Blakeley at her gymnastics class or mowing the lawn in her size four Capri pants. Devan had been blessed to call her “friend” as well as mom-in-law; however, there was no way this friend could ever understand her connection to Mead.
“Nothing,” she replied, slipping off her jacket. “An embarrassing misunderstanding, that’s all.” Her gaze fell on the loaf pan that Connie had placed on a cooling rack. “Thanks for your timing—and your help.”
“Don’t mention it, dear. I’m glad I was on schedule. But do you mean you didn’t see anyone out there?”
“Blakeley ran into Mead Regan,” Devan admitted reluctantly. That much would get around town fast enough; to keep it from her would only make her wonder.
“He tried to get her?”
Devan quickly shook her head. “No one threatened Blakeley, Mom. He was just walking and—” she gestured, groping for the most concise explanation possible “—you’ve heard the gossip. He’s still recovering.”
“Yes, I have heard. Bev Greenbriar says he’s downright spooky and if it wasn’t for the Regan fortune, he would be locked away in a you-know-what.”
“I’d bet anything that big-mouthed Beverly hasn’t been within a mile of Mead. For the record, he was extremely polite to me.” Devan tried not to think about how she continued to feel his strong hand around her arm. “Let’s look at the positive—Blakeley is fine and she learned a good lesson out of this.”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s over.” Devan quickly hung her jacket and rushed to the cabinet where she stocked the aluminum foil. She was grateful Connie had been here to help, but she didn’t want to discuss Mead with her another second. “Let me wrap some of this bread for you, and get you some lasagna. With all of your running for the sale, you’ll be too tired to cook dinner for Dad.”
Connie glanced at her watch. “Are you sure you have enough to spare? It does smell yummy.”
“Thanks. No problem. I always make a full batch to portion and freeze anyway.”
Devan continued her mindless chatting until she escorted Connie out the door and waved her down the street. Then she called to Blakeley, who she could hear had detoured from the bathroom to her bedroom—probably to delay that conversation that was promised.
As she waited for Blakeley, she glanced out the back door again. It was almost dusk. Had Mead made it back home? Was he all right?
The questions barely started in her mind before she thrust them away. She wouldn’t let him turn her head again. The first time had cost her too much.
“I’m sorry for what’s happened,” she whispered against her clasped hands. “But stay away. Don’t tempt me to care. I can’t afford to care.”
Chapter Two
M ead didn’t break any speed records returning home. He knew what awaited him there and slowed his pace to prepare for the inquisition, one that would be particularly grueling if the police had beat him there. He wasn’t ungrateful for his mother’s attention toward his recovery and understood she’d called in some serious IOUs to get him the best medical help beyond what the military had provided, which had been pretty damned fine from what he could tell. But what he craved was space in all of its ramifications. Since it was increasingly clear that he wasn’t going to remember who he had been, he’d like to decide for himself who he wanted to be from here on. If he didn’t grasp that before, that episode in the park with the little girl and her mother convinced him.
No doubt the poor kid had been scared. And her mother…Devan Anderson…who was that woman? It was nuts, but the moment she’d arrived, he’d felt as if the stream in the park had shifted ninety degrees and was suddenly carrying her energy straight to…no, through him. Whether she wanted to discuss it or not, he was convinced they had more of a history than she had admitted. Getting truthful answers would be the tricky part. It would happen, though, because until a few minutes ago, he hadn’t been convinced that he belonged here, let alone figured out whom he wanted to gamble on trusting.
Spotting Pamela’s majordomo at the back gate of the mansion, he steeled himself for the next step through his foggy maze. “Evening, Philo,” he said to the compact man in the tailored gray suit. Pryce Philo’s burr haircut was a duplicate of his except that it was completely silver and had him increasingly wondering if they didn’t have more in common than easy-to-manage hair.
“Are you all right, sir?” the manservant asked in his polite, mid-Atlantic voice that gave away little of his background.
“You ask that a lot.”
“Because Mrs. Regan expects regular and full reports, sir.”
Mead paused outside the wrought-iron gate to study the man with the winter-cold eyes who had yet to release the lock. What did anyone know about Philo other than that he took as much pride in his appearance as he did his work, making him integral in keeping the estate running smoothly and its owner on schedule, if not out of trouble? Only Pamela and her CPA knew how valuable that was—and only she knew the full realm of his responsibilities.
“How long have you known me now, Philo?” It was a question he asked whenever he was totally frustrated with the puzzle and his environment and willing to push buttons, even if that meant shooting into the dark.
“I don’t know you at all, sir,” the manservant replied as usual. “But I’ve been privileged to be serving you on your mother’s behalf for two weeks, two days…and almost a pair of shoes ago, Mr. Regan. It looks like you’ll need a new pair yourself.”
It was more than he and Philo usually had to say to each other, and Mead glanced down at his soggy athletic shoes and damp jeans to hide his smirk. Philo didn’t like babysitting him any more than Mead cared for his salaried shadow. “Look at that.”
“You might also like to know the police are here,” Philo added. “They came to inquire about your whereabouts this afternoon.”
“Did you sell me out?”
“You wound me, sir.”
Mead didn’t believe it for a minute. “I went for a walk beyond the sacred walls. Big deal.”
“But there’s the matter of a 911 call in the area. A child living on the other side of the park was feared—” Philo coughed discreetly “—attacked.”
Tightening his fisted hands in his pockets, Mead replied coldly, “She wasn’t. We ran into each other down there.” He nodded in the direction of the park. “One look at me and she wanted her mommy or the marines—whichever she could find faster—and hightailed it home.”
“Excellent. Allow me.” Philo punched the security code into the keypad built into the wall and the gate lock opened with a subtle click. “Would now be a good time to ask how you managed to leave in the first place, since you don’t have the code?”
“No.” Mead stepped into the yard and waited for the sound of Philo closing up behind him.
“Have mercy, sir. Mrs. Regan is already in a state. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s hosting another of her fundraiser dinners this evening, and I think she and Mr. Walsh had something of a row earlier.”
