I Think I Love You

by Stephanie Bond

“An attorney from your brother’s law office has been at our house for the past two hours. He said they received an anonymous tip from a man on a local payphone that my sisters and I witnessed Lyla Gilbert’s murder twenty years ago.”

  He squinted. “My brother’s law office?”

  She tossed the business card on the counter. “Your brother’s firm is representing Elmore Bracken at his new-trial hearing. But you already knew that.”

  He picked up the card. “No, I didn’t.”

  “I can’t believe you have the nerve to lie to my face. Not after—” No, she wasn’t going to bring sex into it. “I trusted you. I even listened to your advice—I was going to Charlotte tomorrow to tell my story, but I wasn’t going to implicate my sisters. Thanks to you—”

  “Stop,” he said. “I didn’t know that David’s firm was involved with this case, and I certainly didn’t make a phone call to reveal something we discussed in bed.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t believe you.”

  He sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Who came to see you?”

  “Byron Kendall.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “We had to!”

  “Without an attorney?”

  “We didn’t have one handy.”

  “I told you to call me if you needed an attorney.”

  “Oh, so you were going to call your brother to represent our interests in this case, too?”

  “No.” He pulled his hand down over his face. “I’m an attorney.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I’m an attorney. I was going to offer my services if you needed someone to sit in with you.”

  Of course—the law books, the sibling rivalry with his brother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “It’s a part of my life that I don’t talk about.”

  Her mind raced. “How much trouble are we all in?”

  “I don’t know. Give me a chance to talk to Kendall and see what’s going to happen.”

  She eyed him warily.

  “Regina, I didn’t betray your confidence. I swear.”

  He looked so sincere, she wanted to believe him. “But you’re the only person I’ve discussed this with in twenty years.”

  “Then one of your sisters must have told someone.”

  “They said they didn’t.”

  “Are your sisters completely trustworthy?”

  She looked at him. “Are you?”

  His expression was immobile, but he splayed his hands. “I guess those are questions you’ll have to decide for yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll call David and try to head off his partner.” He gave her a wry smile, “Unless you want to hit me again?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  He walked a wide berth around her and retreated to the office. She lowered herself onto an 1890s settee and lay her miserable self down. She should never have come to Monroeville. Let people live their lives, and get one for yourself. She closed her eyes, conceding that Justine was right. She had arrived with lofty ideas of mending her parents’ relationship, then everything had snowballed out of control. Mitchell and his doughnuts. Justine and her fugitive. Mica and her black eye. Justine and Mica rolling on the ground. Justine and Mica turning on her. Deputy Pete and his toothpick. Mitchell and his… squiggle maneuver.

  And now this Bracken hearing looming over her and her beloved uncle and sisters. All her fault. In fact, as a result of her arrival in Monroeville, pretty much everyone’s life was more screwed up than before, especially hers. The one bright spot had been sleeping with Mitchell, and look where that had gotten her….

  Despite his serious brown eyes, she didn’t trust him… not completely…..

  She must have dozed, because she was roused by the feeling of his lips on hers, warm and firm and practiced. She murmured beneath the pressure and inhaled his scent into her lungs… wrong scent. And he was barking. No, Sam was barking. Her eyes flew open and wider still when she realized it wasn’t Mitchell kissing her. The black-haired man pulled back and she sprang up in disbelief. “Dean?”

  Dean Haviland was as dark as Satan and twice as handsome. “Hey, Blue Eyes.” He flashed a killer grin. “Thanks for the welcome home.”

  Regina shoved at Dean’s chest. “Get off of me!” She stood and backed away from him, marveling at his appearance.

  Sam was still barking, then stopped suddenly and trotted over to stand next to Mitchell, who had materialized. “Is there a problem, Regina?” He stood close enough to pose a threat but hung back far enough to leave discreetly if need be.

  “No problem here, man,” Dean said, sauntering forward. “Regina, who’s this guy?”

  He didn’t wait for her to introduce him. “My name is Mitchell Cooke. I’m doing some work for Mr. Metcalf.”

  “That’s how I started out,” Dean said, all borrowed suave and sophistication.

  “Oh? And who are you?”

  “Dean Haviland’s the name.”

  Mitchell’s slow and derisive scrutiny said he recognized the man by reputation. “Well, Dean, if you touch Regina again without her permission, I’ll break your goddamn arm.” Then he smiled.

  Dean snorted at Regina. “Does this guy mean something to you?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here, Dean?”

  He held open his hands innocently. “I’m on my way to your folks’ house. Mica asked me to come.”

  She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. So Mica had lied about not talking to him. What could she have been thinking to invite this man back into her life? And with Justine visiting—oh, God, Justine.

  “Regina,” Mitchell said quietly, then nodded toward the office. “I have some information about… what we discussed.”

  Dean was already backing toward the door. He winked. “See you soon, Blue Eyes.” The front door banged shut.

  Mitchell wore a bemused expression. “So that’s the guy who tore you and your sisters apart?”

  Regina looked in the direction Dean had gone. “No. He’s the guy who recognized we were already torn apart.”

  Chapter 18

  DO rehearse your “I’m over you” reunion scene.

  Justine sat on the side porch smoking her third cigarette since the attorney had left. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Everything that had ever gone wrong in her life she could trace back to one sister or another. It was obvious that Regina had blabbed the story to her fling thing and he’d promptly reported it to his brother. The man had probably come to town under the guise of appraising just to sniff around for local gossip that might help the case. If she got bogged down in a resurrected murder trial, she’d be fired for sure. And what kind of a recommendation letter was she going to get after she’d slept with the husband of the vice president of human resources?

  She took a deep drag on the cigarette. She should’ve gone to Florida or to the Bahamas for a few days and found a tall beach bum to help her forget her troubles. She still wasn’t sure what she’d been hoping for when she came back to Monroeville—maybe the warm fuzzies of having her parents all to herself like the three precious years before Regina came along. Just her luck and timing that Cissy and John would decide to split up this very week. And as for her father, well, she truly had believed him to be above the debauchery of most men. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of lost father-daughter moments—those, too, seemingly stolen by Mica, John’s little darling. Because when she’d absconded with Dean for LA, instead of offering Justine a shoulder to cry on, John had grieved for Mica.

  She blew a stream of smoke into the air and scoffed at her genuine—albeit sappy—reason for returning home: the hope that she’d rediscover the basically good-hearted, loving girl she’d once been. Here was where she’d left that girl, the moment she discovered Dean and Mica’s betrayal.

  No one knew what she’d gone through those first few months. Regina had escaped to Boston to her new job. Cissy and John, as usual, were so wrapped up in each other that they hadn’t paid her mu
ch attention. In their defense, they had never been demonstrative parents and didn’t know how to help her through a traumatic experience that one of their other children had created. Meanwhile, all her own friends had gone off to college and exciting careers, which she had forsaken to be near Dean. Suddenly she was a jilted twenty-five-year-old with no prospects, and the only real talent she had was helping Tate Williams pretty up the corpses in his funeral home when his cosmetologist wife, Sarah, went to visit her mother in Atlanta.

  “You have a real knack,” Tate had told her. “These people didn’t look this good when they were alive.”

  But since she hadn’t wanted to work on stiffs the rest of her life, she’d answered an ad for a Cocoon makeup representative. Her life became a blur of home makeup parties, which she’d hosted in a much-laundered yellow suit. She’d zoomed to the top of the sales charts in no time. A couple of years later, she visited the Cocoon headquarters in Shively during a sales conference and realized that the real money was being made by the women in the offices on the penthouse level. She set her sights on one of those offices and, without the aid of a college degree, worked her way up the ladder by sheer grit.

  Now she was making more money than she ever dreamed of… and it still wasn’t enough. It would never be enough until Dean Haviland could see her success and acknowledge that he’d made a mistake. That Mica’s glamorous lifestyle couldn’t compare with the authentic intimacy they’d once shared. That if he’d stayed with her, he could’ve had money and love.

  After the jilting, she knew people had laughed at her, had pitied her. It was true—she hadn’t seen it coming, because her connection with Dean had felt so powerful and deep. Nearly every night he would climb the trellis leading to her bedroom window and slide into her bed. Sometimes they would make fervent love while everyone in the house slept, but most nights they would simply lie awake talking about whatever came into their heads. Dean, she discovered, mostly wanted to talk about his meager childhood. She didn’t mind, though, because he’d always end by saying their children would have a different life, a good life. They had plans….

  She stood and walked over to the porch railing. After one more drag, she stubbed out her cigarette and tossed the butt over the side into the jungle of shrubbery below. She leaned into the rail and stretched her back, arms, and legs. She felt itchy for a man. That was one thing about the South she had missed—the constant sensual bombardment from the environment. Heavily perfumed flora, humid, sticky temperatures, juicy, fleshy foods—relentless cues to make a woman ultra-aware of her body and its urges.

  In the distance, a car engine revved, coming up the long driveway that set the Doll off the beaten path. Her pulse picked up, like every other time a vehicle had approached. She craned, waiting for the first glimpse, and soon the hood of a silver sports car came into view. A Jaguar—Dean’s dream car. Her muscles felt weak, and her hands shook in anticipation of seeing him again. She’d taken pains with her own appearance, striking a perfect balance between casual and sexy with a white halter dress and red sandals. Her hair was down, the way he liked it; her perfume, his favorite. Mica had gone into town with Cissy to buy groceries—the timing couldn’t be better.

  He pulled into the driveway and she was struck by the familiarity of his profile. She forced herself to breathe evenly as she made her way to the front porch and positioned herself to good advantage against a column. He climbed out and slammed the door, then glanced all around the property. Dressed in white pants, red shirt, and dark sunglasses, he was just as she remembered him—lean and beautiful, sexy as hell.

  His gaze landed on her and stopped. Slowly he pushed back his sunglasses, and even at the distance, she could feel the impact of his black eyes. Her breasts hardened, and her thighs hummed, Pavlov-style. Dean walked closer, still staring, and she fixed her expression into aloof amusement.

  At the bottom of the steps he stopped, wide-legged. “Hiya, Justine.”

  “Hiya, Dean.”

  “Long time, no see.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You look good.”

  “I know.”

  He laughed, flashing strong, white teeth. “Same spunk, I see.”

  She hadn’t expected to be so affected by his smile. “What brings you back?”

  He scratched his temple. “I lost something.”

  She angled her body to expose the high side slit of her dress. “And you think you’ll find what you’re looking for here?”

  “Maybe.” He perused the length of her leg. “Are you home alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He wet his lips carefully, and she was shot through with sweet vindication that he still found her attractive, that they could still turn each other on with a few veiled words.

  But the mood was broken by the appearance of Cissy’s station wagon. Justine bit back a curse as Mica stared out the passenger-side window. She was out of the car practically before it stopped moving, charging toward Dean.

  He smiled at her. “Hey, baby.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He looked confused. “You asked me to come here, remember? I couldn’t get a flight, so I put two thousand miles on this car in two days flat.”

  Mica shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I called you on your cell phone—you told me where you were and said to come get you.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  His frown gave way to an ingratiating smile. “You said you had just woken up—you just don’t remember. A little too much painkiller, maybe?” He slipped his hand into her hair at the nape of her neck. “Has your neck been bothering you?”

  She removed his hand. “I didn’t invite you here.”

  “Okaaaay.” He slipped his arms on either side of her waist. “Since I’m here, can’t we at least talk?”

  Justine’s heart shivered—it was the first time she’d seen them touch intimately. Over the years, she’d imagined them together in so many configurations, but some part of her couldn’t get past the idea of her sister being twelve years old when Dean came into their lives. All the pictures of them she had in her head were innocent—Dean blowing up balloons for Mica’s birthday parties, teaching her how to bowl, the three of them going to high school basketball games together. Seeing his hands on Mica gave her more torturous images to ponder.

  Mica twisted out of his grip. “I don’t want you here. Leave. Now.”

  Don’t leave. Justine had to bite her tongue not to cry out. I want you here.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me,” he said with equal parts charm and firmness. “Everett told me about Tara’s stupid demands. But you and I need to stick together on this. The only reason they want me off the set is because I demand high quality. Without me, they’ll take advantage of you.”

  “That’s only part of the problem,” Mica said. “Not only do I want you off the set, but I want you out of my life. It’s over, Dean. I’m moving out of the condo.”

  He scoffed. “With what? You don’t have any money.”

  Justine blinked. By her estimation, Mica had written over three thousand dollars’ worth of checks when they’d gone shopping.

  “And without me,” Mica said, “neither do you. Now leave.”

  “You can’t cut me out of the business,” Dean said. “I won’t let you.”

  Then from out of nowhere, Regina and her bed buddy appeared, along with John, probably from the path through the woods. Now that the entire fam damily was here, she thought wryly, the fireworks could begin.

  “Hey, Mr. Metcalf. How’s it going?” Dean seemed genuinely happy to see John, but John stared at him stonily. Of course, John was probably stoned.

  Mitchell Cooke was a good head taller than Dean and, from his body language, was spoiling for a fight. “I distinctly heard the lady tell you to leave.”

  “Hey—this is none of your business, pal. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of it.” Dean grabbed Mica by th
e wrist. “We’re going for a ride.”

  But the big guy was agile. He yanked Dean’s arm up behind him and walked him to the Jaguar. When Mitchell released him, Dean twisted away, his face dark. “I’ll be back.”

  “No!” her father shouted, and everyone froze.

  John never raised his voice. Ever.

  “I treated you like a son,” he told Dean in a shaking voice, his eyes wide. “And you split this family in pieces. Stay away, or you’ll be sorry.”

  Justine’s chest swelled with sympathy for her father. John had been fond of Dean and had assumed that he and Justine would take over the business. She herself had always hated the musty old shop but tolerated it because of Dean. He had betrayed them all in one fell swoop.

  Dean seemed as surprised by John’s outburst as everyone else, and Justine thought for a moment that he might even apologize. Instead, he swept his arm to indicate John’s perpetually disheveled appearance. “I split this family in pieces? Let me tell you something, old man—this family was in bad shape before I landed on the scene. But I guess that was hard for you to see through the bottom of a Jack Daniel’s bottle.”

  John lunged for Dean, but Mitchell held John back, for his own sake, of course.

  Justine pressed her lips together. Dean wasn’t perfect, but he’d spoken the truth that no one else had the guts to say. He smirked at John, then climbed into his car and peeled out with a flourish.

  She watched his car disappear and leaned into the column, feeling cheated. Twelve years of daydreams about a reunion, and this was the memory she had to take away. Frustration boiled in her stomach. If only everyone hadn’t arrived. Once again, her family had ruined everything. She and Dean should have left Monroeville long before they’d planned, should have eloped, but Dean had shown a stubborn regard for the antiques shop that had baffled her at the time. She blinked furiously. In hindsight, perhaps he couldn’t bear to leave Mica.

  Regina climbed the steps and touched her arm, breaking into her thoughts. “Come inside. Mitchell has some news for us about the information we gave to Mr. Kendall.”

  Justine crossed her arms and glared at them both. “Mitchell is the one who spilled the beans—how can he possibly help?”