Читать книгу Lost but not Forgotten - Roz Fox Denny - Страница 8

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.