too hard, his mouth went dry. He looked from Reva to her son, from Cooper to Terrance and then back to Cooper again.

First grade—that meant the kid was six years old. Blond hair, blue eyes, dimples. Fearless.

Cooper Macklin, Reva’s child, was Eddie Pinchon’s son.

Chapter 3

Reva closed her eyes and shook her head. “Cooper, how many times have I told you—”

“This is my new friend, Mr. Sinclair,” Cooper interrupted in an overly bright voice. Her son was a master at changing the subject, and had been since the age of three. “He doesn’t have any kids, so he’s probably lonely. We should ask him to have dinner with us. Tonight!”

Reva avoided looking directly at Dean Sinclair. There was nothing quite like being put on the spot, and she hadn’t yet decided how to respond to Cooper’s unfortunate suggestion.

“You’re always telling me to have good manners, Mom, and inviting Mr. Sinclair for dinner is good manners, right?” Cooper’s innocent blue eyes remained wide and hopeful.

“I’m sure Mr. Sinclair has plans for dinner,” Reva responded calmly.

“I bet he doesn’t,” Cooper said, turning his eyes up to their new neighbor. “Do you have plans?”

“Well…” Sinclair began.

“Pleeeze!” Cooper whined. “I want you to tell me about your niece and all those nephews, even if they’re not old enough to play T-ball.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I don’t think I can eat another bite today.” Sinclair glanced at Reva. “I ate too much at lunch.”

“Dessert, then,” Cooper insisted. “You could come over and have dessert with us.”

“Don’t annoy Mr. Sinclair,” Reva said.

“I’m not annoyed,” Sinclair replied.

She made herself look at Dean Sinclair. He still wore the shirt and pants to his conservative suit, but the tie and jacket had been discarded. The top button of his shirt was undone, the sleeves of his shirt had been turned up and rolled away from his wrists. There was something about a man’s well-shaped neck that could be fascinating in the right circumstances. It was so different from a woman’s neck, so solid and strong. And a man’s nicely muscled forearms could be just as interesting. Just as tempting.

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, too, 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 will 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 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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