On Dean's Watch. Linda Winstead Jones

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