Gillian dropped her jacket on the floor

She sank to the bed, trying not to think about the long-term consequences of what she had in mind. Eyes steadily on his, she raised her arms.

She might have wanted him to say something. But the snick of the light switch plunging the room into darkness was all she got from Mitch Valetti.

His silence would have bothered her if he hadn’t undressed her with such reverence and touched her so tenderly that a lack of words didn’t matter. Tonight it was enough to know they were safe. To know that Mitch was one of the good guys. To know she was powerless to change how she felt about him and equally powerless to change their circumstances.

Mitch represented the very best of the good guys in Gillian’s estimation. If this short week was all the time she would be granted to love him, then so be it.

And if, by some miracle, she was already carrying his child…she would deem it a gift.

Dear Reader,

In writing The Baby Cop (July 2001 Superromance), I found Ethan Knight’s partner, Mitch Valetti, to be a character worthy of his own story. In the first book, Ethan and Regan were married in Mitch’s hospital room while he recovered from multiple bullet wounds. His love interest, Amy Knight, had begun seriously dating someone else and later eloped with her newest love. Few writers would be able to walk away and leave a nice guy hurting in body and heart the way Mitch hurt. Especially if that man indicates by word and deed that he would like to have a family of his own. So I promptly went in search of the perfect partner for Mitch, and found a woman who has lost the most important thing in her life—a baby. Gillian Noelle McGrath (or sometimes Gillian Stevens, her alias) is also on the run from a difficult situation. What better lap to land in than that of an ex-cop who hasn’t quite let go of his profession?

I hope you enjoy reading about Mitch and Gillian’s rocky path to love!

Roz Denny Fox

Readers can contact me by post or e-mail. My mailing address is P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, Arizona 85731, and you can reach me by e-mail at: rdfox@worldnet.att.net.

Lost But Not Forgotten
Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

“YOUR HUSBAND got himself into trouble, Mrs. McGrath. Dirty as sin, and big from the sound of it.”

The woman glanced uneasily around the empty precinct parking lot before letting her gaze settle on the kindly old cop Daryl had instructed her to meet in Flagstaff, Arizona. Fall was definitely in the air. Leaves from the cottonwoods skipped across the asphalt in the brisk wind. She pulled her jacket tighter. “Daryl and I…were divorced, Sergeant Malone,” she blurted. “Now he’s dead.” Her voice thinned. She raked a nervous hand through pale-blond hair that brushed her collar each time she moved. Tears welled in her pleading blue eyes. “I’m trying to say I don’t understand any of this.”

“Neither do I. But I watched Daryl grow up. I’d stake my life on him being a straight arrow, Noelle.”

“Shouldn’t you call me Gillian? Gillian Stevens is the name on the driver’s license and Mississippi car registration Daryl insisted I use…even though we live in New Orleans. Oh, nothing makes sense. How—why did he phony up a social security card and driver’s license?” She blotted away tears and braced her hip against the car Malone had just finished searching.

The portly cop, who’d been a second dad to her ex-husband, shook his gray head. “Daryl was scared, I can tell you that. His one e-mail to me is proof. I only wish I’d had the chance to explain I’m two weeks away from retirement. This is the type of case for a young cop. On the other hand, missy, you’ve gotta be careful who you trust. A money-laundering operation the size of the one Daryl hinted at isn’t anything to mess with.”

“There must be some mistake. Daryl wouldn’t—” The prediction falling from her lips was cut short by squealing tires. Breaking off, she straightened. A sinking sun struck the windshield of a car bearing down on them. Splintered rays blinded Gillian.

Malone moved fast for an old man. Hooking a beefy arm around her waist, he spun her out of the path of the onrushing vehicle even as it clipped him hard.

She felt the impact separate their two bodies, and gazed in horror as the policeman flew up and was dragged twenty yards or so by a wildly careening blue car. She scrambled to the curb, not daring to breathe. Finally Malone was dislodged, and Gillian ran to where he lay crumpled on the pavement.

“Help!” she shouted at two uniformed cops who’d been heading up the steps into the station. They had either heard the blue car’s acceleration, or had seen the hit-and-run, and were already in motion.

Gillian’s limbs shook so violently she didn’t know how she’d managed to keep from fainting. Clearly Malone’s left arm and leg had suffered fractures. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. “It was them,” she whispered. “The men who’ve been following me. I thought I lost them in El Paso.”

Malone had great difficulty breathing, yet he wheezed out instructions. “Get…the hell…out of here. Now. Go south. Hide.”

“No! I can’t. You need help.” Clutching his hand in both of hers, she kept shaking her head.

He coughed raspily. Gillian cried out again to the two cops darting between parked cars. Both had drawn their weapons, but they seemed bent on chasing after the blue car instead of assisting Malone.

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Patrick choked out. “Run, but watch your step.”

His hand went limp in hers. Gillian laid her ear against his chest. She wasn’t sure whether the rattle she heard was good news or bad.

Stay or run? Torn, she made a split-second decision that he, being a cop, knew best. It was a miracle her shaking legs actually carried her back to her car. After executing a wobbly U-turn, Gillian did her best to blend with the parked cars until she worked her way to the opposite side of the police station and merged with street traffic.

Less than a mile from the precinct, she came to a clover leaf and followed signs directing her south on the interstate. She spotted the blue car on an overpass. At least, it looked like the vehicle used in the attempt on her life. She would be dead if not for Malone’s bravery. The thought gave her chills.

Gillian fought the panic threatening to overwhelm her. Daylight was fading. Oncoming cars had begun to turn on their lights. She checked her rearview mirror for the umpteenth time before she realized it was impossible to tell the color of the cars spread out behind her. Sweat ran down her spine, welding her T-shirt to her vinyl seat cushion. She drove aimlessly, constantly peering over her shoulder.

Minutes ticked into a quarter hour, then to half an hour. Odd things registered. For instance, how flat the land was and how long it took for the sun to actually set. And it was warmer here than it’d been in Flagstaff.

Dusk gradually deepened, but she still didn’t know where to hide. Fearful of being overtaken, she eventually left the interstate. So did several other cars. The blue car—she felt it drawing closer. After driving miles on the perimeter road, she saw a graveled road angling off to the south. Blindly, she turned. A series of bumps and pings made her flinch as gravel struck the car’s under-carriage. Her headlights illuminated a split-rail fence lining both sides.

The road’s condition required her to reduce her speed. She prayed that this obscure byway led to a small Western town, where she could find an innocuous, run-down motel. She needed to grab a nap and think out her next steps.

Provided they didn’t catch her first.

Of all the things crowding her mind, she suddenly remembered one—that today was her thirtieth birthday. What a way to spend it. Using an assumed name, running from thugs she didn’t know, for reasons not fully clear. Reasons involving her ex-husband’s CPA firm.

One thing that was clear—the thugs wanted her dead. They’d already killed Daryl. Suddenly. Violently. And then poor Officer Malone…

A stab of raw fear chased goose bumps along Gillian’s skin underneath the sweat. She didn’t want to die! The discovery itself surprised her. For the last ten months, she hadn’t cared one way or the other.

Once again her eyes strayed to the rearview mirror. There was blackness in her wake. She rolled her shoulders, wishing her mind would be still, wishing she could focus on her dilemma. Had she managed to elude the blue car? If so, good. Except…where was she? This road stretched into nothingness. “You were stupid, stupid, stupid not to stay on a better-marked highway,” she muttered to herself.

Bam! The car fishtailed all over the bumpy road.

Gillian screamed. At first she thought she’d been shot at and she lost her grip on the steering wheel. When she reassessed the situation, jamming her foot on the brake, the car stopped inches from the fence. The way it lurched told her she’d blown a front tire. That was a relief, and yet it wasn’t.

Here she sat in the middle of God-knew-where. The landscape had gradually begun to change. What was desert had evolved into brush and trees along the fence. The minute she stepped from the car, she’d be vulnerable, a target for anyone hidden in among those trees. Dropping her forehead to the steering wheel, Gillian listened to her hammering heart.

She couldn’t drive on a flat. Nor could she sit there all night hoping for a white knight to ride up and save her.

Slowly, with shaking hands, she switched off the engine. Leaving only her parking lights on, she slid from the car on unsteady legs and quietly opened the trunk, using the penlight attached to her keychain for illumination. All the while, she prayed for a decent spare tire. Not for the first time since she’d been drawn into this insane ordeal did she long for the safe world she’d left behind. This was a nightmare. “Oh, Daryl, what did you get us into?”

She dug through the trunk and took out a satchel filled with emergency supplies—a lantern, a first-aid kit, bottled water and a box of granola bars. Some of her panic faded as she removed the two suitcases Daryl had packed for her. Even in haste, his attention to detail was reassuring.

Except now he was dead.

Refusing to allow useless tears, Gillian muscled out the spare tire. She tripped and almost fell over the smaller of the two suitcases. Scooting it aside, she retrieved the jack and the tire iron. Thankfully, her father—rest his soul—had taught her to change a tire years ago. She hoped the skill came back easily.

Never one to procrastinate, Gillian bent right to the task. She’d just finished tightening the last lug when she felt, more than heard, a low rumble—a vibration in the gravel road under her feet. Glancing in both directions, she saw car lights on high beam coming toward her, along the section of roadway she’d already traveled. Gray shapes danced eerily along the fence row. Gillian’s pulse leaped wildly.

“Oh, no,” she sobbed. “They’ve found me!”

Her hands slick from sweat as well as grease, Gillian struggled to shove the blown tire into its rightful place in the wheel well. She’d have to stop at the next service station and get it fixed; the way things were going, she’d probably need it again. It landed crooked, hiked higher on one side so she couldn’t put back the carpet. There seemed to be far less room in the once spacious trunk.

Fear made her clumsy. She was all thumbs trying to force the large suitcase in beside the satchel. At last, the case slid inside. Dousing her penlight, she slammed the trunk lid closed.

The oncoming lights grew larger, like an angry cat’s eyes piercing the black night. Gillian fought the bile rising in her throat. She jumped into her car. Her hand shook so hard it took three tries to fit the key into the ignition. The approaching headlights were mere yards away when finally her engine caught and the car shot forward.

At the last minute, Gillian remembered her parking lights. She knew it was reckless to travel an unknown road without proper illumination. But the thought of what would happen if the thugs caught her drove her to do unwise things.

Without warning, the lane narrowed further. Too late, Gillian realized this must be someone’s private drive. Maybe it led to a farmhouse, and she could throw herself on the owner’s mercy.

And ask them to phone the police? “OhGodOhGodOhGod!” If Officer Malone had died, she had, in effect, fled the scene of a hit-and-run murder.

The lane came to an abrupt end. Or rather, it became a keyhole-shaped area in front of a single-story ranch house. A house devoid of light.

Frantic, Gillian braked and let the car idle. “Think,” she commanded. “What to do?” Massaging her temples, she willed her terror to subside. She dared not go back the way she’d come.

Her gaze swept the moonlit landscape. Her addled brain registered a barn and scattered outbuildings. Both the house and barn were flanked by pastures. Off to her left, about a mile as the crow flies, ghostly car lights bobbed, passing one another. This ranch apparently sat between the perimeter road she’d left and another highway that paralleled the mountains. All that stood between her and escape was a spindly fence and a few acres of raw desert.

Closing her eyes, she gunned the motor and smashed through the rails. Restoring her headlights, she prayed there was nothing on the flat expanse of land that would blow another tire. Bumping across the uneven ground, Gillian tried to keep an eye on the headlights rounding the bend of the lane she’d left. As she drew even, the other car seemed to slow down. Once again her heart climbed into her throat. She couldn’t bear to look. What if they’d recognized her? Pressing hard on the gas, Gillian focused on escape.

MITCH VALETTI, former Desert City, Arizona detective, cruised along the private lane leading to his ranch. It’d been three months since he’d driven this route. Three endless months he’d spent recovering from bullet wounds at the home of his best friend and former partner, Ethan Knight. Mitch felt he shouldn’t have intruded as long as he had. Ethan and Regan were newlyweds. They already had their hands full caring for the quadruplets Ethan had rescued from an abusive home. The bastard who’d knocked those defenseless babies around was also responsible for firing three slugs into Mitch. Three slugs that had caused nerve damage in his leg and left him with a limp.

That wasn’t why he’d stuck around longer than he should have, all the while allowing a neighbor to care for his stock. It had just seemed easier than coming home, facing a life that was in shambles.

His odd melancholy tonight had little to do with his injury—which wasn’t his first. He’d survived being knifed in the stomach a few years back when he’d gone in alone on a domestic dispute call. His staying at Ethan’s wasn’t connected to the doc’s news that he’d be left with a permanent disability. Mitch had dealt with that early on. Almost immediately after waking from the extensive surgery, he’d made up his mind to resign from the force. To expand his horse herd. Although he’d told Ethan he might take a few private investigative jobs on the side. Just until his ranch stood on its own.

When Ethan and Regan tied the knot in his hospital room, Mitch thought his own future looked, if not bright, okay. He owned and leased enough land to raise horses, had a serviceable home and loyal friends—including a woman he was pretty crazy about. Amy Knight, Ethan’s youngest sister.

Hell, he knew Amy didn’t feel the same about him. She flaunted the fact that she’d been dating Desert City’s prissy-faced, wonder-boy district attorney. Deep down, though, Mitch had assumed Amy would come to her senses. She hadn’t. Instead, she’d eloped with the jerk D.A. while Mitch was recovering. He’d never admit to anyone on the force how much Amy’s defection hurt. Especially not to Ethan. To Ethan and their fellow cops, Mitch represented the consummate swinging bachelor. In truth, Amy’s marriage had ripped the heart out of him. For the first time in his thirty-five years, Mitch questioned life’s purpose.

Oh, he knew his friends had seen a change in him and were worried about his moodiness. Because of that the Knights had insisted he stay on, and he’d hung around several weeks beyond when he probably should’ve bid the newlyweds farewell. Ethan had gone back to work right away, and Regan’s at-home social work private practice was taking off. The quads, two boys and two girls, cute little tykes, would probably miss him the most. Already he missed them. Darn, but those rascals had gotten under his skin. Wouldn’t the cops who gathered at Flo’s Café to eat and shoot the breeze get a walloping laugh if they ever found out he envied them their families?

Mitch snorted inelegantly and contemplated how that image contrasted with his life. Man, maybe he should’ve stopped at Flo’s before coming home tonight. Guys and gals from the precinct tended to hang out there between shifts. He probably just needed to get back in the swing of things.

The very thought lifted his spirits. “Shoot, how can a man feel down when he’s lucky enough to be behind the steering wheel of a sweet baby-blue fully restored ’68 Corvette?” Grinning foolishly, Mitch caressed the steering wheel. He nearly missed the flash of his headlights off metal ahead.

Chrome. Damned if there wasn’t a car without running lights parked in his lane. He’d worked too many drug busts to shrug off the significance of a car traveling without lights after dark. And this one was moving. Mitch could hear the sound of the other car’s engine, too. It was plain the driver didn’t have a hankering to stick around.

Mitch’s headlights barely pierced the swirl of dust kicked up by the fast-departing car. Mitch tried to make out its type, but as he peered out his windshield, he plunged into a curve in the lane.

Pressing on his gas pedal, Mitch was determined to read the license plate before the car reached his turnaround and came back at him with lights on bright. Only reactions long-honed by his police training saved him from plowing into something sitting in the road—a small suitcase. He braked and swerved.

Once he’d squealed to a stop, Mitch sat there a moment, sweat beading on his brow, his teeth clamped tight to stave off the pain he’d brought to his bad leg. Fighting off a wave of dizziness, he backed the hell up fast and scrambled to locate his cell phone.

Cursing, he watched the other car disappear and decided to relinquish the chase. Instead, he punched in the number of the precinct’s bomb squad. Why else would someone drop a suitcase on a private rural road at night? Especially as the drop coincided with an ex-cop’s arrival… If Mitch didn’t know for certain that the crazy who’d shot him was locked up tight, he might think Tony DeSalvo had come back to finish the job.

DeSalvo wasn’t the only creep he’d ticked off in his career, though. Just the latest. Tony was still safely put away—Mitch verified that first. He had no clue who’d left him a hot calling card, but he would damn sure find out as soon as the sucker discovered this road dead-ended.

“What the hell?” Mitch saw headlights bobbing across his west pasture. He slid out of the Vette, wincing at the stabbing pain in his left leg. Hands on hips, he watched the fleeing car slow midway in its run to intercept the 181 cutoff. Probably waiting to see him blown to smithereens.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he muttered darkly as the distant vehicle sped up again. He ought to notify the county sheriff, whose territory was intersected by Highway 181, but Mitch knew they couldn’t respond in time. The perpetrator could turn north and lose himself in Tucson’s winter-visitor traffic, or turn south and cross the border into Mexico at Agua Prieta. Either way, they’d shake a tail. So rather than give futile chase, he’d be better off seeing if his old department’s bomb squad could lift any prints from the suitcase. It shouldn’t be hard with the new computer system to cross-match prints to any of the bad guys he’d helped put away during his six years on the force.

It took fifteen minutes for his former co-workers to show up. Mack Rich and Pete Haslett wore gear that made them look as if they were headed to the moon. They seemed particularly eerie in the hazy spotlights they trained on the item in the lane.

“Wow, cowboy,” quipped a third member of the team. “You really know how to throw a homecoming. Since it could get hotter than your standard college bon-fire around here, I suggest you move that classic car before it gets torched, ruining your day and mine.”

Mitch, long used to being tagged “the Italian cowboy” by his comrades at the station, complied without taking issue with their friendly taunts.

“No audible ticking,” shouted the dough boy closest to the suitcase. “Could be she’s set to explode the minute anyone lifts her. Let’s give the case a shot with the X-ray camera to see the setup inside.” He turned to Mitch. “You said you saw a car drop the suitcase and leave the scene? Did you get a plate and a make?”

Mitch stood well back from the others while they readied a boom attached to a portable X-ray unit in the bomb van. “I saw a car,” he said with a grimace. “It was already in motion. I swerved to avoid the bag and missed getting details. I figured something was fishy. The car ran without lights and didn’t turn around at my ranch where the road ends. The driver took out across the field. Had to have torn out a section of my fence.”

“Doesn’t sound good, buddy. On the other hand, the X ray doesn’t show any wiring in the case. One metal object, and it’s not in the center as I’d expect to see with a bomb device. See, it’s off to the right. Looks like some kind of…vase.”

“A vase?” Mitch’s breath whooshed out in disgust. “Damn, who would’ve believed that? Sorry I called you out on a wild-goose chase. Shall I go ahead and open it?”

“Not yet.” Pete dragged him away. “Mack will pick it up with a grapple, drop it in a padded container and I’ll douse it with cryogenic foam. A layer of supercold compound will freeze any components if they’re assembled in that pretty little bottle just to throw us off,” he added by way of explanation. “The vase could be made of lead.”

Mitch nodded. He leaned against his car to ease the pain radiating from his left hip while he watched the process unfold.

“Now!” one of the squad members called. “Pop the lock and see what we have. You want the honor, Valetti?”

“Sure.” Mitch limped forward and accepted the tool they handed him to pick the lock. The suitcase lid sprang open, revealing a stiff quilt. The officers’ flashlights glinted off ice crystals beaded on appliqués of yellow ducks, pink cats, green elephants and blue dogs. A frilly, tiny pink dress and bonnet lay folded neatly next to the quilt. Tucked in one corner was a silver bottle with an ornate stopper.

“It’s an urn,” murmured Lori Peck, the only female member of team.

“What?” Mitch raised his eyes and squinted at her through the ring of bright floodlights.

“Ashes,” she said more clearly, as if the men were dense. “What we’ve attacked and put through the wringer is nothing more than a suitcase filled with somebody’s memories.”

Mitch knelt, ignoring what it cost him in added pain. “Sad memories,” he said, hesitantly using the tongs he’d been handed to lift the urn.

Light from Pete’s torch reflected off a raised teddy bear on one side of the vessel.

Mitch felt his heart lurch. “It says Our Beloved Katie,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Below that is a single date, 11-18-00.” He set the silver vase almost reverently back on the quilt. Rising awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “A baby girl. She must have died at birth.” Mitch fought against his heart turning inside out over a kid he’d never even known.

“Odd thing to leave sitting in the middle of a country road,” Mack said. Turning away, he began to stow their gear.

The female cop retrieved an evidence bag from the front of the truck. After donning plastic gloves, she started to close the suitcase and slide it into the bag.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Mitch demanded.

“Bagging the evidence,” she returned shortly. “It’s creepy. A crime that goes beyond malicious mischief.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head vigorously. “What crime has been committed? Whoever packed that case cared about these things. I’m not going to let you toss them into the evidence room like so much garbage.”

Mack shot out a hand and gripped Mitch’s arm. “You said the car took off like a bat out of hell, no lights. Granted, that’s not a criminal act in itself. But you’ve got to admit it’s suspicious.”

“Did you ever think the owner meant for someone to find this stuff? What if baby Katie’s mother is being dragged around in that car against her will?”

“You mean, like kidnapped?” Lori asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll grant you it sounds off the wall.” Mitch brushed a thumb back and forth over his lower lip. “All I know is these are…they aren’t… Hell, it’s clear Katie is somebody’s baby.”

“Well, duh!” was Pete’s helpful response.

Ignoring him, Mitch didn’t budge. “Leave the case, please. I’ve got time to look into this. I’ll do my level best to find out who left it here and why.”

His friends from the force glanced from one to the other until at last all had shrugged. Lori shoved a clipboard with an evidence release form into Mitch’s hands. “Sign for it here. If the chief has a problem with this after we file our report, he’ll let you know.”

Pete tried again to dissuade Mitch. “If it was me, Valetti, I’d forget the whole deal. What kind of person carries stuff like this around in a suitcase?”

“Somebody off their rocker,” Mack supplied.

“Or someone in big trouble.” Mitch scrawled his name on the form. “I’ll place an ad in tomorrow’s paper. I had my phone turned off, but I’ve got my cellular. That’s probably the most I’ll have to do to solve this mystery.”

The others just shook their heads. After telling Mitch not to be a stranger around the station, they said goodbye and backed out to the perimeter highway.

Mitch stowed the suitcase in his trunk. When he arrived home, he saw he’d been right about the section of fence being knocked down. Clearly someone had seen his car coming down the road, panicked and hightailed it off his property.

As he unlocked the front door, juggling his odd collection of objects, he worried that maybe Pete was right. Maybe he should hand the suitcase over as evidence and forget the whole thing.

But when he set the small valise on his coffee table and examined its heart-stopping contents, the haunting connection he’d felt earlier only grew stronger. Placing the urn on his mantel, he gazed at it for a long time. In the end, he renewed his vow to find its owner.

Before retiring, Mitch sat and chewed on the end of a pencil while he composed an ad to run in the local paper. Tomorrow was Thursday. He’d run it through Sunday, he decided, and when he shed his clothing and climbed into bed, his life again seemed to have purpose.

GILLIAN DROVE onto the asphalt highway with a bump and thump. She turned south without hesitation. An hour later, faced with showing false ID to cross the border, or hunting up a passable motel in the dusty border town on U.S. soil, she chose to stop short of Mexico. She had to hold on to some scruples.

Seeking the least accessible motel, she rented an end unit, the one farthest from the cobbled motel entry. It was a relief to find the room clean. Hidden parking in the rear was a big plus. The rent, cheaper by the week, fit her budget, too. It occurred to Gillian as she went out to get her bags that she’d already begun to think like a fugitive.

In a week she ought to be able to alter her appearance enough to fool the men chasing her. She’d have to dump this car. With luck, she might be able to sell it to a private party and buy another in a different town. That’s what crooks in movies did.

Tonight she was too exhausted to plan beyond that. The money Daryl had left in the glove box along with her phony ID wouldn’t last forever. Eventually she’d have to find a job. She’d face that ordeal later—if she made it through the week she’d paid for in advance.

Gillian refused to dwell on the fact she was probably a wanted person in New Orleans and Flagstaff. Before she ditched this car, she’d go over it inch by inch, searching every nook and cranny again. Daryl had e-mailed Patrick Malone, saying that when Gillian arrived she’d have in her possession a key. To open what, Daryl hadn’t said. He hinted that he’d hidden a notebook with enough lethal information to expose a huge money-laundering operation. He also indicated to Malone that he suspected they were on to him. Daryl had promised to contact Patrick later via a different source. He’d never had the opportunity.

She and Malone had failed to turn up a key. Now Daryl was dead, and probably Patrick, too. She would be next if she didn’t unearth what Daryl had put in safekeeping. Gillian knew him too well to think he’d forgotten to put the key in her belongings. But where? Could it be so small it’d fallen out in the police parking lot and they’d missed it?

Her brain numb, Gillian pawed through the car’s trunk looking for the smaller of her two cases. Had it slipped behind the tire? “It’s not here!” she cried. “Where is it?” In spite of the late hour, and her questionable surroundings, Gillian removed everything from the trunk. The small case wasn’t there.

Her stomach heaved. Tears coursed down her cheeks. That case contained all she had left in the world that was dear to her.

Last Monday, she’d been nothing but confused when Daryl awakened her, babbling. She’d watched as, in a frenzy, he packed the small case and a larger one. The night was still blurred in her mind. For too long, she’d been an emotional wreck—a decline that had begun when she’d first broached the idea of starting a family. Daryl resisted. Said he wanted to wait. Until his CPA firm was more secure. Until they had more money in the bank. Until she could sell her flower shop and stay home full-time. Silly reasons, she’d thought.

So she had defied Daryl, stopped her birth control pills and gotten pregnant almost overnight. That definitely strained an already strained relationship. In hindsight, she wished she could go back and change everything.

Especially the part where something went horribly wrong in the last month of her pregnancy, resulting in the stillbirth of her long-awaited daughter. The rift widened between her and Daryl because after the autopsy, while she was heavily sedated in the hospital, he’d unilaterally arranged for baby Katie’s cremation. Oh, he attempted to explain. Families who’d lived in New Orleans for generations had access to above-ground burial vaults. Others, like them, had limited choices. He’d done what he believed was best, he’d told her.

For weeks, Gillian had wept. Weeks turned into months during which she couldn’t eat, sleep or work. Daryl did the opposite. He rarely came home from the office. And so after six months of that, they’d split, bound only by their joint partnership in Daryl’s firm. Maybe if she’d been a more active partner…if she hadn’t sunk into emotional oblivion, perhaps she wouldn’t be here four months after their separation, with both Daryl and Katie gone. Gone!

Suddenly she knew exactly what had happened—where she’d lost the suitcase. The place where she’d changed the tire. She entertained the idea of going back. What if the thugs were, even now, waiting in the trees? As desperately as she longed to retrieve the case, self-preservation dictated she wait.

Exhausted, Gillian dragged herself inside, stripped off her dirty clothes and fell into bed. Her agenda had just taken a new turn. She wouldn’t rest until the thugs who’d killed Daryl were brought to justice. And they’d better know she would go to any lengths to rescue Katie’s ashes.

CHAPTER TWO

GILLIAN STOOD in the cramped office off the kitchen of Flo’s Café. She’d come to speak with the café’s owner, Florence Carter, about a waitress position listed in a current edition of the Desert City News. It was the first newspaper Gillian had bought since departing New Orleans, although she’d followed the TV news and was relieved there’d been no mention of Daryl’s or Officer Malone’s murders. Her objective in buying this paper had been for the employment ads. Desert City was the closest town of any size to the back road where she’d lost her suitcase.

This morning, when she dressed to go on interviews, Gillian had barely recognized herself in the mirror. Little by little over an extra week spent in her border hideout, she’d pulled together a disguise of sorts. The most dramatic change in her appearance came about after she’d ruthlessly cropped and colored her shoulder-length blond hair, leaving a bob of coppery red curls.

As well, she’d transacted a satisfactory car exchange, buying another used car. However, because the new car had taken most of her cash reserves, she was now almost broke.

Flo Carter, a cheery, round woman, studied Gillian with curious hazel eyes. “Why did you answer my ad? There were at least two other waitress jobs posted yesterday for yuppie-style restaurants where you’d earn higher tips.”

Gillian didn’t want to say those places all had bars where creeps from New Orleans might go to drink and eat. She’d checked them first. It would be self-defeating to admit Flo’s Café was last on her list. Or that the one other place she’d applied had demanded references she couldn’t produce.

“According to your ad, you provide uniforms and you pay weekly. Did I mention I was divorced? The truth is—” she hesitated marginally while deliberating how much to reveal “—I left home and this is where my money ran out.” Best to stick as close to her real story as possible, Gillian decided.

“I’m sorry, honey. Enough said.” Flo patted Gillian’s arm. “Frankly, you look like you could use a few good meals, too. The job’s yours. Minimum wage plus tips, a uniform and two meals a day if you work two shifts. Tracy, my brother’s niece, left me high and dry. Kid up and moved to San Diego with her boyfriend. I nearly killed myself over the weekend. I’m flat getting too old to wait tables from opening to closing. When can you start?”

“Anytime. Today, if you’d like.” A weight lifted from Gillian’s shoulders. “I have a small apartment three blocks east of here.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the furnished place she’d moved into yesterday. It wasn’t much.

“Saguaro Arms, right? A brick building behind the police station?”

“That describes it.” Gillian didn’t know if she’d made a wise choice or not. On one hand, she figured the men who were after her wouldn’t want to be noticed by the local police. On the other, she didn’t know how vigorously the police in Flagstaff and New Orleans were trying to find her. Surely she was wanted for questioning, at least.

“I hope you’re comfortable around cops,” Flo said. “They make up half our clientele. A great bunch, but demanding customers. They want coffee on the table the minute they sit down. They need their orders quick in case they get a call.”

Flo opened a cupboard and took out a pink uniform still in its plastic laundry bag. “You’re skinnier than Tracy, but this has an adjustable belt. The bathroom’s down the hall. How fast can you change? First crew from the precinct breaks at ten.” She glanced down at Gillian’s feet. “I’m glad to see you’re wearing sensible shoes. Next time we catch our breath is nigh on 2:00 p.m.”

“I’m stronger than you might think,” Gillian said, reaching for the door knob. She hoped that was true. Normally she’d be in great shape from handling crates of flowers at the shop she’d once owned. That had been a while ago.

“You’ll get a complete workout before the end of the day. I’ll spell you for breaks and meals. Otherwise, I sling hash onto plates while my husband, Bert, cooks. You okay with working a shift before we fill out employment papers?”

“Sure. Okay.” Gillian looked over her shoulder. “Is there someplace I can leave my street clothes and purse?”

Flo scooped things out of a drawer in the bottom of her cluttered desk. “Tracy left all this junk. She was big on running in to apply makeup every ten minutes.”

Gillian uttered a genuine laugh. “I won’t do that, Mrs. Carter. What you see right here is what you get.”

“Call me Flo.” She examined Gillian again. “Cops flirt a lot. They’ll like what they see in you. You sure you’ve waited tables before? I’d have pegged you for one of them fashion models.”

“No way. I prefer anonymity.” This time Gillian’s laughter held a nervous edge. She’d waited tables during high school and college. And she’d never been comfortable with the way a lot of male customers felt they had every right to flirt with women servers. She used to have a knack for discouraging that sort, and hoped she still did.

When she’d donned her uniform, Flo introduced her to Bert. Unlike most cooks Gillian had ever met, Bert was rail-thin. He was also bald as a cucumber.

“Bert learned to cook in the Air Force,” Flo said after introductions were complete. “As we moved around, I began waiting tables for the NCO clubs on base. Buying this café once Bert retired seemed a logical way to pool our talents and get our kids through college.”

“How many children do you have?” Gillian asked.

“Two of our own. Off and on we’ve raised a slug of foster kids. One of the cops who comes in here convinced us to open our home to teens who need a healthier environment than what they have.”

“How can you bear to let them go again? Doesn’t it tear your heart out?”

Flo shrugged. “We provide a clean bed, good meals and a shoulder to cry on. Or in some cases an open ear. Sometimes that’s all they require to get them through a rough patch. You obviously don’t have kids, or you’d have requested to work shifts around school or daycare hours.”

Swallowing hard, Gillian gave a shake of her head. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about Katie. Twice yesterday she’d driven past the lane where she’d left the suitcase. Once, a vehicle directly in front of her entered it first. Not the blue car she was trying to avoid, but a big pickup. During a second pass-by, she noticed a man herding cattle in a nearby field. Tonight, after work, Gillian intended to go back under the cover of darkness.

Flo gave Gillian’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Now, don’t go fretting over your divorce. You’re still young enough to make plenty of babies. You have to concentrate on finding a good man to father them.”

“A man of any kind is the last thing I want. Shouldn’t I concentrate on hitting the floor running? Do I have everything? Pencil.” Gillian pulled two out of her uniform pocket. “Order pad? A smile.” She hauled in a deep breath. “Well, here goes.” Waving, she disappeared through the swinging doors.

Within two hours, Gillian discovered how out of shape she was. Luckily the technique for keeping orders straight came back to her before the large lunch crowd arrived. Good thing she’d had that experience, even if it was ten years ago, she mused, plopping down ketchup and mustard at a table of boisterous men.

Three at the table wore police uniforms; a fourth had on street clothing but was undoubtedly a cop. He indicated that they were waiting for someone who’d just entered. Gillian had already noticed that man the minute he walked in. Sauntered was more like it, in spite of a pronounced limp. Gosh, she hoped he wasn’t offended by her lengthy stare. It wasn’t his limp that drew her attention but his attire. He wore dusty cowboy boots, worn blue jeans, a body-hugging denim shirt and a Stetson set rakishly on his head.

Gillian had never seen a real cowboy in her life, and he was an eyeful. He seemed to be friendly with all the cops in the room. It took him a long time to reach his table because he stopped to talk with occupants at practically every booth along the way. So many people piped up to yell, “Hey there, Mitch, how you doing?” Gillian couldn’t help but learn his first name. Especially as she waited impatiently to add his order to those of his pals.

The name suited him. Mitch was a strong moniker. He certainly appeared commanding in spite of his limp. What had caused it? she wondered. Probably a fall from a horse.

Gillian felt herself blush as he turned, caught her still staring and tipped his hat. Hastily averting her gaze, she sorted menus to pass around at an adjacent table full of men wearing business suits. “I’ll be right back,” she told the group awaiting the cowboy, and dashed off to draw glasses of water for the businessmen.

The cowboy needed a haircut, Gillian decided after he finally removed his hat and reached for a chair. A haircut was pretty much all he lacked, though. He had dark-lashed coffee-colored eyes and a ready grin that creased lean, tanned cheeks. In her estimation, he possessed more sex appeal than all the other men at his table put together. Except, perhaps for the other man not wearing a uniform. Mitch greeted him effusively, calling him Ethan, as he spun a chair around across from the plainclothes cop and straddled it. So did that mean the cowboy was a cop, too?

At first Gillian thought they were brothers who hadn’t seen each other for a while. She nixed that idea based on snatches of conversation overheard on various trips past their table. Ethan, she saw, sported a shiny gold wedding band. Brand-new, she’d bet, mostly because he mumbled thanks but didn’t so much as lift his eyes whenever she brought something to the table. By contrast, his cowboy pal tracked her every move—to the point that Gillian found herself fumbling dishes. It occurred to her with a sudden start that maybe he’d seen her picture on a handbill. The fear galloping through her nearly made her drop a full tray.

“Ma’am,” said a gravelly voice at her elbow. “You’re obviously new to Flo’s. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want you to be totin’ more than you can carry.”

How he—Mitch—managed to check out her every curve while he steadied her tray, Gillian didn’t know. She just knew there wasn’t a wrinkle in her uniform he missed with those lancing brown eyes.

“This is my first day here,” she said quietly. “While I appreciate your concern, if you don’t let go and sit down, you’ll make it look like I’m incapable of managing the job I was hired for.”

Cops seated around the room watched the byplay openly. Few tried to mask their amused expressions. Finally, one round-faced rookie, whose wire-rimmed glasses constantly slipped down his nose, chortled. “Wouldn’t you know it, Flo gets a pretty new waitress to replace Tracy, and it just happens to be the first day Valetti shows up in town. I swear, he has radar when it comes to sniffing out gorgeous, single babes.”

Gillian jerked away quickly and finished unloading the tray. She smacked one of the noon-time specials down in front of the loudmouthed kid. “Married or single, I’m not on the menu here.”

Turning to reclaim her tray, she realized Mitch’s interested gaze had slipped to her ring finger.

“Order up,” yelled Flo, pausing to slide several plates under the warming light. “Jeez, fellas, meet Gillian Stevens, okay? She’s new in town as well as on the job. Show a few manners. You’re Desert City’s finest. I’ll be in a very bad mood if you macho lamebrains scare her off.”

The young cop immediately bent to his food. Mitch rolled his eyes, but he immediately released her tray and backed off—although not so far that Gillian didn’t have to brush against him as she squeezed between the tables.

Mitch felt the waitress’s annoyance. Smiling to himself, he sat across from Ethan again.

Ethan Knight leaned back in his chair. His narrowed gaze rose to the exact level of Gillian’s swishing hips. “Down, boy,” he muttered.

“Wha-a-at?” Mitch drawled, pretending interest in blowing on his hot coffee. “So what if I have a weakness for sassy redheads?”

The uniformed cop seated opposite Mitch broke into the conversation. “Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes and every shade in between. Isn’t that why Amy threw you over for the D.A.? I heard she didn’t like the odds.”

Mitch bunched his napkin, his expression shutting down.

Leaning close, Ethan murmured, “Regan said you took my sister’s elopement hard. I’m sorry. Guess I missed how you really felt. So, if you’re ready to be fixed up with somebody nice, I’ll tell Regan. No reason to take chances on a perfect stranger.”

“Listen, Buttinski, I can still rustle up my own dates. And I believe I’ll have my second cup of java at the counter.” Mitch stood up. Carrying his cup, he limped to the counter, where he reached for the pot and helped himself to a refill.

Ethan made it a point from then on to study the new waitress. Until his contingent of friends came over and one of them nudged him out of his stupor. Trailing after his pals, Ethan paused behind Mitch’s stool. “Regan’s planning to make sour cream enchiladas Friday night. Why not come on over? We’ll invite a fourth, and after we eat and get the kids to bed, we’ll play a few hands of poker.”

“You’re being a little obvious, Ethan. Thanks, but no. You and your bride saw too much of my ugly face over the past three months.” Mitch realized both he and Ethan had zeroed in on Gillian Stevens as she lifted three hot plates off the warming counter. “Two bits says, with that long lean body, she’s a jogger,” Mitch said thoughtfully. “You know, the doc recommended I stretch the muscles in my injured leg.”

Ethan scowled. “So make an appointment with Gil Peterson, the precinct’s physical therapist.”

Mitch flashed Ethan a wicked grin. “Gil puts me in mind of a sumo wrestler. Besides, my man, if I remember right, you hauled your ass out of bed at the crack of dawn to chase Regan around a few tracks. And you don’t even like exercise.”

Mitch had him there. Ethan said something indistinct and undoubtedly rude. Before stomping off, he announced that there were plenty of single women in town who were dying to go out with Mitch. Wearing a thunderous expression, Ethan joined the men waiting for him outside the café.

Gillian watched the drama with half an eye. She wished the plainclothes cop, Ethan, had succeeded in talking his pal at the counter into leaving. Her heart did a funny jig once it became evident that Mitch Valetti wasn’t going to budge. She told herself it was first-day job jitters. She wasn’t attractive enough to draw more than a passing glance from a man like Mitch Valetti. She was too tall. Too thin. Her chin was too pointy and her mouth too wide. Her eyes weren’t even an exciting color. Blue was blue was blue. So what gave her the idea he’d stuck around because of her?

Gillian managed to stay convinced that he hadn’t until the lunch traffic waned enough to slow her hectic pace. He was still there. And he snagged her arm as she darted past.

“Hey, Flo,” Mitch called, hunching to peer into the kitchen via the pass-through. “Isn’t there a state rule requiring employees to take regular breaks? Appears to me that Gillian, here, is overdue.”

Flo stuck her head out around the kitchen door. “Gilly-girl. Climb up there on the stool next to Mitch and take a load off. I said earlier you’ve got to eat. What’ll it be? Bert’s special is chicken-fried steak. But, shoot, you’d know that. You’ve served a gazillion plates of the stuff so far.”

Gillian would have rather sat anywhere than beside Mitch Valetti. Unfortunately, a mob of high schoolers bounded in at that moment, filling the remaining empty seats at the counter. “Uh, Flo. I’ll just take these kids’ orders first. I can eat later. A dinner salad will do me, if you want to set one aside. The house dressing looked good.”

Flo came all the way out of the kitchen. She fanned a ruddy face with the tail of her apron. “All that bunch of twerps ever order are french fries and Cokes. I’ll handle ’em. You eat.”

“Skinny as you are,” Mitch observed, “you ought to eat something more substantial than a damned salad.” He rounded on Gillian. “You’re not anorexic or anything, are you?”

She felt her jaw slacken and snapped her mouth closed. “Are you always so free and personal with someone you haven’t even met?”

“We met. Flo introduced you earlier.” Mitch stuck out his hand and grasped hers gently. “I’m Mitch Valetti. Detective. Er…former detective.” He acted flustered, quickly releasing her hand to curl his wide palms around his coffee mug instead. “Guess you could say I’m a rancher now.”

“I’m sure there’s a story somewhere in that statement.” Allowing a reluctant smile along with a small sigh of capitulation, Gillian slid onto the end stool. “A detective turned rancher has the makings of an intriguing book.”

“Are you a starving writer, then?”

She shook her head. “Gee, I thought I was a bona fide waitress.”

Grinning, Mitch took another swig before setting his mug back on the counter. “Touché. I deserved that. You’re a good waitress. At least, you managed Flo’s lunch crowd better than her niece, Tracy, ever did. Say, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” Gillian said, glancing up as Flo placed a huge taco salad in front of her. “Hey, this isn’t what I ordered.” Frowning, she dragged her fork through the mountain of lettuce, black beans, olives, avocado, chicken and grated cheese heaped inside a crisp tortilla shell. She’d never be able to eat even a quarter of this.

“Are you allergic to any of that stuff?” Mitch enquired.

Gillian’s frown deepened. “No. Not that I know of.”

“Then stop complaining and chow down. I guarantee Bert makes the tastiest taco salads in town. Add a generous splash of his homemade salsa and you’ve got a lip-smacking meal.”

“So now you’re a detective turned rancher turned restaurant reviewer?” As she spoke, Gillian brought a forkful of the concoction to her mouth.

“You gotta forgive this guy,” Flo said, scooting past them again, hands laden with steaming platters of french fries. “He’s still recovering from an on-the-job injury. Must be the medicine making him act so smart-aleck. He’s never been shy, but usually his mouth is connected to his brain.”

“Oh? A head injury, was it?” Gillian didn’t know what had gotten into her. She rarely teased people she knew well; being sarcastic to a stranger was unthinkable. Especially since she was trying to keep a low profile.

Mitch and Flo found her remark amusing. Flo broke off laughing first. “At last, Valetti. A woman who can toss back all the baloney you dish out. I hope you cultivate her acquaintance. I’ve always said you flit from date to date because the ladies you ask out bore you to death within a week.”

Tilting his head, Mitch stared at Gillian so long she choked on a slice of olive. An infusion of heat seeped up her neck and across her cool cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was rude of me. I don’t know you well enough to crack jokes about your injury.”

“I’d like to get to know you better,” he said, gazing directly into her eyes.

Excitement fluttered in her stomach before tightening into a coil of apprehension. Gillian hadn’t fielded a pass in so long she’d forgotten how to extricate herself gracefully. She wasn’t sure what words to use. “Look,” she said at last. “I’m, uh, sure you’re sincere. And nice. But I, ah, have been married before.” It was lame, but the first thing that popped into her head.

Mitch stiffened visibly. “Bitter divorce?”

“No. A relief.” Gillian responded more honestly than she’d intended.

“Then what’s the problem? I’m more than willing to keep things simple.”

As Gillian scrabbled for a comeback that would end his pursuit, the door opened and a petite blonde dressed in a police uniform walked in. “Mitch. Hi!” Beaming, she waved and looked as pleased as a cat who’d found a fat goldfish. “Ethan said I’d probably catch you here. He told me you might be taking on some private investigative work. I have something that may strike your fancy if you’ve got some free time. My sister Lori said you could be busy—that you had a strange case fall right in your lap.”

“It’s not really a case,” Mitch admitted, casting Gillian a quick apology with his eyes. “I posted an ad in the paper for a week, but only one person responded. A sicko, at that. So, what’ve you got, and what does it pay? My pension covers my bills. But if I want to increase my herd, I need extra cash.”

The woman took Gillian’s measure. “You’re involved at the moment,” she said to Mitch. “My case is confidential. I’ll be at the station if you want to swing by later. Or come to Lori’s house tonight. I’ll fix dinner and we can talk. Lori has a class at the college, so we won’t be disturbed.”

Mitch rubbed his neck. Christy Peck-Jones was a good cop. She was also separated, not divorced, from a bad-tempered husband. Tangling with Royce Jones was the last thing Mitch needed or wanted. While Christy had indicated her interest in him more than once, she didn’t ring any bells for Mitch. Even if he was attracted to her, he’d never act on it unless she was free. Some guys on the force didn’t have much integrity when it came to honoring their wedding vows or those of women cops they worked with. They found it easy to blame their betrayals on an excess of adrenaline from being thrown together in life-and-death situations. Mitch had met death face-to-face, twice. Both experiences had only served to solidify his values. This last time, he really thought he’d bought the farm.

Which could be why he felt an uncustomary urgency to meet the right woman. He’d been given a new lease on life. Now he’d like kids and even grandkids. The next time he met his maker, he wanted to look back and see that he’d accomplished something worthwhile. Men ought to have a legacy to leave behind.

“My lunch break is over. I’m going to the kitchen to box this to take home. Please, don’t let me keep you from exploring a potential job offer.” Sliding off the stool, Gillian whisked away her plate and utensils.

She flat-out disappeared before Mitch could press harder for a first date. Not altogether surprising. She’d made her reservations clear. And with all the crime against women he’d seen while working the streets, he couldn’t really blame her. What did she know about him? Nothing. But if she stuck around town, he’d have a chance to ask her out again. If she moved on— Oh, well, she wasn’t what he was looking for anyway.

Exactly what is that, Valetti? And when did you start picking up strangers? Confused by the questions, Mitch attempted to push her out of his mind.

He crossed slowly to Christy’s table. As he settled in the chair farthest from her, Mitch recalled Ethan experiencing a similar bewilderment the day he met Regan, whom he later married. Mitch couldn’t say why, but when he exchanged banter with Gillian Stevens, he felt a lot like his former partner had looked back then—like an alley-cat standing hip-deep in fresh cream.

Gillian walked back into the room. From the erratic way Mitch’s heart flip-flopped, he knew he’d definitely be making a second trip to town. Possibly even a third and fourth…

CHAPTER THREE

PREPARED TO RESUME her duties, Gillian noticed that Flo had delivered the last plates of french fries to the kids, and stopped on her way back to take the order from Mitch’s lady friend. Uncertain why she didn’t want to wait on them, Gillian nevertheless recognized her reaction as one of profound relief.

Late lunch-goers from the police station and other area businesses converged on the café. The flurry of activity served to take Gillian’s mind off the couple in the corner, whose pale and dark heads drew closer together as time wore on. The fact that she kept an eye on them at all annoyed her. The very last complication she needed, considering her own plight, would be to develop a thing for a cop.

“Ex-cop,” she muttered under her breath as she tore three order sheets off her pad and tucked them under clips that she spun toward Bert. He glanced up and grinned.

“Your first day and already you’re talking to yourself? Bad sign, Gillian.”

“Sorry. Talking to myself is an old habit. I’m enjoying the job. Truly.”

“Hey, I believe you.” Still smiling, he handed her two steaming platters.

Her need to define Mitch as an ex-cop irritated Gillian even more than being caught talking to herself. Why couldn’t she forget him altogether?

Apparently putting him out of her mind wasn’t going to be simple, she realized, all the while deriving immense satisfaction from watching him walk out some twenty minutes later, leaving the lady cop to finish her lunch alone.

It fell to Gillian to collect Christy Jones’s plate, though, and ask if she wanted anything else.

“I want Mitch Valetti,” the blonde stated boldly, drilling Gillian with arctic-blue eyes.

Maybe blue wasn’t blue wasn’t blue, Gillian thought, recoiling from the hostility aimed her way. In marked contrast, she tried for a guileless expression. “Sorry, ma’am, he’s not on our menu.” She made a joke of the same phrase she’d used earlier, that time referring to herself. When it became apparent that her joke had only irritated the other woman, she fervently wished she’d kept her comment to herself.

“Don’t play naive,” the cop snapped, pausing to count out exact change for her meal. “I know every officer on this beat. Any one of them could make it tough on you in a million small ways. For instance, someone whispers a word in the ear of a restaurant inspector. Maybe you don’t wash your hands after trips to the john. There are dozens of possible infractions—even leaving plates under the warming light too long. A few reprimands, and Bert and Flo can’t afford to keep you on.”

Climbing nimbly to her feet, the speaker shifted her heavy leather belt in a manner calculated to draw Gillian’s attention to the tools of her trade. She obviously thought they gave her stature above a mere waitress, even though Gillian stood head and shoulders above her.

A chill not caused by the lazily churning overhead fan marched rows of goose bumps up Gillian’s bare arms. She reined in her temper and said nothing at all in response to the policewoman’s veiled threats. After all, the woman had no idea how much trouble she could cause Gillian. Because if Christy Jones had the slightest inkling, Gillian didn’t doubt for one minute that she’d be hauled in for questioning wearing those impressive silver handcuffs.

Using more force than necessary, Gillian scrubbed the table clean. Twice she fumbled and dropped the coins she tried to sweep off the table onto a tray.

Flo motioned her to the pass-through. “Was Christy complaining about her sandwich?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Gillian wrinkled her nose as she turned to dump the money in the till. “Actually, she issued a personal warning for me to stay away from Mitch Valetti. I take it they are or were an item?” Gillian hadn’t meant that to come out as a question; it did of its own accord.

The older woman laughed, then said in a more subdued voice, “See the brawniest of the three motorcycle cops walking in right now? That’s Christy’s husband, Royce Jones.”

Gillian whirled. “Her husband? She’s married?”

“Well,” Flo muttered, “a few months ago I heard she’d moved in with her sister again. It’s happened before. The other times she’s gone back to Royce. I dunno, maybe this time she won’t.” Raising her voice, Flo greeted the trio who stood inside the door surveying the dining area. “There’s space at the counter. Or if you wait a minute, Gilly’s about ready to reset a table that was just vacated.”

“Has Christy been here for lunch?” the man in the middle asked. He stripped off his goggles and gloves and tossed them into a helmet he held hooked under one arm.

Shivering at the mere size of him, Gillian ducked past the trio. She wouldn’t want to meet any of them in a back alley, or out in broad daylight for that matter. Let Flo field the man’s query. Better she avoid any personal contact with cops.

“Just missed her, Royce,” Flo noted cheerfully. “Christy left here no more than five…ten minutes ago.”

“Damn.” The big man, who’d followed Gillian to the table, threw his helmet down on one of the chairs. She jumped a foot straight up at the noise.

“Easy does it.” The shorter of the two men with Royce threw an apologetic glance at Gillian. He elaborated for her benefit. “I called the dispatcher myself to see when Royce’s wife was scheduled to go to lunch. If he’s testy, it’s because Christy’s department thinks it’s clever to play mind games with us. Next time she comes in, tell her he only wants to talk. A man has a right to see his own wife, doesn’t he?”

“I guess that depends.” Gillian pulled her order pad out of her pocket. “Coffee or sodas?” Her voice squeaked. Clearing her throat, she asked if the men knew what they wanted to eat, or if they needed a minute to decide. No one responded. She handed them menus and walked away.

“Hey, Royce,” hollered a uniformed cop getting up from a back booth. “Christy and Valetti sat at that same table while she ate. Cozy as two peas in a pod.”

“Mitch Valetti? Come on, Billings, quit lying. You think I don’t know Valetti got his balls shot off and left the force a couple months ago?”

“No kidding? His balls? Well, he was stove up some. But I’m not lying. If you don’t believe me, ask Red there. She was chatting with him when Christy walked in. Valetti dropped Red like a hot potato and made a beeline for Christy.”

Royce pinned Gillian with angry eyes. “Tell me. Is Don having me on or not?”

Gillian slopped coffee onto the clean table from a pot she’d gone to fetch while the men talked. “I believe, ah, they were discussing business. Are you three ready to order yet?” she asked, nervously sponging away the spill.

“Like hell they were discussing business,” Royce roared, slamming a hamlike fist down on the table. “If Valetti didn’t lose his balls in that shoot-out, he will when I finish with him. Come on, Jeff. Chico. Let’s ride out to Valetti’s place and show him what’s what. I always said he was too free with his pretty-boy smiles.”

The other two men each grabbed one of Royce’s massive arms. “Mitch lives in the county, dude. We don’t have jurisdiction there. You want his balls, you’ll have to wait till the next time he comes to town. Settle down, Royce. Tell the lady what you want to eat.”

Gillian noticed Bert had left the kitchen to stand at the end of the counter. As she scribbled the men’s orders on her pad, she saw him replace the telephone receiver. The notion that he’d been about to call the cops struck her as funny, since at least a dozen from the nearby station sat in the café. Or were they off duty during lunch? She didn’t know that much about how police operated.

A new thought replaced the previous one. Perhaps Bert had intended to notify Valetti. For no reason at all, Gillian felt a stab of sympathy for the injured ex-cop. She hoped he had enough sense to stay put on his ranch. Though whatever happened wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Sheesh. She had troubles of her own. Perhaps that was why she empathized. It was a frightening experience to have brutish men wanting to hurt you.

Except…when push came to shove, how did she know he wasn’t deserving of Royce’s accusations? After all, Mitch had certainly come on to her. Somehow, though, she believed Mitch was blameless. Gillian found herself wondering about him off and on the remainder of the afternoon. Had he really lost his reproductive organs in a senseless shooting? He certainly came across as virile. But she knew men went to great lengths to hide their weaknesses. They hid most of their emotions. As Daryl had when they’d lost Katie.

He gave her no hint that he’d suffered, too. Not until he’d packed the quilt and baby dress she’d sewn, along with Katie’s urn, that night he’d arrived at her apartment. If only he hadn’t waited so long to show some understanding. Maybe they could have talked out their problems. Maybe their marriage wouldn’t have disintegrated.

Gillian dropped a set of silverware she was rolling into napkins to get ready for the dinner crowd. Her fingers shook when she bent to retrieve the utensils for rewashing. Odd that only now did she remember certain details about that night. Portions of the scene flooded back. There’d been urgency in Daryl’s voice and, she thought, a plea for forgiveness. His hands weren’t steady as he packed the smallest case. Yet he’d grown cross when she couldn’t seem to emerge from her mental fog. The sleeping pills left her confused and only half-awake.

Oh, how she wished she could recall every word Daryl had uttered that night. Eventually he’d recognized he wasn’t getting through to her. He’d thrown up his hands and instead of continuing to explain, he wrote down instructions telling her the location of a hidden car.

If he hadn’t stormed out then with the cases and gone straight to place them in the trunk of the hidden vehicle, she wouldn’t have a stitch to her name. Scarcely two hours later, one of his next-door neighbors had phoned to say he was dead. Without the written instructions, she might not have run. It wasn’t hard to imagine how she’d have ended up then.

Another memory appeared. Gillian realized she hadn’t destroyed Daryl’s message. No wonder the thugs were on her trail so fast. She’d left them an engraved invitation. The note gave the location, color, model and make of her getaway car.

Daryl had finally demonstrated that he did care about the baby they’d lost, and Gillian had failed him. Or felt she had. She hadn’t asked the right questions, and worse, she’d lost all that was dear. Tonight, after work, no matter how tired she was, she would search that lane. The worst of the devil’s disciples. That was how she thought of the men who’d killed Daryl and Pat Malone. Surely not even they would be so heartless as to destroy the contents of that suitcase. Those men only wanted a key, and there was no key. Of that Gillian was sure. So what in heaven’s name had Daryl—meticulous, methodical Daryl—done with the blasted thing?

Too exhausted after ending her shift to do more than drag up the stairs to her apartment, Gillian escaped from the issues plaguing her into the pain caused by aching feet.

She’d rented a third-floor apartment for security reasons. Now, having trudged up three flights of stairs leading from the parking garage, she might have considered trading safety for the convenience of living quarters on the first floor. Or an elevator, she thought, falling fully clothed across her bed. There was an ancient elevator at the front entrance, but because the building sat between two streets, it would have taken more energy to walk a block to go in through the front door than it did to climb the back stairs.

A shower turned out to have amazing recuperative powers. Afterward Gillian felt rejuvenated enough to eat one of the three pieces of chicken Flo had insisted she take home along with her leftover taco salad. The chicken looked good. Not a bit greasy, and yet she must not be hungry, after all, she decided, rewrapping it.

In the hour between when she’d left work and when she returned the food to her refrigerator, the sun had almost finished setting. It was merely a glow on the horizon, now. Calculating the distance to the side road where she’d had the flat tire, she figured darkness would arrive before she could drive out there. A perfect time to search the area without being seen.

Well, the owners of the ranch might see her light. But even if they were home, they might not investigate. Gillian remembered entering an S curve to reach the point where the lane dead-ended in front of the house.

Donning black jeans and a charcoal, long-sleeved knit top, Gillian slid her driver’s license into her back pocket. Bless Daryl for packing a pair of sturdy, ankle-high boots. She dug them out of her closet and slipped them on. Next, she purposely left everything but her keys behind. The last concession she made to a disguise was to stuff her short curls under a dark-blue baseball cap.

The trip took just under thirty minutes.

“Darn.” In the gathering darkness, she missed the lane on the first drive by. She had to go an extra mile before she found a spot where she could turn around.

On her second approach, moments before she touched her left-turn blinker, a big blue sedan shot out of a road on her right side. The car careered across the highway, nearly clipping Gillian’s front fender. She slammed on her brakes and watched in horror as the heavier car swayed and almost lost control. The driver gunned his motor, straightened the lumbering vehicle and entered the lane that had been Gillian’s destination.

Her headlights illuminated the reckless driver’s back license plate. Louisiana. “My God, it’s them,” she sobbed aloud. It had to be the thugs who wanted to kill her. They were obviously still hoping to locate her in this area, where they’d lost her three weeks ago.

Her mouth went dry and her muscles tightened. They wouldn’t know this car.

Or would they? Had they tracked her to the border? Was it only a matter of time before they caught her?

Gillian was aware of the exact moment determination edged out her fear. Time was now her enemy. If she had to disappear again, she didn’t intend to run and leave Katie’s ashes to the likes of them.

Coldly she reasoned that if they were still searching these side roads, they probably hadn’t found her suitcase. Shaking, she pulled onto a fire road and parked behind an outcrop of boulders, dousing her lights. If the men were inspecting each byway intersecting the perimeter road, they’d have already searched this one.

Leaving her car, Gillian crouched low and zigzagged across the main road. She counted on blending with the underbrush. It was quite a hike on legs already weary from hustling food orders all day, and now spongy from fear. She stumbled frequently, but dared not risk using her flashlight. Once her eyes adjusted, a bright three-quarter moon allowed her to distinguish solid form from shadows.

Creeping along the fence row, Gillian expected at any minute to come upon the men rifling her suitcase. At each bend, when the lane remained vacant, she released a little more of the breath she’d been holding. Where were they? Somehow, she hadn’t thought she’d driven this far before her tire blew out.

Of course, it would seem longer on foot.

As she inched along the fence, taking care to keep out of sight, a cloud of dust rolled across her brush cover, obscuring her view of the starry sky. She dived toward a thicket and flattened herself against the rough bark of a squat desert tree. Forced to eat grit, Gillian spat it out as quietly as possible. She needn’t have worried about being seen. The heavy sedan thundered by, traveling at far too great a speed.

Gillian, who’d shut her eyes to avoid the dust, almost left her hideaway too early. Thinking it’d be easier to walk in the lane, she was about to vault the fence. Bobbing headlights from a second car sent her scurrying back into hiding. Auto number two also moved toward the highway, although compared to the first, it crawled like a snail.

During its approach, Gillian noticed that the driver had some type of searchlight he or she was shining into the brush flanking the fence.

Her heart slammed inside her chest. As before, she molded herself to the tree. Just before the light could flash over her face, she dropped to the ground. What she saw from that vantage point, through a tangle of weeds and grass, shocked her. Not the car itself, which was a well-preserved baby-blue Corvette, but the driver. He was someone she recognized. New fear spiraled through her veins. The Vette’s driver was none other than the cowboy ex-cop she’d flirted with at Flo’s Café.

“Mitch Valetti.” Her lips formed his name, letting it spill happily from her lips before she had an opportunity to add things up. When she did, and the pieces fell into place—like the fact that he was combing the underbrush for something or someone—she clambered to her feet, then ran away as fast as her quaking legs would carry her.

Gillian didn’t look back. Throughout her mad retreat, her brain shut down. Her throat constricted, making breathing next to impossible. Still, she didn’t stop until she fumbled open her door, started her engine and roared out of the fire road onto the main highway.

She’d wrongly assumed the men who were chasing her had discovered the lane by chance. Instead, they were obviously in cahoots with Valetti. “Think,” she ordered herself. Did the thugs have enough of a head start to make a meeting with Valetti possible? During lucid moments, she’d have said probably not. Sergeant Malone had warned her the men might have local contacts. It was the only thing that made sense. In the café Valetti had admitted to Christy Jones that he needed money. Gillian had heard Christy allude to a case that—how did she put it? It had dropped in his lap. Why else would Valetti have made a concerted effort to get to know her—a total stranger? If he wasn’t working with the bastards doing their level best to find her, why would he be spotlighting a country lane at this hour?

Her cover was blown. That was Gillian’s first and last conclusion. The big question now was: did she have what it took to dig in her heels and face them all?

MITCH GLIDED to a halt. He held the powerful spotlight aloft and went back over a section of trees where he thought he’d seen an outline of something. A person.

“Damn, Trooper,” he said aloud to a big-footed Alsatian pup Ethan had presented him with that very day at suppertime. “Instead of chasing phantom shadows, we ought to be tailing the car that left squirrel marks so close to my corral it scared the living daylights out of my best broodmare.”

Mitch, alerted to trouble outside by his new dog, hadn’t been quick enough to record the dark sedan’s license plate. “Just as well,” he grumbled sourly. “I’d wring their bloody necks if Pretty Baby foals early. Then I’d be viewing the county’s big jail from the inside out rather than the other way around.”

The pup had begun to whine and lick his hand. Mitch tugged absently at the dog’s soft, gold-brown ears. All but smiling, the puppy flopped down on the passenger seat and laid his chin on his new master’s knee.

“Good boy,” Mitch murmured automatically. Off and on during his recovery at Ethan and Regan’s home, he had mentioned maybe purchasing a trained police dog like Ethan’s Taz. It had been the type of remark one made off the cuff. Mitch was stunned when Ethan showed up at his door tonight—with the pup, a month’s worth of food and a bloodline certificate from a Dutch breeder.

Although he had to admit his friend’s timing had been suspect. Not that Ethan had come right out and said a dog would give Mitch something to think about other than the woman—the stranger—who’d caught his interest today at Flo’s. Mitch doubted Ethan had any idea how transparent he was. His old partner probably had to twist arms to take delivery of a pup so fast. The gift was a thoughtful gesture, as Mitch had been restless and at loose ends since the accident.

He’d never owned a dog, so he couldn’t help wondering if he’d be good at caring for one. Taz went everywhere with Ethan. A dog would be great company.

“Shoot.” Snapping off the spotlight, he heaved a sigh. “There’s nothing out there, fella. I’ll run on out to the highway, but I’m afraid I lost any chance of catching our joyriders. I’d hazard a guess it was kids out for a spin in daddy’s wheels. That how you see it, Trooper?”

Raising his head a fraction, the pup yipped sharply.

Mitch chuckled and tossed the spotlight into the back seat. “I see definite benefits to having a pal who always agrees with me.” As his smile faded, Mitch eased off the emergency brake. “If we’d been together a little longer, buddy, I might’ve sent you out to check those bushes. I can’t shake the notion that what I saw was a person hiding there.” Mitch gnawed his upper lip and released it as he peered hard into the deepening shadows. Ethan had told him he was obsessed with the idea that the owner of the suitcase would show up one day to claim its sad contents. Mitch supposed he was. He sighed again as he pulled up to the highway and sat with the car idling.

Not detecting any sign of headlights in either direction, Mitch shut off the Corvette’s lights and rummaged under his seat for a regular flashlight. Climbing from the car, he attached Trooper’s leash. Together, they sauntered back along the lane. When they reached the place where Mitch thought he’d seen a silhouette, he went over the fence. Sure enough, the dog picked up on a scent that had him going crazy. The pup growled so loudly, Mitch knelt down beneath the old mesquite tree to get a clearer look. Thanks to recent rains, the ground shaded by the branches was still soft.

Footprints.

As far as Mitch could tell, considering the less-than-perfect conditions for gathering evidence, what they had here was a single set of prints. Made by a small boot. And the person had stuck around for a while. Unlike in the dusty lane, the soil remained moist enough to show that the wearer of those boots had probably climbed the fence and secluded himself for a time. Several sets of the same tracks crisscrossed, indicating the person had been jumpy, too.

Standing there, Mitch had a strong sense that if he’d explored the area when he’d first stopped he might have solved the mystery of the abandoned suitcase.

He felt a sensation he couldn’t identify. An unnerving impression that somehow time was running out. Whether for him or the person who’d been hiding here, he wasn’t sure.

The uneasy feeling plagued him throughout the night. For that reason, he decided to stay home for a few days. With Trooper, he’d patrol the lane at sporadic intervals.

BACK AT HER APARTMENT, Gillian shucked off her black clothing. The bottoms of her jeans were filthy. Her shirt was littered with twigs and cactus quills, and the soles of her boots were caked with sand. The mess she left didn’t stop her from pacing around her bedroom while she mulled over her options.

In truth they were few. Suppose she decided to pull up stakes and flee, which good sense begged her to do? Money was her biggest stumbling block.

She had not one solid reason to doubt that Mitch Valetti was tied to the men in the blue car. Yet, throughout the return to her apartment, doubts invaded her head and lodged there. It was a huge stretch of the imagination to think that a group of men who did their dirty work in New Orleans would have a Desert City, Arizona, cop in their pocket. How could they possibly have known that this town was where she’d accidentally run out of funds? They couldn’t, she told herself.

On the other hand, Gillian would be first to admit that nothing in this entire debacle made sense. At first, while hiding in the dingy border town, she hadn’t been able to fathom how Daryl—shy, bookish, slightly out of step with the world Daryl—had hooked up with crooks in the first place. Eventually she’d decided he probably hadn’t been the one to make contact. More than likely they’d found him. The fact that Daryl was a conscientious, hardworking CPA would have targeted him as the perfect patsy for men walking on the wrong side of the law.

Gillian flopped down on her bed. None of this rambling provided solutions to her dilemma. However, she continued to believe that the men who’d taken advantage of Daryl weren’t the type to buddy up to an honest cop. Now the question of the hour—was Mitch Valetti an honest cop? Correction—an honest ex-cop? Everything in her screamed yes. The God’s truth—she didn’t know.

So, was she willing to take a chance on her intuition?

Before the night erupted into a bright, sunny day, Gillian resorted to playing eenie, meenie, miney, mo. In choosing mo, she elected to stay where she was in the vicinity of an active, bustling police station.

Two could play the game of snoop. It should be easy to subtly pump Mitch’s friends who ate at the café. Plus, he might keep trying to get her to go out with him. That didn’t mean she had to see him outside the café. If he had something up his sleeve, sooner or later he’d have to show his hand.

Feeling better for having come to a decision, Gillian arrived for the early shift at work exhausted but with a plan in mind.

Too bad Mitch Valetti didn’t cooperate. Not only didn’t he come in to eat that day, neither did he appear the next day. Or the day after that.

Christy Jones came in every noon hour for lunch, acting as if Gillian were personally responsible for Mitch’s truancy. Gillian thought it more likely that Christy’s husband, Royce, was the one deterring Mitch. Royce and company stopped in for food and coffee at varying hours, clearly hoping to catch Christy with Mitch.

“Where’s Mitch been keeping himself?” Flo asked Ethan Knight on the fourth day of Mitch’s absence.

Gillian slowed her pace and perked up her ears. It almost seemed as if Ethan aimed his reply at her, along with a triumphant smirk. “Regan and I bought him a pup from the same breeder who sold me Taz. Pups are a lot like kids. You can’t just take off on a whim and leave them home alone.”

Flo grunted. “You tie Taz to one of the trees out front while you eat. Can’t Mitch do the same?”

“Gee, Flo. Does Bert know you’re hankering after another man?”

As Gillian worked at a nearby table, she recognized Ethan’s attempt to subvert Flo’s line of questioning. She jumped to the older woman’s defense. “Flo only wants to warn Mitch to stay away or risk being torn limb from limb by Royce Jones.”

Ethan slanted a frown at Gillian. “Royce has a beef against Mitch?”

Bert carried two plates of food out of the kitchen instead of placing them under the warming light for Gillian to collect. “I thought you must’ve put a bug in Mitch’s ear, Ethan. We’re all on the lookout for him. I tried phoning him that first day when Royce was in here blowing off steam. I got a recording saying Valetti’s phone’s out of service. Royce has a screwy notion that Mitch is making moves on Christy. He’ll cool off by and by, I expect. Until he does, it’s better if Mitch keeps his distance.”

“Hmm. Royce has a history of letting his temper get away from him.” Ethan rubbed his jaw. “Thanks for alerting me, Bert. I’ll raise Mitch on his cell phone. I don’t think he’s had his house phone reconnected since his surgery. Flo, I owe you an apology…even though you know I was only teasing you about Mitch. All the same, I had you pegged as trying to do a little matchmaking.”

“And so I was.” Flo kept one eye on Gillian as she ran off to deliver the meals Bert had brought out. “Mitch is a good man, Ethan. Right now he’s lonely and at loose ends. He lost Amy and his best friend at the same time. I happen to think a good woman might be what he needs. Gillian’s sort of in the same boat. She has so much time on her hands she’s volunteered to work double shifts, for pity’s sake. Why not get two needy souls together?”

“What do you mean Mitch lost his best friend? I’m his best friend,” Ethan stated flatly.

“Yeah. Used to be you and Mitch were joined at the hip. Now you’ve got a wife and four kids to take up your free time. I’m not saying you aren’t still his friend, Ethan. But you’ve got to admit the dynamics of your friendship are different.”

“Why that woman?” Ethan glared across the room at Gillian’s slender back.

“Why not her?” Flo challenged.

“I got bad vibes that first day she waited on me. Like she’s trouble disguised in an attractive body. Well, okay…for example, that’s not even her real hair color.”

Flo laughed. “If that’s what you’re basing your suspicions on, Ethan, you’ve got some nerve. If it’s a crime for a woman to color her hair, you’d better jail half the females in town. Me included.”

“It’s more than that, Flo. Darn it, I can’t put my finger on anything specific. Except I ran a make on her. Nothing showed for a Gillian Stevens.”

“See there.” Flo did her own smirking.

Ethan shook his head. “You don’t understand. I mean nothing showed. It’s like the woman doesn’t exist.”

Bert snorted and headed for the kitchen. Before reaching the door, he turned and shook a finger at Ethan. “Anyone tell you that cops are naturally paranoid? Lay off the poor kid, Knight. She’s the best damned waitress Flo and I have hired in five years. And if you’ve got nothing concrete, you’d better think twice before dumping this on Mitch. Flo and I figure Amy’s elopement shook him way more than he lets on.”

Ethan’s mouth opened as if he meant to say more. Then not only did the object of their discussion return to their midst, but the front door opened and Mitch himself strolled in, wearing a wide grin. It became patently obvious to everyone watching that his welcoming smile was for the sole benefit of Gillian Stevens.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he teased. “You miss me?”

Gillian’s stomach did handsprings before settling again. Oddly enough, she had missed him. But she wasn’t nearly ready to admit any such weakness. “Dream on, cowboy,” she mocked as she sailed past on her way to pour coffee for a table of customers. “Anyway,” she said, making a face at him over her shoulder, “your friend there—” she indicated Ethan “—said there’s someone new in your life.” Sliding a pencil behind her ear, Gillian continued to walk.

Mitch spun on his former partner. “What lies are you spreading?” Though his tone remained light, there was an aggressive undercurrent.

“I meant the dog,” Gillian exclaimed, stopping mid-stride. For a minute there, she thought Mitch was ready to scrap with his best friend over her. Daryl rarely if ever came to her defense, regardless of provocation. She considered what it would be like to have a protector. She couldn’t deny that Mitch’s action lit a sexual fire deep inside her.

Her suspicions of him made it a foolish reaction. However, at that moment, if Mitch Valetti asked her out again, Gillian knew she’d live dangerously and accept. After all, her life couldn’t be any more on the line than it was now, with people chasing her, wanting her dead. If by some bizarre coincidence Valetti was connected to their efforts, at least she’d be taking charge of her fate.

As long as she remained careful. As long as she never dropped her guard.

CHAPTER FOUR

ETHAN KNIGHT tossed his tip on the counter. He told his new partner to go on back to the station, that he’d catch up. “Got a minute, Mitch?”

“Sure, Big E. Time’s a plentiful commodity with me right now. What can I do you for?”

“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Ethan smiled with his mouth, not his eyes. “Walk out with me to where I left Taz? What I have to say is private. I want to, ah, discuss a case.” His gaze slid from Mitch to Flo’s new waitress, who’d leaned around the counter to give Bert special instructions on an order.

Mitch’s stance showed resistance to Ethan’s suggestion. Staring at his friend, he capitulated with a shrug, his limp more pronounced during their exit.

Gillian sent a glance at them as they left. What case? She’d felt Ethan’s eyes boring into her back. Did his need for secrecy involve her? A current of fear rattled Gillian’s equilibrium. The fear was accompanied by a vague disappointment that Mitch wasn’t staying around to order lunch.

What was there about the man that caused such conflicting emotions? She snatched up the coffeepot and hurried to refill patrons’ cups, mentally cautioning herself against any loss of objectivity.

Outside, Mitch sauntered over to Taz, who was straining against his leash. “Hi there, sport.” Hunkering down, he rubbed the dog’s head and patted his wriggling backside. “Next time I come to town, I’ll bring Trooper. Bet you’d like company, wouldn’t you?”

Ethan untied the dog and gave him a couple of treats he pulled from his jacket. Propping a shoulder against the tree, he methodically coiled the leash.

“What’s the problem, Ethan?” Mitch asked. “Do we play twenty questions or you gonna spit out what’s bugging you? You need my input on a case? Which one?”

“I lied about wanting to discuss a case. This probably won’t win me any points, but here goes. You’re what’s bugging me, Mitch.”

“Me?” After his initial start, Mitch laughed on seeing Ethan’s grim expression. He relaxed enough so that Taz almost knocked him over. “Jeez! And here I moved out of your house so I wouldn’t get on your nerves.”

“Knock it off. I’m trying to be serious and you’re clowning around.”

Mitch straightened, dusting dog hair from his hands. “You’re so transparent, Ethan.” He puckered his lips. “I can take care of myself, so save the lecture. We’re not blood kin, and you’re no longer my senior partner.” Mitch let it stand at that, even though he wanted to say more.

“I am your friend.” Ethan’s sudden, tense stillness dared Mitch to disagree. “What’s more, I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for you. You took bullets meant for me. I had no defense against DeSalvo when you drew his fire. That damn well bonds us, whether you like it or not, Valetti.”

“Quit it, Ethan. You’re the closest thing I have to a brother. You’d have done the same for me if our roles were reversed. But dammit, man, that still doesn’t give you the right to mess in my personal life.”

“It does if you insist on acting like a fool.”

“Give me a break. Half the department thought you were crazy to get involved with Regan Grant. Did I ever stick my nose in and try to warn you off?”

“No. You tried to steal her away from me right in front of my house. Remember how thick you laid on the Italian charm?”

“Hell, Ethan, if you couldn’t see that I was trying to help you make up your mind…”

“So, is that why you’re flirting with Christy Jones? If it is, her husband isn’t buying your act. She is still married, you know.”

“Christy? Dammit, you oughta know that’s strictly business. And she said you told her I was open to doing contract investigative work.”

“Okay, okay. I did. It was a mistake, okay? Maybe you should think twice about accepting her offer. Bert says Royce is on a tear. We’ve both seen good cops go bad. Royce has never been rational when it comes to Christy.” He squinted at Mitch. “Sort of like how you aren’t firing on all cylinders where Bert’s new waitress is concerned.”

“Ah. Finally we’re getting to the crux of this conversation.”

A guilty expression flashed across Ethan’s face.

“Oh, don’t tighten the reins now, Ethan. Let’s take this at a gallop. What’s your problem with Gillian Stevens?”

Ethan released a pent-up breath. His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s a gut feeling. How often in the years we worked together did we go with one of my gut reactions and been glad we did?”

Breaking the eye lock Ethan had on him, Mitch massaged the back of his neck. “A lot. I never kept track. There were a couple of times you were wrong, though.”

“A couple out of six years?” Ethan sounded scornful.

“Closer to seven,” Mitch mumbled. “Dammit, Ethan. I haven’t asked the woman to marry me, I only asked her for a date. She turned me down,” he admitted quietly, ramming his hands in his back pockets while he scuffed the pointed toe of his boot in the dirt.

“She did? What the hell’s wrong with her?”

His head snapped up at Ethan’s outburst. Laughing, Mitch reached over and slapped Ethan’s shoulder. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Yeah, well…” Ethan glanced away. “Maybe we should trust my gut this time. A couple of uniforms from the day shift said the Stevens woman asked some not-so-subtle questions about you. Her being down-and-out, I figure she has her eye on your ranch and your police retirement.”

“Who said she’s down-and-out?”

Ethan rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. Why else would a woman with her looks be content working for Bert and Flo? Not that they’re not great people—they are. But you know as well as I do that there are other restaurants in town where a pretty waitress can make a whole lot more in tips.”

The grunt Mitch gave signaled his satisfaction. “So we agree she’s pretty. Do you think we can start there and work up? I’m going to ask her out again, Ethan. Until she says yes, as a matter of fact.”

Ethan called Taz to heel. The dog had strayed to sniff a parking meter a few feet away. “Regan and I ended up not asking anyone over to play cards this weekend. I admit, the offer I made was a ploy to set you up with a hometown girl. If you’re not afraid to get Regan’s assessment of Gillian Stevens, I’m off next Saturday. I’m willing to reschedule dinner and let you bring your own date.”

Mitch glanced thoughtfully at the café. “She might be more comfortable going to someone’s house.” Turning back, he crossed his arms. “You’ve got to promise me Regan won’t launch one of her all-out psychology evaluations.”

“Aw, man. Regan tells everyone you’re her adopted brother. Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing if you’re gonna hold me responsible for any nosy questions my wife asks. Regan’s her own woman.”

“I know.” Mitch hooted. “It’s refreshing to know there’s a lady who doesn’t slaver like Taz every time you flash the famous Knight smile.”

“Now you’ve gone too far, Valetti. I never dated a woman who slavered.”

Mitch thumped Ethan’s chest with one finger. “Nor have I. Remember that, please.” Leaving his former partner, he ambled toward the café. At the curb he stopped and glanced back. “I’ll call tonight and let you know if she agrees. If she does, I want another concession. No shop talk. I’m not an officer anymore, and sometimes women bail when they’re forced to dwell on the bad stuff that can happen to a cop.”

“Okay. Sure. You have my permission to kick me under the table if I start talking about a case. But I have a feeling that old habits die hard….”

“I understand. It’s just…cop talk can get intense. And Ethan—talk about gut feelings. I can’t put it into words, but this lady…uh, darn.”

Ethan said nothing for a heartbeat. Then he feigned interest in what his dog was doing. “It’s no mystery to me, Valetti. You always had a weakness for a nice ass.”

Fighting a smile, Mitch returned to the café. That was point two he and Ethan agreed on concerning Gillian Stevens.

Embarrassed by the direction of his thoughts and afraid Gillian might read his mind, Mitch turned instead to plotting what he’d say to her when she came to take his order.

Good, the back booth was available. Easier to make a play without an audience.

Even if he no longer worked at the precinct, he had friends there and the place was a hotbed of gossip. If Gillian rejected him again, he could do without Amy getting wind of it. Why didn’t Gillian come and take his order? Maybe he was all wrong in thinking they felt a mutual attraction.

The crowd had thinned. But a full house wouldn’t have stopped Gillian from being aware of Mitch’s return. She found it odd that he’d passed several clean booths to hide in the corner. Or was someone joining him? She hated to think it might be Christy Jones. That would explain why he’d plant his back to the wall near a ready escape if Royce happened to stop by.

Heavens, she could be guessing all wrong. Maybe Ethan Knight went to collect materials on the case they’d disappeared outside to discuss. Again her heart did a flip. What if a handbill with her picture on it had come across his desk? What if they wanted to compare an old picture of Noelle McGrath with the waitress they knew as Gillian Stevens?

Pacing nervously, she tried to figure out if there was any likelihood of New Orleans or Flagstaff police finding out that Noelle McGrath’s birth name was really Gillian Noelle? It could all depend on what Daryl’s neighbor, the one who’d relayed his dying request, had told Daryl’s brother, Conrad. Conrad was his only sibling—his only living relative. He’d never liked her much. No telling how he’d react once he discovered Daryl had kept her on as joint owner of McGrath CPA.

“Hey, what does it take to get service around here?” Mitch’s voice held a teasing quality. If not for that, Gillian might have been tempted to ask Flo to wait on him. No, she wasn’t a coward. Besides, Flo would demand an explanation if she tried too obviously to avoid Mitch.

Gillian plopped a glass of water and a menu down in front of him. “Sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you. You made such a point of wanting privacy, I assumed you were waiting for someone to join you.”

“I am.” He turned up the wattage of his smile. “This is about when you took a lunch break the other day. Truth is, I’m sick of my own company, and was hoping you’d consent to join me.”

“Oh, I…think there’s a rule about not fraternizing with customers.” Gillian hoped she sounded normal, even though she was dealing with a rising panic. She fumbled the napkin-wrapped silverware before dropping a set near his right hand.

Mitch steadied her elbow in time to keep the whole pack from spilling onto the floor. “Give me one good reason anyone would make such a stupid rule. You’re entitled to lunch. In fact, it comes with the job.”

Suddenly pulling back, Mitch inspected his hands. “I forgot I petted Taz. I probably smell like dog. Excuse me while I go wash. When I pass the kitchen, I’ll stick my head in and tell Bert I want a burger. Tell me what you want, and I’ll pass it on.”

Her sigh was probably more exasperation than capitulation. Mitch chose to misunderstand. Keeping his smile in place, he slid out of the booth and brushed against her, murmuring, “My mother would tell you I’ve always known all the angles to get my own way.”

Gillian smiled in spite of herself. “Does your mother live in Desert City?”

He wasn’t fast enough to cover his guarded expression. “My parents winter in Palm Springs and summer in Vermont. Right now they’re somewhere in the Mediterranean finishing a world cruise. At least, that’s what their housekeeper told Ethan when he tried to notify them I’d been shot.” She was aware that he watched her closely as he spoke, as if to garner a reaction.

Gillian couldn’t hide her shock at his parents’ absence. “They didn’t come to see you?”

“No big deal.” His shrug matched his proclamation. Gillian noted a deeper pain in his eyes. Clearly he was hurt by his parents’ indifference—a revelation at odds with his tough-guy image.

She’d rather not think about the inner man. Her purpose in furthering their acquaintance had only one reason—to find out whether Mitch Valetti was connected to the criminals she’d seen him rendezvous with a few nights ago. Keep all contact superficial.

Gillian McGrath had changed into a person no decent man would ask to lunch if he knew all the things she’d done these past few weeks.

That’s different, insisted a little voice. And yet, long-ingrained values continued to increase her guilt.

“I’ve lost you again,” Mitch observed. “Oh, if you’re worried some fruitcake will walk in off the street and open fire on me, rest easy. I’m a simple rancher now, remember? My days of dealing with the bad guys are over.”

Gillian hoped she didn’t look as skeptical as she felt. His statement was pretty ironic; if the men from the blue car walked in, she’d be the one shot at. “You go wash your hands. I’ll order your burger. You want coffee or a soft drink to go with it?”

“A pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Even if you won’t sit down and eat with me, take time for a cool drink.”

“That sounds good. I’m not really hungry.”

Mitch took stock of the entire package that was Gillian Stevens. She was slender for her height. Too slender. From her remarks, she didn’t strike him as the type to be on a perpetual diet. “Bert fixes great homemade soup. A bowl of that would see you through the rest of your shift.”

“Soup. Did Flo put you up to this? She’s been talking about Bert’s potato-cheese soup as if it were some magic potion.”

Mitch clapped a hand across his heart. “I thought this up all on my lonesome. And lonesome is the operative word. Take pity on me, woman. I’ve spent the last three days and nights in the company of horses and a lop-eared pup. I’m wondering if I’m cut out for the solitary life of ranching.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. “Time to cowboy up. That’s a new term I learned the other day. It means—”

“I know. It means suck it up and quit whining. Join me for lunch and I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise.” A smile brought deep, appealing creases to his cheeks.

“You never give up, do you?”

“Nope. That’s a trait needed by every good cop.”

“Hmm.” The bell over the door sounded, saving Gillian from getting embroiled in a discussion about what traits made good cops. Was he still one, and lying to her about having quit?

“We’ve talked so long I have customers,” she murmured, pulling the order pad from her apron pocket.

“We’ve talked five minutes. You get a lunch hour. Let Flo take their order.”

As if she heard her name, Flo appeared in the kitchen doorway, menus under her arm and three glasses of water in her hand. “I’ll catch that table, Gilly. Bert’s already dished you up a nice bowl of soup. He’s putting the finishing touches on Mitch’s burger. All you have to do is pour whatever you want to drink, sit and take a load off your feet.”

“Tell me again this isn’t a conspiracy,” Gillian muttered, half to herself and half to Mitch.

“She must be psychic. Honestly,” he said, “I didn’t prearrange anything.”

“Bert just happened to know you wanted a burger?”

“I hate admitting how predictable I am about food. Ask him. He’ll tell you I ate here an average of three days a week for six or so years. Rain or shine, I ordered a burger.”

“I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. It’s too bizarre to be a lie. You win. Go wash. I’ll join you for lunch.”

Mitch felt like clicking his heels together. He was careful not to act too triumphant. On the way to the men’s room and back, he tried to figure out arguments that might convince her to go with him to Ethan’s on Saturday night.

“You’re right about this soup,” she said, flashing a smile as he returned and slid into the booth. “It’s delicious.”

“Now that you know I’m so wise, we’ll save time if you trust everything I say.”

She paused, her spoon halfway to her lips. “Do I have gullible stamped on my forehead? I don’t think so.”

Mitch grinned around a bite of hamburger. After he’d chewed and swallowed, he changed the subject. “Flo calls you Gilly. I like that. It fits you. Can anyone call you that?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she went by her middle name of Noelle. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to watch her words in personal conversations. Shrugging, she focused her attention on opening a packet of crackers. “Suit yourself. I answer to a broad range of names.” She gave him a brief smile.

His brows drew together quizzically. “Oh. I guess you mean customers yell, hey you, miss or waitress—things like that. Before I became a detective, when I still wore a uniform every day, I got called a lot of other things, too,” he said wryly.

“You mention your old job a lot. Maybe you shouldn’t have quit.”

Unconsciously, he rubbed his thigh. “Cats may have nine lives. People don’t. I woke up in the hospital positive that if I made it through surgery, I’d leave there living on borrowed time. So I quit the force.”

Gillian considered the damage bullets did. Daryl, killed on his doorstep. Mitch had probably hung on by a thread. She didn’t realize she was crumbling her crackers until Mitch reached across the table and took her hand.

“I made Ethan promise no cop-speak if I managed to talk you into going to his house for dinner with me on Saturday night. And here I’m guilty of doing the same thing. Really, that part of my life is behind me. The most dangerous thing I’ll be doing in the future is breaking a green horse or two. Not for a while, either.” He smoothed his thumb over the soft skin on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, Gilly. I’m a normal, everyday Joe now.”

She pulled her hand loose, unable to decide if he was trying too hard to convince her. Was he attempting to lure her into his web of deceit? No matter. At the moment he represented the only tie she had to the men in the blue car. The men who most likely had her small suitcase. Gillian shoved the mangled packet of crackers under the edge of her plate and picked up her spoon again. “Sorry. I may not be keen on eating while talking about bullet wounds, but there are aspects of detective work I find fascinating.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She rolled one shoulder. “Methods used to find stuff that’s lost or stolen.” Realizing she might be sticking her neck out too far, Gillian ignored the escalated pounding of her heart and plunged on. “I’m reading a mystery that opens with hidden documents,” she improvised. “The character who hid them dies suddenly, but not before sending a garbled note to a friend saying his, uh, girlfriend had the key to wherever he’d hidden the papers. No one can find the key. So, ex-detective Valetti, where do you suppose he put those documents?”

Mitch polished off his hamburger, took a sip of lemonade and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Skip ahead to the last chapter and find out.”

“Thanks a lot. Somehow I doubt you did that on your cases.”

He laughed. “You like mysteries, huh? Police procedurals? Well, well, I guess that means you’ll enjoy spending the evening with me, Ethan and his wife, Regan. Dinner’s at six this coming Saturday. Where shall I pick you up?”

Gillian had walked into that one with her eyes wide-open. This was where he’d been headed all along. She felt the control she wanted to maintain slipping out of her hands. “Tell me where the Knights live. I’ll meet you there.”

“Huh? What kind of date is that?”

“No date.” Rising, she stacked their dirty dishes. “Take it or leave it.”

“Sheesh, woman. Okay.” He heaved a sigh. “Hand over a pencil and tear off an order form. I’ll write down their address and draw you a map. Starting from where? Where do you live?”

“If I wanted you to know that,” she said, “I’d have agreed to let you come by for me. Start at the café. I’ll find my way from here.”

Mitch fiddled with the pencil. “You really aren’t very trusting. Makes me wonder about your ex. I know you said your divorce wasn’t bitter, but I’ve seen abuse before. If he knocked you around, it’s better to admit it. Getting all that out helps heal the wounds.”

Hit hard by his unexpected strike at Daryl, Gillian felt a sudden welling of tears. With her hands full of dishes, she couldn’t brush them away. Mitch, of course, saw her blinking frantically. “You’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion about my marriage,” she finally managed to say. “My ex-husband’s only mistake was that he married the wrong woman.” She paused. “On second thought, I’m not ready to participate in a couples thing.”

“Sure you are,” Mitch insisted, stuffing the address he’d written into her apron pocket. “An evening playing cards and having a few laughs has gotta beat sitting home alone reading a bad mystery.”

“No, Mitch. Look, I was wrong to think—”

He touched a finger to her lips. “Don’t think. Please.”

Before Gillian could answer one way or the other, the front door banged open and Royce Jones stomped in. He had a wild look in his eyes as he made straight for her and Mitch. This time, his sidekicks were missing, Gillian noted. Which probably meant he was more likely than not to start a brawl.

Mitch, his gait always slow and uneven after he’d sat a while, remembered Ethan’s warning. The last thing he wanted was to bring trouble down on Bert and Flo. Nor did he want an unpleasant scene in front of Gillian. Especially after he’d been so quick to tell her that trouble didn’t follow him anymore.

“Royce.” Mitch stuck out his hand in greeting and worked to keep his voice level. “Long time no see. I talked to your wife a week or so ago. She asked if I’d be interested in a possible contract job. Never got back to me. I guess her department wouldn’t kick loose with the funds. You know how that goes. Say, have you met Flo and Bert’s new waitress?” He eased far enough to one side to reveal Gillian, who still clutched their empty dishes.

“We haven’t actually met.” Royce grudgingly transferred his attention from Mitch to Gillian. The ploy worked to defuse some of his bluster.

“Gillian, Royce Jones. Royce, Gillian Stevens,” Mitch segued right into formal introductions. Unleashing a chuckle, he lightly tapped the man in uniform on the shoulder. “Frankly, buddy, your timing stinks. You interrupted me in the middle of asking this lady for a date. Now, maybe being an old married man and all, you might’ve forgotten how long it takes a guy to get up the courage to ask out somebody new. I’m here to tell you it hasn’t gotten any easier. Since you did interrupt, the least you can do is vouch for my character.”

Gillian shifted the dishes, almost dropping them. Mitch Valetti had amazing nerve. Apparently Royce Jones thought so too, judging by the way his jaw went slack.

Mitch waited, his face carefully masked.

The charade dragged on for several minutes; Gillian regained her poise and sense of humor. Donning a properly cynical smile, she let her gaze travel between the two men. “If you have to work that hard on an endorsement,” she told Royce, “it’s probably just as well if I turn him down now and give him time to ask someone else to be his date at the Knights’ dinner party.”

“What? I thought you’d agreed to go.” It was obvious from Mitch’s face that he hadn’t expected his machinations to backfire.

Royce suddenly found the whole situation amusing. He laughed, lording it over Mitch and his predicament. “Well, Valetti, ’pears to me your reign as Desert City’s stud has come to an end.”

“Come on, Jones. Fun is fun. I’m trying to be serious here. Ethan said you think I made a pass at Christy. I didn’t. Never have. Never would.”

Royce tucked his hands under his bulging biceps and scowled. “Don Billings said he saw you two right here, tight as termites. Said you were coming on to the waitress, but the minute Christy walked in, things changed.”

“Excuse me.” Gillian regained their attention. “Mitch was drinking coffee at the counter. I was eating lunch. Two separate entities. Christy asked to talk to him about a job. Mitch carried his cup over and sat at her table. In the center of a packed room. There was nothing private about their meeting. You asked me that day to clarify what happened. I said the same thing then. It was strictly business.”

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